Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [328]
How distressed would he be? How distressed had Nicholas been?
Andro knew. ‘I have never before,’ Wodman had said, ‘heard a man’s heart break with pity like that; and I hope I never have to again.’
Gelis had said in her low, contained voice, ‘I hate Simon. I hate the St Pols. He is well rid of them all.’
And Kathi had looked at her and said, ‘He will never be rid of them now.’
Neither of them had wept. Neither had said very much; they simply remained in the same room, in companionship. It was Kathi who was most aware of this aspect of their curious friendship: that the comfort that was useless to Nicholas they could bring to each other, at least.
BECAUSE OF HIS years and his girth, Jordan de St Pol, lord of Kilmirren, did not nowadays lead companies of men into battle; he let his son and his grandson do that. But, hearing that the enemy was massing at Berwick, he chose to stay at his Edinburgh house rather than at Kilmirren, guessing that Simon and Henry would move east as well. He expected them to ride with the West Warden, John Stewart of Darnley, and either remain in force on the Tweed, or join the main host as it moved south from Edinburgh. He did not know that Darnley was expected at Lauder.
In common with half the town, late that Monday morning, he learned that Adorne had arrived from the Borders, and was now at the Castle. His men, sent to investigate, reported that Andro Wodman had appeared, wounded, at the same time. They could discover nothing but speculation about de Fleury, who had disappeared when Wodman did. Jordan de St Pol had expected Wodman to inform him of de Fleury’s movements, and had been displeased when he did not. He had other agents, to be sure. To a powerful, inactive man, information was crucial.
When, therefore, a visitor was announced, the fat man expected it to be a Kilmirren fellow, with news or a commission from Simon. Serious news would have been brought by Adorne, who would have given his name, knowing what it would convey. When that tailor’s dummy Julius of Bologna entered the room, astonishment and antipathy drove the old man to his feet.
‘Indeed, sir? I cannot remember inviting you.’
‘Then I shall go,’ the man said. He had always been impertinent, trading on his mediocre good looks. ‘But I expected some thanks for my wretched tidings.’
He still looked impertinent. It meant that he did have disturbing news, and was planning to impart it with relish. Jordan de St Pol said, ‘In that case, I apologise. Please take a seat. You are about to tell me that poor jumped-up Claes, our mutual friend, has overreached himself at last. Is he dead?’ Seating himself, he had signed to have the best claret poured. It came. He took a cup and drank.
The lawyer looked at him. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. Unexpectedly, he had sobered. He said, ‘I know Nicholas meant more to your family than perhaps they wished to say. We watched him try to help Henry. It almost seemed that he and your grandson might become friends. That is,’—the handsome features were earnest—‘I am right, am I not, in thinking that Nicholas was truly your grandson? A pity, of course, that Simon had to marry so young, to someone he came to dislike. But I suppose that the confusion over the birth gave the perfect excuse to renounce the marriage. Do you regret it? Nicholas’s son is named after you, isn’t he? If Nicholas had been legitimate, Jordan would make a fine heir. If, sadly, anything happened to Simon or Henry.’
The change of tone in the last words was slight, but St Pol heard it. He said softly, ‘What is it to you?’
The lawyer looked down. His voice also was soft, even pleading. ‘I have watched Nicholas fight this