Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [260]
‘Do that,’ said Henry Sinclair. ‘And bring him to the house. And if the Bishop asks, he’s carrying nothing but ballast.’ The Sinclairs might not be Earls of Orkney any more, but they were still powerful landowners, with favours to hand out, and call in.
It turned out the ship was carrying wine. And what was more, the skipper looked oddly familiar, for a man who claimed to come from Hull. But the ship was English all right, and so were the seals on the butts. The man was generous, too: he offered to leave all the wine, if he might be allowed to take his ship and sail off to the west. When the young lord pointed out that the wine and the ship were his anyway, the man grew even more agitated. Then someone came in with the news that a second ship was on its way in; a Scots one this time. The messenger added something else in the Master’s ear.
‘Really?’ said Henry Sinclair. ‘Then perhaps we should see this gentleman safely bestowed, while we find out what our newest friends want.’
The wine skipper’s face, as he was taken out, was sour as bog butter.
For the newcomers, Henry changed into velvet, which was intended to give him a certain ascendancy over the five unkempt persons who were presently brought in to see him. One of them was a boy. One, in a wheeled chair, was a disabled merchant he knew of. One was Nicol de Fleury. One was Leithie Preston. And the leader was his uncle Oliver, last seen in Roslin at his grandfather’s funeral, and just before the consequent division of spoils which had proved so very satisfactory.
His uncle Oliver said, ‘We were not at all sure that you would be in residence. How very fortunate this all is, and how kind of you to welcome us. Your father, I take it, is not with you?’
Henry’s father, an idiot wastrel in youth, had turned out to be a genuine idiot in age. He was now the second Lord Sinclair. His father’s sister had married, and been divorced by, the Duke of Albany. Henry said, ‘No. Father is in Newburgh, and Uncle David is in Shetland. All I have on the premises at the moment are prisoners. May I offer you a refreshment, or would you care to retire first?’
‘Dear Henry,’ said his uncle. ‘Insalubrious as we are, we should like to sit and talk to you first. We passed a ship at anchor.’
‘The English wine-ship,’ said the Master helpfully. ‘With its master from Hull. Captured by three Ronaldsay boats.’
‘Splendid fellows. I know them,’ said his uncle, sitting down with a generous measure of wine. ‘And fully deserving of the reward they will win. But the ship and its contents, of course, are the King’s, and will have to be taken back south. They tell me that three-quarters at least of the wine has survived. The rest was lost to the ships in the Forth, as Nicol here can attest. Indeed, I was sure that I heard that the skipper was killed then as well. The man you have will be a minor seaman, elevated to master? He deserves his freedom, I should have thought.’
‘There speaks a humane man,’ said Henry. ‘But appearances, we all know, can be misleading. A ship, to be three-quarters full, would ride lower.’
Sir Oliver Sinclair rose and stood at the window. ‘My boy,’ he said. ‘I think you are right. If that cargo is two-thirds what it was, it would be nearer the truth.’
‘And the mariner?’ Henry said. ‘Would you care to speak to him, before I turn him free?’
‘No, no,’ his uncle said. ‘Let him take the next ferry south, with anyone else you don’t want to feed. Preston here will sail both ships back, won’t you, Thomas? Nicol and I have to leave him at Moray. Salmon business—so important, isn’t it, and so vulnerable, in the wrong hands. And I want to see Cochrane, if he’s there. Am I right, Nicol? The kingdom can do without you for another week? You have performed enough feats of valour for the moment.’
‘You flatter me, sir,’ the Burgundian said. His face throughout had been gravely attentive. The boy could not quite hide his puzzlement, but had the sense not to speak.
They were to stay two