Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [149]
In the first letter, it was no more than a word or two, without comment, on a deal in Murano upon which Nicholas had specialised knowledge. In the second, it was a matter of Flemish shipping, as pertained to an intricate project he had launched when in office. The third was different again: it noticed that the mercenary company of the Bank, under contract to Burgundy, was helping the Duke besiege the town of Neuss, outside Cologne.
That was all. He had thrown some scraps, from the East, to the Bank. The Bank had thanked him, but had not asked for more. Instead, someone was saying, quietly, This is where they need advice, Gregorio, Julius, Diniz. This is how you can help us. He wondered if she knew that he would recognise her handwriting, and remembered that, of course, she did.
There were only three letters more, and two of them were routine reports. The first said, They are all well. The second, We depart at once from Bruges, with the doctor. There is talk of Ghent, and then Neuss.
They did not know that he had been out of reach for so long. He would write, but the decisions would already be taken; the crisis at Neuss, whatever it was, would be over. It might even mean that his army was free. His former army.
The November light was failing now; yellow lamps bloomed outside his window where the town rose on its slopes from the sea. His view was the garden, and the kiosk where Anna had touched him with cherry-stained lips. A passing kiss, like today’s. He turned to the last packet of all.
The writing was unknown. The cover, buckled and soiled, seemed, surprisingly, to have followed a route not unlike that of all the others. Its fastening had broken. The inner wrapper bore the name of a courier at Treviso, and had carried a wax seal, now slit. He set it down.
No.
No, when he was here and alone. No, when Marian was gone, and even Tasse was dead. No, when he was doing what he was doing. No. No. No.
Then he opened it.
It began, À monsieur mon petit-fils.
And the signature, when he tumbled the pages, was Thibault, vicomte de Fleury.
IT WAS FULLY DARK when Anna came in, so that she thought at first that he had gone. Then she saw the chair by the window, and the crouched shadow in it. She hesitated, and then walked steadily forward in the dim light from the doorway. When she rested her hands on his shoulders, a tremor passed through him. She said, ‘I read it. It was open. I was afraid it was urgent.’ Then she said, ‘Did you think the vicomte was dead?’
The question was gentle, reflective, compelling no immediate answer. Her fingers caressed, calming, reassuring, until he lifted his face from his hands. Then she moved, taking a seat a little away, where she could see him, if barely. He spoke.
‘No. I knew where he was. I thought this was news of his death.’
He did not go on. She let time pass, then spoke again. ‘Did you also know what he told you?’
Again, a silence. Again, he answered. ‘It was what I was told. No one believed it. There is no proof.’
She said, ‘But you fought at first to be recognised.’
‘There was no point,’ he said. ‘And less, now. It would invalidate my marriage to Gelis. It would make Jodi a bastard.’
She held out her hand, but he did not take it, and she brought it gently back to her lap. She said, ‘But none of that, surely, should matter? This is your grandfather, who seemed to care nothing for you. You have found each other.’
‘He has found me,’ Nicholas said. ‘The rest does not follow.’
After a while, she said, ‘You will be better alone. When you want it, your room is prepared.’ All the letters lay at his side, as he had dropped them. The missive from Treviso rested uppermost, its pages aligned, its position secure on the pile. He had not torn it, or crushed it, or cast it away. He had not reduced it to ashes. Her face full of pity, Anna rose and left him with his trouble, closing the door.