Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [413]
The anonymous painted prince at this altar, piously kneeling, was not nine-year-old James, stiffly standing between the Queen and Abbot Henry. Nor would anyone ever admit, now, that it might be Albany, possible heir to the throne. Adorne’s death had brought what the lords had foreseen, a landslide of revulsion. The vacillators would never join Albany now. Burgundy and dying France would hold back. England, whatever promises it made, was also facing an empty throne, and a fight for the succession which would leave no time or inclination for new northern empires. Albany would never become Lieutenant-General, and would be expected to impeach his friends, and sever all his treasonable bonds. And like a common criminal bound by a Constable, he would not be allowed within three leagues of his King.
It was over. And the King was alone.
Dirige Domine gressus meus … The antiphone, the work of a dead man, was glorious. Anselm Adorne’s daughter Efemie did not hear it, but trotted out at the end, hand in hand with her cousin Saunders, while her other cousin Katelinje steered her softly from behind.
As she passed, the lady of Berecrofts glanced up at Gelis, who returned the look as if from the wastes of the sea. Nicholas neither spoke nor glanced round, and no one would have recognised the look on his face.
RETURNED WITH KATELINJE Sersanders and her family to Edinburgh, Dr Andreas saw them all settled and then, obeying orders, crossed the Canongate to the Floory Land to find Gelis. ‘Where is he?’
‘Nicholas?’ she said. She looked wind-wrung, as she had in the church. She said, ‘Can you help him?’
‘Help him?’ repeated Dr Andreas with comfortable contempt. ‘God bless and preserve him, all that man needs is a porridge stick up the arse. Women! What did you think you were looking at, but a finished example of unfettered cowardice?’
She looked startled. She had not observed, as he had, that they were no longer alone. ‘Confiteor,’ said Nicholas from the far end of the room. ‘You had better come with me, via the kitchen.’ But instead of a porridge stick, all they picked up in the kitchen was a lavish provision of wine, which they took back to a quiet room and drank.
The conversation that then ensued was quite different, naturally, from the consoling pap envisaged by laymen. It began, certainly, with the loss of Adorne, of the child Margaret, and of the man Julius, but moved beyond these matters of transient importance. Dr Andreas did not, of course, belittle the dead, or suggest that one should not experience grief. He had spoken for Adorne’s life in Bruges, and stood beside him in the chapel in Roslin; he recalled the aftermath of Nancy as well or better than Nicholas de Fleury; had been affected as had de Fleury by the hangings at Lauder; had understood some of the tragedy of the River Till. Now he was simply placing these matters in context. Perspective. De Fleury appreciated perspective.
At first, de Fleury had been reluctant to turn to the future. He did not want to think of his own. Andreas put him right about that.
‘Not your own. We spoke of this before. You stopped your divining because of it.’
‘You want me to resume?’ de Fleury had said. There was an edge to his voice.
‘No, I do not. I told you that I felt it was dangerous. Now I am sure that