Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [310]
There were quite a few girls in the township, and inside the castle they drank somewhat, and gambled and told stories. Henry was about all the time, but knew better than to interrupt. Occasionally Simon thought he looked sullen, and reminded him sharply how lucky he was. He was pleased when Henry won things. The day might come when, fit as he was, he himself would succumb to age. With Henry before them, people would not forget how his father had been.
De Fleury didn’t come. What came was a messenger, bursting into the Castle with news. The bulk of the English army had left York, marching north. It was approaching Newcastle, Alnwick, Berwick. The captain called his lieutenants together, but Simon hardly heard what they said. Perhaps de Fleury’s intentions had changed. Suppose de Fleury had stayed, and had joined the English army, marching with Albany. He couldn’t get at him then.
Simon hesitated, and settled for remaining at Home. Back through the same route, the note had suggested. It might still be true.
MESSENGERS ALSO CAME regularly to Anselm Adorne, some of them from Lochmaben. About this time, with a very few men, he left Linlithgow and rode quickly and quietly to Upsettlington, where he avoided the laird’s house, but entered the purlieus of the church. There, he made himself known to the Rector, Will Bell, who had attended St Andrews at the same time as Archie, now Abbot of Holyrood.
Adorne didn’t stay long. By the time he left to go to ground, he had found out all he wanted, down to the beat of the river patrols. He had asked Bell not to speak of his visit, or not at least until he returned home. Very few knew that Adorne was due to come to the Tweed—Nicholas and Andro, and the Council in Edinburgh. Even Bell had not been told the true story. The negotiation with Albany was too delicate.
Unlike the St Pols, Anselm Adorne had the advantage of knowing exactly where Nicholas de Fleury proposed to recross the river. He was also better placed to calculate how long the double journey might take. If Nicholas had to return without help, it could take a long time.
A long time, but not too long, with any luck. An English army marching from York would take days to get to the Border, and longer to draw in its northern contingents. Even if it took Nicholas two weeks to bring out what was necessary—the army’s numbers and plans, Albany’s intentions—it would still be in time. News could be transmitted to Edinburgh and to all the relevant strongholds in hours. Anything Nicholas could tell them would be priceless.
Adorne could not hope to collect him from the trackless moors of the English interior, but he could be on hand to help when Nicholas and Andro came to the river. So, lying day after day, night after night, watching the river-mouth of the Till down from Norham, Adorne subscribed to a doctrine of patience. It served him for a while. But when the English army actually arrived on the Border, and settled on the Tweed opposite Berwick, increasing daily, Anselm Adorne began to lose his detachment.
He had known that Nicholas might not return: this large, calm man he had watched grow from boyhood and whose value, after many acrimonious clashes, he had learned to appreciate. The invitation to York, he now began to fear, had never been genuine. Nicholas had been killed because he was troublesome. To die in such a way was not ignoble. It was harder to accept that death was not reserved for grand causes. The countryside was full of masterless men who would kill for a horse.
IN FACT, NICHOLAS had lost his horse, by shattering mischance, just as he and Andro were about to part company. It was pure accident: it stumbled and fell on uneven ground, breaking its own neck and throwing him heavily. He got up and stood, intending to decide what to do once his head cleared. His head didn’t clear, and Andro simply pulled him up behind him, jettisoning everything he