Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [237]
During the entertainment which followed the feasting, Katelijne (who liked weddings) said to Gelis (who did not), ‘Look at Tobie and Clémence. Not at all in awe of one another, but neither harms the other’s true dignity. I think it is a marriage made in heaven. Your doing.’
‘Jodi’s,’ Gelis said. ‘But I agree.’ She had been bleak, like this, for a long while.
Kathi, who had reached that comfortable post-nausea condition of pregnancy where all problems seemed small, said, ‘How would Nicholas feel about it, if he knew?’
Gelis said, ‘Thankful, I imagine, to lose two of his nurses at once. If he were alive, and had achieved an independent existence, that is.’
Kathi had taken a great deal of trouble, recently, to analyse Gelis. ‘More than that, surely,’ she said, giving it thought. ‘They may not fully understand him, but Nicholas understands them very well. I’m only afraid that they’ll breed. Clémence would give day to nothing but medical prodigies.’
She gazed down the table at the bride, making an effort, as had they all, to conceal her astonishment. Clémence, divested of her coif of professional linen, was revealed to be a straight-backed young woman, Gallic in feature, white of throat, whose black hair fell lustrous and low from a fine net of pearls, and whose silk gown, with its trailing sleeves and discreet neckline, revealed a trim, athletic body of excellent promise. War had prevented the family of de Montcourt of Chouzy from travelling to Bruges, but their eccentric kinswoman did not require their endorsement. Tobie had known what he was doing.
As had Robin of Berecrofts. With more than a little contentment, Kathi watched her husband and his father talking animatedly together, their fresh-skinned faces, so alike, mirroring their absorption. Although his soul might be elsewhere, Robin had turned himself into a useful manager of the Berecrofts business in Bruges, and was capable of making still greater improvements. But he was his father’s heir, and by next summer, they would have to return to Scotland, to the orbit of David de Salmeton — if only because David de Salmeton was emerging as a competitor.
Where Nicholas de Fleury, and the Vatachino, once the man’s own employer, had withdrawn, there remained a niche in Scottish trade, and in the retiring rooms of the King, for an amiable and entertaining man of good looks, whose shrewd advice promised delightful returns. Naturally, de Salmeton’s increasing influence had caused some dissatisfaction among other merchants, but the man had papal connections, and had conducted himself with disarming modesty, even to attempting to mediate in the jealous scenes between the King and his brother. It was not true, of course that Albany, driven by rage, had actually attempted to poison King James: that was simply a Milanese rumour.
In many ways, Katelijne Sersanders wanted to go back to Scotland; the more so that her uncle had virtually abandoned both his visits there and his office: as burgomaster of Bruges he could scarcely attend as he should to the duties of the Conservator of Scots Privileges in Bruges. She wanted to go back for other reasons. She missed Willie Roger, and the group of mad musicians and artists who had helped Nicholas create his Play. She missed her friends at Haddington. She missed the princesses for whom once she cared: Margaret, too strong-willed for her own good and Mary, torn from her beloved first husband but reconciled, in her mild, shallow