Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [399]
The Prioress’s room was empty, but for Julius. It was not surprising: those appointed by God had work before them this day. On Dame Euphemia’s desk there was no sign of a letter. It had several drawers. Julius rose. He had been sitting heavily on one of the coffers. He said slowly, ‘Kathi? Have you heard? I’m most desperately sorry.’ He looked worn, and dirty, and cold, as they all did. For her, the ordeal had been going on since this morning, when her uncle and Nicholas arrived. The last five hours, since Julius and Kilmirren escaped the Home ambush, since Jardine of Applegarth had arrived, had been as bad as the last days in Bruges, when her uncle faced possible death.
Now he had died, in Scotland, for someone else’s quarrel, and someone else’s King.
Dismiss it. Don’t dwell on it now. Now she, too, was walking in danger, but she was also surrounded by friends. It was only heart-breaking that the dearest of those was someone she must defeat.
She said to Julius, ‘I wanted somewhere to come and be quiet. I’m sorry. Would I disturb you?’
He came and took her hand, and made her sit down in the Prioress’s chair. Even smeared with dirt and full of compassion, the sculptured face kept in its bones all the traits that had persisted since he and Nicholas had been boy and young man together: the charm of the student, the Venetian merchant, the artist in flamboyant escapades. He had thrown off his sling during the siege. He said, ‘Dame Euphemia asked me to meet her here, I don’t know why. Look. Let me get you some wine. She must have a flask.’ His voice was troubled.
Kathi said, ‘I’ve seen it, I think. Over there.’
It took him a while to locate it, since it was not where she pointed. It kept his back to her for long enough for her to open a drawer, and immediately find what she sought. It was intact. The outer wrapper, without ties, was addressed to Dame Euphemia in Nicholas’s clear, fluent hand. The inner letter, bearing Mick Crackbene’s name, bore a rough seal. Writing fast, Nicholas had placed it there, out of sight, where the Prioress would find it after he and her uncle had gone. In a moment, when he was able, he would come back to remove it.
She broke the seal with one hand, still within the half-open drawer, and skimmed the few lines on the page. They were plain, and jotted down without drama, like a singer’s working notes between staves. The unheard song was one she was glad to be spared. Here was the name of the man against whom, year after year, Nicholas had safeguarded his family. The man whom he, in his turn, had protected, for he was of his own blood. Elizabeth de St Pol’s bastard son, who had indeed prospered, and acquired a new name. The name of the man in the room with her now. The name of Julius.
He was turning back with the wine. Before he brought it to her, the drawer was closed. Her hand shook, taking the cup, and she set it down. She said, entirely truthfully, ‘I think I may be going to be sick. I think I had better go.’
His face expressed genuine anxiety. She must look as ill as she felt. He said, ‘Of course. I’ll find someone to take you. You should be with the nuns.’
She stared at him, her mind blank, her eyes sightless. His voice boomed. She was used to the phenomenon: it had happened often before she was married, when she attempted too much and exhausted her strength. Or so Dr Tobie would have it.
Dr Tobie. Tobie had been full of theories about the invisible traitor. So had Moriz and John. So, latterly, had her uncle, when he had determined, at last, to compel Nicholas to admit what he knew. None of them had made the proper deduction. None of them knew enough about Elizabeth’s son.
The papers about Elizabeth’s son and her lover, Andrew Liddell, were somewhere in this room. That was why Julius was here. He wasn’t waiting for the Prioress: he had been searching.