Free To Lie with Lions by Dorothy Dunnett Page B

Robin.’ It amused him, a little, that the man had troubled to do no more to fill time than tap out his own name. And yet despite himself, watching the pendulum, Nicholas had been touched by a sadness he had not felt before.
    His remark drew a sharp look, as he expected. Then the doctor gave a mild sigh. ‘Ah! My name is not Pierre Robin, M. de Fleury. You have confused me with King René’s physician.
    ‘We share the name Pierre, it is true; but I am not the Robin whose life, whose fate touched you today. My name is Pierre de Nostradamus.’

Chapter 3
    T HE RED AND white chequered fortress of Ham, powerful as a walled city, had for two hundred years commanded the village, the church and the River Somme whose moat surrounded it. Because of its strategic importance it had changed hands many times. At the moment it was defended by the Constable of France, and occupied by Louis XI, King of France and nephew and overlord of René of Anjou, who had no army with which to protect either Anjou or his guests.
    Nicholas de Fleury was not brought to Ham in bonds, nor deprived of his senses, but he was under guard, and had been for the week of the journey from Angers. On the way, they stayed only at the King’s lodges. The Burgundian was allowed his own horses and his own servants, who were considerably better acquainted with fighting than they looked. Of his escort, only Wodman stayed at his side from the first, but answered no questions.
    Nicholas waited. On the first night, eating alone with him in the chamber they shared, Nicholas set down his cup and said, ‘And now.’
    Under previous monarchs, the Archers of the Royal Guard of France were handpicked for their looks, as well as for their skill and their courage. In array on the field, they resembled an army of Attic comeliness, with their plumes of red, white and green and their sleeveless three-coloured jackets covered with golden embroidery. Andro Wodman by contrast was an ugly man; short-necked and short-legged and burly under the plated jack which he removed with his helmet and cap. His hair was dark and thick as a bear’s, and the stubble darkened his jowls below a nose squashed in some argument. He seemed to have no objection to scrutiny but spoke through his meat. ‘Ask away. You’ll get some answers. Not many.’
    ‘You were an Archer of the King’s Scottish Guard?’
    ‘That’s no secret. Eight years under Pat Flockhart. Jordan Semple had gone by that time – him that’s now Jordan de St Pol, vicomte deRibérac. We all thought we’d nothing to do but rise to be a commander like him, and suck up to the King and get land and titles and a post at the Court, but we didna have the genius the vicomte was born with, it would seem. I got out of it seven years ago, none the richer, although I do serve King Louis here and there, when he has need of me. And I give a hand to the good vicomte de Ribérac, whiles in France, whiles in Scotland. Your friend and mine. Him that gave you the scar on your face.’
    It was interesting that he knew that. It was easy too to forget that Jordan de Ribérac had once been a soldier in France; a celebrated leader of armies; the confidant of kings. The fat, indolent man who had tried to buy his son Jodi from him.
    ‘And which of them has sent for me to Ham?’ Nicholas said. ‘The King, or M. de Ribérac?’
    ‘Oh, the King,’ said the Archer. ‘He seems to think you could be useful. And whether or not, he could always exchange you for your son.’ He grinned. ‘I ought to congratulate you. We thought we could lift him at Dijon, but I’ve never seen a lad better guarded.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Nicholas. ‘And M. de Ribérac? Shall I see him as well?’
    ‘Ye could hardly overlook him,’ said the Archer. ‘Forbye, did ye kill his daughter in Scotland?’
    ‘I can’t remember,’ Nicholas said. ‘I thought you were there at the time.’
    ‘Master Simon certainly thought that you did. M. de Ribérac’s son. He’s been