Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [297]
‘What a pity Andro Wodman got it instead,’ Gelis said, giving up gracefully.
‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘That was unexpected. I thought of complaining. I thought of describing how he tried to kill me in Edinburgh. But for that, I should never have had to strike that poor man in self-defence.’
‘It was not how I heard it,’ said Gelis. ‘So why not give up before you are killed in self-defence too?’
‘My dear! Is that a threat?’ said David de Salmeton. His lashes were wonderful. He said, ‘You’re going to say it’s a promise.’ He sounded mellow with pure delight.
‘I’m going to say that mercenaries make good assassins. You are going to Nancy eventually?’
‘Eventually,’ de Salmeton said. ‘I have my little tasks to perform here. But then, certainly, I must pay a visit to dear John, and dear Tobie, and dear Kathi’s child husband. With so many pleasant duties in store, the order of execution hardly matters.’
‘Why?’ Gelis said. She could hear heightened voices and the scraping of chairs. The Duchess had gone back into the Salon. She said, ‘What do you want, that you don’t have? Nicholas had every excuse to call for your death, but he freed you. You have gold. Perhaps you have more gold than you should have. Is that why you want Nicholas out of the way?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ said David de Salmeton. His brows, perfectly trimmed, rose in astonishment. ‘I have money, yes, and position. But how does that compare with the pleasure of reducing an inferior to his proper state of humility?’
Gelis gazed at him. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You mean the way you were thrown out of Cyprus? I heard about that. Really, more people ought to hear about that. I’m sure it would give them incomparable pleasure.’
Clémence was touching her arm. Her cloak appeared. The noise had now regulated itself into the unmistakable ritual of closing speeches and farewells. Since she could not re-enter, she might as well wait until the Duchess emerged.
She turned. David de Salmeton’s dark eyes were still examining her. He said, ‘What a foolish woman you are. You have just killed your husband.’ Then he left.
She stood shaking. Clémence said, ‘What a very small man. But not malnourished. He could hold his own, I would imagine, against a person of his own height. Against a taller, he would lack the reach.’
The perfect nurse. Nevertheless … ‘There is always the stab in the back,’ Gelis said.
‘That is true,’ Clémence conceded. ‘But that gentleman does not wish merely to kill. He wishes to mortify his chief victim. He wishes your husband to watch what is going to happen to you. So he will plan to trap him or ambush him first. Or, of course, bring him wherever he wishes by deceiving the pendulum.’
He had done that once before, by using her wedding ring. Tonight, he had not taken her wedding ring, or anything else belonging to her. He had other plans.
Well, she was a van Borselen. One did not hide, like a beast in a thicket. One gambled, and threw. Straight-backed, Gelis, lady of Fleury, left the safe purlieus of the Ghent Hôtel de Ville, and walked down the steps.
WITH DARKNESS, the fog outside seemed to have thickened. It swirled, grey and curdling round the clusters of lamps, the arrays of four-pound candles with their dim, tinkling bells, the rimed garlands, the group of long whitened trumpets, gripped in numb hands. The sensible Ghenters were indoors, but the guilds stood in their ranks, with their emblems staunchly upheld, and the burgesses and their wives shivered shoulder to shoulder. Bells clanged as if muffled with cloth, and unseen fireworks pattered like used raindrops, discarded from shivering trees. The Ladies of Burgundy emerged to fanfares and cheering, and were handed into the velvet-draped wagon with its silver harness, its gold fringes and sculptures. The two horses stood to the whip and, stirring, dragged it into motion. The outriders paced at their side. One by one, the other carts followed.
Squirrel skins