Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [313]
Henry had been on patrol several times at Upsettlington. Simon sought him out. ‘Did you know this?’
Once, Henry had had only three expressions: bullying, defiant, or sulky. In the last year or two he had acquired one which Simon detested: you could almost call it exasperation. Henry said, ‘No, I didn’t. No one mentioned it. Anyway, he seems to have gone home.’
‘Has he? Because his tents are not there? I’m glad you’re sure. I’m not,’ Simon said. ‘Have his horses gone, can you tell me? Are his tents really packed, or have they just been set up elsewhere? Do you know why I’m asking?’
‘No,’ said Henry.
Sometimes, he asked to have his face smacked. Simon said, with force, ‘Because I can think of two explanations. Adorne has gone to meet de Fleury. Or he’s gone to change sides like de Fleury. He’s gone to join Gloucester’s army.’
‘You think so?’ said Henry.
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Simon. ‘And I’m going to find out which it is. I’m going to tell Borthwick the whole story, and he can give me a troop. Or if he won’t, by God I’ll find out for myself.’
Henry didn’t argue: at least the Guard had taught him that much. Borthwick, a self-opinionated boor, professed to disbelieve unsigned messages, and poured scorn on the idea that de Fleury or Adorne might be a traitor. At first, he forbade Simon to leave. He couldn’t stop him, of course. When Simon de St Pol walked out with his son and his bowmen, the captain let him go. In a final, typical jibe, he said he had other things on his mind.
After that, Simon simply rode down to the river at Carham, and then followed it eastwards for seven miles, asking questions. If Adorne had joined Gloucester, he’d be at Berwick. If he’d crossed the river to one of the fortresses, he must have left traces. All the crossings were watched, on both sides.
He passed by the ford that led over to Wark. He examined Coldstream. Then he had his stroke of luck. Two of Borthwick’s men came up with a prisoner: an English scout from over the river, where the Tweed was joined by the mouth of the Till.
The Till was a sturdy, small river which carved a long, wilful passage to the frontier, sometimes smiling between sloping banks, sometimes snarling at the foot of a winding ravine. Several keeps guarded its passage. The biggest, by name Castle Heaton, was heavily garrisoned, both to prevent Scottish inroads and to check would-be absconders. The garrison, bleated the scout, was at this moment looking out for a double agent who was on his way to Scotland from York. All the strongholds in the north had been warned.
He did not know any names. He had been given the agent’s description: a very large man with two pits in his cheeks, and a Burgundian accent.
Simon de St Pol knew his name.
SINCE THE RIVER Till was the place of their rendezvous, Nicholas de Fleury shouldn’t have been stunned to find Wodman there. He was stunned, but also grateful to see him alive, that went without saying. But he might have been less stunned and more grateful if they hadn’t parted over two weeks before, and if Nicholas hadn’t been persuading himself forcibly that Wodman was by now home in Edinburgh, and all the information from York safely delivered.
Nicholas, in a thumbed felt hat and cowled tunic, was one of a dust-covered group tramping the rough path that led to the hamlet above Castle Heaton. All of them looked like artisans, and the only one mounted and decently dressed had a set square sticking out of his saddlebag. Nicholas, walking cheerfully at his stirrup, was carrying a sack full of tool-shapes over one shoulder. Half his face was smothered in a bright yellow growth of new beard, and Wodman wouldn’t have recognised him if he hadn’t turned his head as he passed. Then Nicholas turned it away and walked on, but his smile had broadened.
The encounter was almost as much