Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [308]
Sandy. Bloody Sandy. Why? Because it was demanded, and he’d sign anything to get what he wanted? Did he not realise the damage it would do? Or did he really mean it all along? Blind Harry’s Wallace had been a sham? All that nationalistic fervour just a means to gain himself popular backing, and a French army to return him as king …?
But no. Emotion came naturally to Sandy. He had truly hated the English, at that time. Now he simply thought he was using them, and he could later repudiate anything. It wounded Nicholas, briefly, that last night Sandy had hidden all this, when he thought he had his confidence. Then he realised the illogic of applying logic to Albany.
Gloucester said, ‘You are amused?’
‘Is there any other way to take it, my lord?’ Nicholas said. ‘One man has subscribed to your treaty, but I doubt if anyone else would. Were I free, I should still stay in Scotland. While the war lasts, at least.’
‘But alas, you are not free, are you, M. de Fleury?’ said the Duke. ‘You are an agent, a spy, an informer; and must submit to the fate of such men. You will prepare yourself in your room. In an hour you will march with the army. At the first halt, you will be brought to me to be tried. You may go.’
Nicholas bowed. Leaving the room, the last thing he heard was the Earl of Northumberland remonstrating with the Duke. He guessed why. Until Sandy became king, it was surely of vital importance that the Fotheringhay treaty stay secret. He himself had been told to induce him to change sides. The Duke had relished the telling. But since he had refused, he could not, of course, be permitted either to stand public trial, or to live.
• • •
IT WAS HOT, that July. Travelling south, Nicholas had been mounted. Returning, he tramped along with the foot-soldiers, far behind the drums and the cavalry, with the English commanders and King Alexander IV (rex hic) in the lead. He had changed back into his travelling dress of boots and plain doublet and cap. The clean shirt and hose were the last he had. The rest he had left, with his spurs, in his room. His weapons had been taken from him at Carham.
The man he was tied to was from Norwich, near where the Caxton family came from. He knew some stories about them, and Nicholas knew some others, from Bruges. The man couldn’t read, but had picked up a rare stock of ballads.
They got too friendly, and Nicholas was transferred to the stirrup of a sergeant-at-arms who was riding alongside to marshal them. At the next handy copse, the sergeant was summoned by nature, and Nicholas found that the rope round his wrists had been carelessly knotted. Invitation. He decided, in a burst of rebellion, to accept it. The marching men passed, but he was masked by the bulk of the horse. Working fast, he got himself free and started to run for the trees, just as the sergeant appeared, but failed to notice him. They wouldn’t kill him in plain view, near the road. He was well into the wood and running really fast by the time the outcry began.
Or he was, until somebody tripped him.
Nicholas swore, and rolled over, kicking.
‘Hey!’ said Andro Wodman, dodging. ‘It’s just that the north is this way, if that’s where you’re going.’ He had two horses. It was a miracle.
There wasn’t time to embrace him. Nicholas flung himself into the saddle and set off, Andro pounding beside him. The shouting receded. They had come after him, he guessed, with a few horse and a handful of foot, confident of riding him down in the trees. They would then cast around briefly, unwilling to connect the tracks of two mounts with his disappearance. Then they would be forced to believe it, and take really serious action.
Nicholas changed from a resolute canter to a gallop.
‘Whoa!’ said Wodman after a while. ‘Whoa! There’s nobody after us now.’
‘That’s what you think,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’ve just been allowed free so that someone can ride after and kill me. Do you hear me?’
‘Sadly,’ said Wodman. He was galloping too.
‘Good,’ said Nicholas. ‘So listen to what I’m going to say, memorise it, and then go. One of us