Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [321]
That day no swimmer, hurled from rock to rock of the Till, could be sure of surviving. Luck came into it, as well as skill, and concentration, and the kind of blank stoicism that disregards shock and pain and fatigue, and thinks of nothing but what must be done. Sometimes, far ahead, Nicholas would glimpse the bared, darkened hair of the man who had never wanted him. Beyond that, and much less often, he witnessed the brighter head of his son. It lurched and soared with the billowing water, and Nicholas never saw a raised arm, or even the profile of a cheek with one dimple. That was when, deep within him, his heart started to fail.
But he swam, for as long as he could, and for as long, as it turned out, as was needed.
ANDRO WODMAN, ONE-TIME member of the King of France’s bodyguard of Scots Archers, one-time Conservator of Scots Privileges in Bruges, did not resist when he was found in the mud where he had dragged himself, under the overhang of the embankment of the Till. He had lain there for a long time, drained of blood and immobile, and even now was only half conscious. Then someone was holding him and calling his name. He thought it must be one of the English.
Then he realised that he was now on top of the gorge, not within it, and that the rain had stopped, and that there were no English masons or soldiers in sight. And that the man holding him was Anselm Adorne, in dark riding clothes. Within a close leather helm, his face was harshly indented and stern. He said, ‘You’re safe. The soldiers found no survivors, and left.’
Wodman lay, looking up. Other men of Cortachy’s had arrived and were kneeling about him. So they had stayed at Upsettlington. Mildly indignant, Wodman reviewed the recent past, which he remembered quite clearly up to the point where they were repairing the bridge. He said, ‘You took your time. Have you seen Nicholas?’ He thought, with satisfaction, of the language Nicholas had probably used.
Adorne said, ‘No.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘Where is he? Do you know, Andro?’
Andro lay, looking surprised. He cast his mind back. Clearly, something had happened that he should have remembered.
Then he stopped breathing, for he had remembered.
Adorne said, ‘I think I can guess. But tell me.’
Almost before he had got to the end they had scattered, running down the bankside, slinging rope, seizing branches for scouring-poles. The river was still brawling, and laden with rubbish, but the level had sunk.
Adorne said, ‘We’ve searched the near water already, but not so far as the mouth. You say the boy was injured, and St Pol was not a strong swimmer? But Nicholas, following, was still alive when you saw him?’
‘He couldn’t have caught them,’ Wodman said. He forced himself to sit up. It made him feel dizzy. ‘Unless one of them was thrown out, or smashed and held by a rock. Nicholas had started from a few yards behind them, and they were all being swept along at the same rate. You couldn’t swim. You could only ride the spate like a—like a—’
‘Like a demon, perhaps,’ Adorne said. ‘Nicol can be one, at times. Don’t give up hope. I haven’t.’ It was the first time he had ever shortened the name.
Then someone shouted, circumspectly, from far down the river.
IN A FLOOD such as that, swimmers of indifferent strength and ability would be carried at the same speed. Only the strong could diverge from the race, winning themselves the respite of calmer waters, or even forcing an exit to shore, if they were ingenious.
Several times, in his headlong career downriver that day, Nicholas could have abandoned his battle, and snatched at a chance to batter his way from the grasp of the water. He stayed, not because he could travel faster than