Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [295]
She prayed for his safety, she who never prayed. When news came that de Salmeton was coming, she could not breathe for fear. Naturally, the messages immediately stopped. Their practical purpose was finished.
One thing only mattered: that all those who knew he was back should believe that today, the day of the banquet, Nicholas was still in Bruges.
She knew that she was going to meet David de Salmeton today, the one day that she must leave the castle. She could have feigned illness. She preferred to have it all over. Behind her, at least, Jodi was locked and guarded and safe.
She had dressed for her enemy. No one could vie with the Imperial fiancée and her stepmother, in their mantles of sable and ermine, their surcoats of glistening silver and gold over deep mingled velvets; their sleeves heavy with jewels. The dames of honour might wear what they chose, and someone had sent Gelis a thousand squirrel skins. Weightless, sinuous, downy, four hundred of them lined the saffron silk cloak she had had made for them, and edged its quilted hood embroidered with pearls. Voile and jewels hid her hair, and a belt of gold worked with jewels clasped the severe, high-waisted gown with its triangular neckline turned back with fur.
Clémence, keeping her company, waited with her on the cleared paving before the Hôtel de Ville as the eminent van of the procession mounted its steps, was welcomed, and receded into the depths of the building. Then the long line of the lesser guests was permitted to wind its way up the stairs. They entered a gallery, hung with banners. They were relieved of their cloaks. Then they were passing through the double doors of the Salon d’Honneur, its beams wreathed, its walls lined with escutcheons, its tableware rattling with the piercing stridency of a fanfare as they were ushered diligently to their seats. The fanfare redoubled, and the Ladies of Burgundy appeared from the side of the dais and, escorted by the high officials of the town, were led to their seats under the great canopy of state.
The long board for the demoiselles of honour was set to one side, as were the other tables for ladies. But standing there, making her reverence with the rest, Gelis van Borselen was silently occupied in putting a name to the men on and close to the dais: men hatted, square-shouldered and round as the beads on an abacus; their faces florid or pale; their doublets stuffed and quilted and pleated, their coats glittering; their shoulders furred with wide collars weighty as pillory boards.
Wolfaert van Borselen and Louis de Gruuthuse, Earl of Winchester, her relations. The Lieutenant General of the Low Countries. Chancellor Hugonet. The High Steward of Flanders. The Bailiff. The hosts of the town, the procurators, the judges. And below the gold and scarlet banner of his royal nephew, James Stewart of Auchterhouse, Earl of Buchan, with whom, according to Kathi, Nicholas had shared a memorable incident in Scotland involving a ladder, a looking-glass and a parrot. James Stewart’s half-sister had once been married to Wolfaert van Borselen, and had been Countess of Buchan herself. Gelis knew James. But royal memories were not always long, and she should have been pleased when, under cover of the welcoming speech, he glanced across at her table, found her, and gave a slight, smiling bow. But that was because he had been nudged by his neighbour, David de Salmeton.
She had known what to expect. She was capable of observing all the courtesies: applauding the edible surprises and the inedible entertainments; conversing over and under the music and tasting, if not swallowing, some of the dishes that arrived and departed: the joints of beef and shoulders of mutton, the geese and pigeons and partridges, the calves’ foot jellies and swans. The expensive frosted confections, and the fruit. There were