Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [26]
THE KAREL OF VEERE was where they had left her, but the wind had died down, and the grumbling. Most of her modest complement of mariners were asleep.
Crackbene was gambling against himself in the cabin. ‘Christ!’ he said, starting up, as Nicholas and Wodman came in.
‘You use too many expletives,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Council didn’t like us. They punched us and sent us off home.’
Ignoring that: ‘You were set upon?’ Crackbene said. ‘By the St Pols or de Salmeton? How did they know you were here?’
He hadn’t thought of that. Wodman had. He said, breaking a journey-long silence, ‘The monks of Newbattle Abbey have gift-land in Leith. Religious men get to hear secrets.’
‘But—’ said Crackbene.
‘But,’ said Nicholas, ‘David de Salmeton is very religious these days. He’s Procurator, isn’t he, to the Papal Legate? While pursuing his usual business in Scotland?’
‘So it was dear Davie behind it?’ said Crackbene. ‘By God, I’ll give him new battle.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ Nicholas said. ‘And Andro agrees. And now, since we have a big day tomorrow, we’d both like to get to our beds.’
Before he lay down, he tossed off the mixture the Abbot had given him. He felt Wodman’s stare on him then, and all the time he was trying to sleep. To hell with Wodman. Expletive.
BY FIRST LIGHT next morning, as a matter of instinct, everyone in Leith was aware that Nicholas de Fleury had come in with a ship. Whatever they thought of him, no canny Leither would fail to explore this phenomenon. Indeed, the sociability began before dawn, when Crackbene elected to begin unloading the cargo by lantern-light, and the ship shuddered with bumping and shouting.
By the time the sun rose, Nicholas had greeted three merchants, two tavern-owners, a number of fishermen and a man he had last seen in Danzig. He learned from his former landlord that there might be some rooms with a yard, if he wanted them. There was even a warehouse. He was asked what he had been doing, what he was going to do, and how his wife was. He replied with every appearance of truth, and added a crop of very new serial jokes, which he knew would reach Edinburgh before he did, since instant transmission was of the essence with jokes. If they had worked Duke Charles into a motto, the news of his death would have got here like lightning.
On the wharf, they took him aside and asked him if he had been in a fight with the Conservator, and the Conservator, overhearing, joined them and said, No, the only fight had been with that rolling tub of a ship and the poor ale they’d had to put up with. People thrust Hamburg beer upon them. They sent a boy for a loaf and two capons and worked their way back to the ship, ducking and veering as heavy articles thumped to the ground. The jetties were much better kept than when he used to come here. Other things had changed. Once he had disembarked here and the King’s brother had been waiting to greet him.
Things hadn’t changed. Except that this time Nicholas was on the wharf, and Sandy stood at the top of the gangplank. Alexander, Duke of Albany, Lord High Admiral, Earl of March, lord of Annandale and of Man, looking mean and royal and venomous, with all last summer’s freckles yellow as jaundice on his red-head’s fair skin, and Crackbene behind him, transmitting an instant non-joke on the lines of watch out.
The King’s brother said, ‘Am I to be kept waiting all day? I ordered some goods.’
‘Pepper, velvet and a pair of Milanese daggers. They will be brought at once, my lord,’ Nicholas said. He sounded breathless. ‘Your lordship wishes to take them?’
‘Of course not. I wish to see if I will accept them,’ Albany said. ‘Do I know you?’ He had dressed rather quickly. The cloak was superb but, between doublet and riding boots, he wore yesterday’s silk evening hose.
Nicholas said, ‘Nicholas de Fleury, of the former House of Niccolò, my lord.’ He paused. ‘It is several years since we met.’
‘Is it?’ said Sandy. ‘I am sure merchants come and go. Where are my purchases?’ He had flushed. Behind