Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [85]
The question was addressed, past Nicholas, to David Simpson. And Simpson, his voice sweet, said immediately, ‘Of course. And as the senior, my lord, please take the first stroke.’
It was like listening to Henry. Nicholas, seated foursquare in the middle, recognised, as Simpson did not, all the cold amusement behind the flat tones of St Pol’s ironic suggestion. And in Simpson, more than twice Henry’s age, the same faint thread of uncertainty, as he contributed to what he thought was the dialogue.
The dialogue which—I came to speak to Claes—was in fact conveying something, with supreme effrontery, at this moment. Which was saying, unless Nicholas was mistaken: My dear Claes! Much as we hate one another, Simpson and I, we have cause to detest you far more. So we have joined forces against you. Afterwards, of course (admire the bodyguards!), poor David will have to watch out.
Was it possible? Or was he manufacturing fantasies?
Jordan de St Pol smiled into his eyes. He said, ‘Forgive me, dear boy. I did not mean to spoil your enjoyment. Let us watch the field.’
He had been right.
The field contests continued, and Nicholas remained where he was, tranquilly flanked by the fat man and Simpson. Willie Roger brought on a choir, which fell below his requirements. There was some shooting, then a foot contest with blunt swords, then a short interlude with musicians, while the barrier was put up. That was followed by some jousts proper, with lances fitted with coronals. Sersanders took part with Henry, who was repeating his success on the same Persian-trained horse. Groomed by Adorne, Sersanders was a fine jouster, and out of courtesy spared Henry a little, to Henry’s displeasure. After a jarring encounter their contest was stopped, and another couple rode up.
Throughout, Henry’s grandfather said nothing but watched, his eyes narrowed. He, too, had once been a champion jouster, and had commanded the King’s Archers in France. He kept his lips shut, but his stare, following Henry, was that of a pawnbroker assessing a bankrupt. Nicholas turned his back on him, but made no effort to leave.
The riders wore padded linen, without blazons. It would be more formal tomorrow, but not much. When denying his services to Willie Roger, Nicholas had pointed out amiably that it wasn’t as if Willie had to provide for a Royal Grand Entry. It was only the English dowry money arriving again: third instalment, two thousand crowns, delivered this year by the Canon of Windsor. The dowry belonged to the Princess Cecilia of England, aged eight, who was to marry James, Prince of Scotland, aged four, but not yet. No one brought a sword, naked or other; just money. And since the envoy came every year, a romp at Orchardfield and a banquet or two were good enough. Although, as it happened, Nicholas had helped Willie with something for the finale.
A small number of trim, confused sheep had arrived on the field: it was nearly time for the Pastoral Passage. The Shepherdess was a part often played by a man, and normally, Nicholas would have agreed to dress up. He had done it before, because he liked clowning. When he did it now, it tended to be for a reason, and because it let him create something distinctive. But not today.
Today, in place of his chosen candidate, Willie had simply installed the largest of the town’s brewster-ladies, and appointed Tam Cochrane and Robert his cousin to defend her. They were two hefty, country-built men, but Lang Bessie, six feet tall and pure brawn, was their equal: when they stood holding hands for the fanfare, they could have passed for a hanging arcade. Being an Edinburgh man and an unmarried burgess, Robert (Dob) Cochrane knew Lang Bessie even better than Tam. He slapped her buttocks and got on his horse, and the sheep ran about, bleating, and getting sand on their newly washed fleeces. The spectators settled down in expectancy.
There was supposed to be a series of duels, in which each of the Cochranes fought his