Free Gemini by Dorothy Dunnett

hair-raising interrogation just now. ‘My young lord was once fond of your company, Messire de Fleury. Is it a relationship you aspire to resume?’ Well, in fact, yes.
    He still hadn’t found out what he wanted. Nicholas said, ‘I hear the King can be moody.’
    The Abbot did not look unduly disturbed. ‘He has come into authority. You will notice a difference. And yes, occasionally he will giveway to passion. The Archdeacon—you remember Scheves? He also went to Louvain—has some excellent palliatives, should his grace become over-excited.’
    Nicholas said, ‘All the students got over-excited at Louvain, but I don’t recall any palliatives. I suppose we provided our own. Is his grace calm at the moment?’
    ‘Perfectly,’ said the Abbot. ‘But this is why weighty news requires to be serenely and clearly presented. Tomorrow, you will explain to him with great care all the recent events in Burgundy, and answer his questions immediately.’
    ‘If I can,’ Nicholas said. ‘So you think I shall be summoned tomorrow?’
    ‘I know you will. But you will do very well. And we shall be there. He is still at the Castle.’
    Nicholas knew that. The dust here in Holyroodhouse came from the rebuilding of the royal household’s lodgings, which they so often preferred to the windy fort on the ridge-top. Crossing the courtyard to come here, he had had to avert his face, there were so many masons and workmen he knew. Everyone in Scotland seemed to have building-fever. Construction men travelled from palace to palace in jolly companies, like some new, free-drinking monastic order. The Abbot said, ‘If you decide to stay, we might find a room here until your family comes. My lord of Albany often uses these lodgings, and even the Queen and her babes.’
    And that was too much. Nicholas said something under his breath, which was still all too audible. Then he apologised. His fingers ached, and his guts.
    Crawford said, ‘At least you excused yourself this time. You are too free with your expletives, my son.’
    ‘I am sorry, Father,’ he said.
    Father.
    The Abbot said, ‘No, you are not yourself. You should have gone to the infirmary. I shall send for a potion. Take it once you are safely on board.’ And, turning his head: ‘Here surely is the Conservator, ready to leave.’
    It wasn’t Wodman who entered. It was the Abbot’s servant, reporting a visitor. And the visitor, it being the God-awful day that it was, proved to be Archibald, Master of Berecrofts. That well-liked merchant, father of Robin, who had found out that Nicholas was here, and could tell him about Robin, and Nancy.
    Archie came in very slowly, a neatly made man in his mid-thirties. He and Nicholas had been fellow traders and neighbours through all the nine years during which Nicholas had chosen to inflict himself periodically on Scotland. Nicholas had built his office and home on Berecrofts land in the burgh of the Canongate. When Nicholas left, Berecrofts hadbought it back, and taken Sersanders as lodger. Nicholas thought he knew Archie well. He had never seen him so unnaturally pale.
    Nicholas rose and spoke without waiting for niceties. ‘I have no recent news, Archie, but none, either, that’s worse than we know. Robin took a hackbut shot in the battle at Nancy. We were afraid he was dead. Then the message came through that he was safe, but a prisoner. John le Grant, my gunner, is with him. Julius and Tobie have now gone to Lorraine with the ransom. You know them. Julius was my lawyer, and Tobie is one of the best physicians in the world. They will bring him back to Bruges. Kathi is there, with the children. And Adorne. And my own wife, and the whole of the business to call on.’
    ‘I should go to him,’ said Robin’s father. He sat.
    Nicholas dropped to a stool at his knee. ‘Take my ship. But you might miss him, if he’s already on his way home.’ He stopped and said, ‘I have letters for you from Kathi. For you and her brother.’
    ‘It