Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [120]
He had been offered women — children — in some of the yurts they had passed, but had so far refused. There were no women where they were now. It was as well.
That evening, having absented himself from the meal, he asked Brygidy if her Lady would join him outside. The broad, middle-aged face, half-German, half-Polish, showed neither fright nor distaste: she had come with Straube’s highest recommendation and had proved solidly loyal. Although far from frivolous, Brygidy had many good qualities: her fortitude in the face of men’s stupidity reminded Nicholas of some aspects of Bel. Bel from Scotland, another forbidden subject. Then Anna came out.
The men, distant silhouettes round the fire, paid no attention: they had heard the scream, but believed it due to a snake. Petru had joined them. Brygidy seated herself some distance away. The air was heavy and feathered with insects; the soil coughed and creaked and breathed out the heat of the day.
Anna stood by his side. He got up and stood looking penitential. It was an attitude the other men were accustomed to, and they could not hear what was said. She remarked, ‘What do you usually say when that happens?’ Her light cloak and gown were the serviceable ones she kept for the evenings, but she had turned back her hood. Her expression, dimly revealed, was not so much resolute as resigned.
‘It depends on what happens next,’ Nicholas said, his voice tentative. He could not quite gauge her mood.
‘But you rather assumed that I wouldn’t put your eyes out,’ Anna said. She sat down, pointing to the blanket before her. He knelt, then sat carefully back. She said, ‘But it was careless, wasn’t it? Or was it deliberate?’
He could feel his lips twitch. ‘I got a bigger shock than you did, I think. No, it wasn’t deliberate, but these things happen when travelling, Anna. I could go on apologising, or even rhapsodising if you like, except that it’s best to forget it. I saw nothing. It didn’t happen.’
She had unexpectedly flushed. But she did nothing but remark, ‘Then it didn’t happen. You are right.’ She paused. ‘Nicholas?’
Her cloak, sliding a little, had bared the neck of her gown. The flush still coloured her throat. He said, ‘Tell me.’
The large eyes studied him. ‘I think I shall tell you,’ she said. ‘With your sins fresh upon you, perhaps you will be kind enough to forgive mine. I brought you here with a lie.’
The men’s voices murmured. Remotely, a horse neighed, and the croaking of frogs filled the distance like a flotilla of ducks, like the frogs in the wetlands below Mewe. Her body breathed under its cloak. Nicholas said, ‘How was that?’
‘Julius made up the story,’ she said, ‘that a client was dying, and his business needed our help. It wasn’t true. The business in need of help is ours, Nicholas. I had to make this journey, or it would fail.’
He let her talk, bemused by her beauty, roused by her hardihood as Julius must have been from the day that he met her. The story was not unexpected. Establishing a separate business had not been easy for Julius. The company at Cologne did not possess the resources of Venice or Bruges, and all Anna’s own money was sunk in investments. They had no liquid resources. They were living on loans: she had borrowed the gold to pay for her share of the Fleury. Julius had considered it safe; they had successfully extended their business, and had laid out money in ermines and sables which were to be brought south to Sinbaldo, their agent in Caffa, to be resold at dazzling profit. But Kazaks, outlaws, had waylaid and stolen the furs, and the consul at Caffa could only attempt to demand reparation if she or Julius appeared there in person.
‘Reparation?’ Nicholas had queried, speaking for the first time.
‘Don’t you remember the practice from Bruges? If one merchant fails to deliver, then the goods of his fellow nationals are impounded until the loss is made good.’
‘So all the fur traders in Caffa are in prison?