Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [298]
Nothing happened. The Duchess and her step-daughter clung with one hand and waved with the other as their vehicle of state rumbled and slid over the half-frozen silt that coated the cobbles. They reached the fork where one river became two, enclosing the fish-market, and beyond that, the invisible bulk of the castle. Now, the number of spectators had dwindled, as had the noise, although the bells, the trumpets, the cries still hung behind them, wrapping the tail of the cavalcade. The van moved away from the slow, mist-filled Lieve and, passing between the blurred lights of mansions and warehouses, made its way west at last to the glare in the fog which was the fine castellated entrance to the Hof Ten Walle, the Duchess’s palace.
In the courtyard, the household was waiting to welcome their mistress. Once the first wagon was emptied, the steps were put in place for the others. The man Manoli, Jodi’s personal bodyguard, was the first to rush forward to these.
Clémence, descending, spoke first. ‘Master Jordan?’
‘He’s safe. He’s asleep. No one tried to harm him. But what about you?’
‘Nothing happened,’ Clémence said. ‘I am concerned.’ She was joined by her driver and three of the outriders, all with swords and mail tunics.
‘Where is the Lady?’ Manoli said. Behind, the third wagon rumbled over the stones, then the fourth. After that there was a space.
‘In the last, as we agreed.’ Clémence shook back her hood, revealing a frown of anxiety above Gelis’s squirrel-skin mantle of yellow silk. ‘Come. We must make sure.’
She had sensible shoes, as a precaution, below her fine gown, and was as agile as anyone, clutching her skirts and racing with Manoli and the rest through the fog to the entrance to the palace and beyond. Halfway down the road, they began to hear the shouts of men in dispute, and then came upon the cause of the trouble, a vehicle stuck on the road and holding up all the others behind it. One of the horses, breaking free, had added to the confusion. The wisest travellers had kept to their wagons; others had left them to indulge their curiosity, or even to set out for the palace on foot. The ladies of the last wagon, invited to leave, had all jumped down with a will, exclaiming over the cold, and pleased at the prospect of riding home pillionwise, with an arm round the warm waist of a soldier.
It was not an easy task, in the fog, to question and count them. All the same, it only took moments to discover that Gelis van Borselen was missing. And a little later, that one of the outriders had gone.
SEATED IN THE LAST WAGON, wearing Clémence’s good velvet cloak, Gelis had not been surprised at the halt. This was the only occasion on which she would ever be within reach of de Salmeton’s men. Deceived by the cloak, they would attack, discover their mistake, and be captured, she hoped, in their turn. After that, they would be encouraged to mention who paid them.
She did her best to remain in her wagon. When the hanging was pulled quickly back and a handsome outrider courteously invited the ladies to descend, she settled back in the gloom, and prepared to remain where she was. The voices receded, to join themselves to the other sounds of commotion ahead. The fog made her cough. A man, swinging up into the vehicle, gripped her arm and placed a palm over her mouth. A second, arriving as quietly, took both her wrists and lashed them together, while the first replaced his hand with a ball of cloth and a scarf.
‘Apologies, my dear,’ one of them said. ‘Please don’t kick. My friend here has a very bad temper.’
She had agreed it all beforehand. If anything happens, exercise restraint. Do not invite retaliation; you won’t be hurt until