Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [329]
He had hurried a little. The door behind him was open. As he spoke, there had been voices, and the minor flurry of someone approaching.
Adorne, of course. All, all, all.
It was not Anselm Adorne in the doorway.
‘Thank you, Julius,’ said the man who was supposed to be dead. Claes stood there. Claes. The so-called Burgundian. De Fleury. The lawyer whirled round.
For the second time, St Pol forced himself upright. Planted, his legs did not shake. The blood mottling his vast face and neck withdrew, leaving him chilled, but with sense enough for what had to be done. He said, ‘I see you contrived this moment between you. The apprentice pretends to be dead, and his underling is sent to coax forth lies and forgiveness.’
De Fleury said, ‘Julius is not here by my wish. I have come on other business.’ There was something stiff about his manner of standing. His flesh was swollen and mottled with colour, as if he had been set upon and kicked by a mob. One hoped, with fervour, that he had. His eyes were immense and, in any other man, would seem to be asking a question.
St Pol said, gratingly, ‘So. Let me declare at once that which I have always declared, and which I shall maintain to the grave.
‘This man is illegitimate, and none of my blood. He comes of an illicit union between an unknown man and the wife of my son. He is a bastard. This I will swear to before any authority. I shall repeat my affidavit if need be, before the highest courts of the Church; and it will stand for all time. Are you satisfied, both of you?’
He looked at the pair. The lawyer scowled. The look on the other man’s face had not changed. St Pol felt his own expression alter before it. He heard himself say, ‘Have you something to tell me?’
De Fleury stared at him. Then he turned to the lawyer, who smiled and gave a slight shrug. De Fleury spoke to him slowly and softly. ‘You know? You know; you came here; and you haven’t yet told him?’ He raised his arm. The man Julius flinched back. De Fleury’s first, vicious blow took him under the chin and lifted him off his feet. The second flung him staggering back to the doorway, suddenly filled with running men. They gripped the lawyer and held him. De Fleury stopped.
St Pol spoke to his servants. ‘Throw him out. Leave the other.’ As they dragged the man Julius away, you could hear his voice, screeching at de Fleury. The old man sat down, pressing the arms of his chair.
The door was still ajar. When St Pol jerked his head, de Fleury went and moved it shut very slowly, the way he had opened the hall door at Beltrees. Then he came and stood before the high chair.
He said, ‘Monseigneur. They are both dead. Simon and Henry. Forgive me for having to tell you.’
It was not news, now. He had guessed. He was ready.
‘Forgive you?’ said Jordan de St Pol. ‘I forgive you nothing. They are dead, and you are alive.’
‘They died bravely,’ the other man said. ‘They lie in reverent hands, in the crypt of the Abbey of Kelso. Monseigneur, I am here to take you there, if you wish.’
It was beyond belief an offence. ‘Tais-toi,’ Kilmirren said through shut teeth.
‘I was there. If you allow me, I can tell you—’
‘Tais-toi!’ He was shouting. It emerged as a hoarse double howl, still in French. ‘How dare you! The death of my son and my grandson, given to me by your mouth! Go from this room. Never come near me again. I wish you were dead.’
The brute went.
OUTSIDE, IN THE dripping core of a city preparing for war, laden wains splattered through mud, while sledges and barrows grated upwards, hauled by powerful women, or careered down to the Canongate in a curtain of water. Grooms hurried by driving packhorses, or jostled by war horses and hackneys. Other animals trudged or trotted or scampered uphill and down, squealing, bleating and bellowing. Gulls screamed, children bawled, whips