Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [75]
The man looked abashed. ‘Why, nothing, my lord. Only they say that the Baron Cortachy and Signor Zeno dislike one another, and tempers might be lost. That is all.’
‘And you think I should do something about it?’ For once, he was unconditionally disagreeable.
‘I am sure I don’t know, my lord. Except that my lord knows them both. And an accident is always bad business, and harms trade for the foreigners that are left.’
‘I am sorry for them,’ Nicholas said. ‘But not perhaps quite sorry enough to go into battle on their behalf.’ He noticed that someone had refilled the wine-flask.
‘No, my lord,’ said Jelita, and bowed.
‘And before you go,’ Nicholas said, ‘take this platter. It is filthy, and should have been cleaned.’
THE AFTERNOON TOOK its predestined course. The archers of the Confrérie of St George, pleasantly replete from their meal at the Artushof, lethargically competed against one another in the charming meadow which currently formed their arena. Pole shooting, target shooting, distance shooting engendered a few disputes and a good deal of loyal endorsement from wives and parents. It rained, causing a short intermission. The sun shone, upon which the bows came out again. The royal princes, who entered and won two competitions, were plied with sweetmeats and talked, shrill and croaking, together. Robin kept clear of them. It was bad enough trying to look happy. The wretched day was almost complete, release was almost at hand when, amid the shouting, the drumming of hooves, the screams of the triumphant contestants, the little prince Zygmunt sprang to his feet, drawing Robin’s attention. The boy was watching a belated arrival: a rider who materialised unattended, and then guided his horse to the far end of the arena where, having rested his gloved hands on its neck, he paused and looked hazily round.
Robin said, ‘Kathi.’ And Katelijne Sersanders, at this low moment in the lowest of days, lifted her eyes with misgiving and trained them, with rising anger, on the distant, disruptive person of Nicholas de Fleury.
FOR KATELIJNE, lady of Berecrofts, the misery had started that morning, with the message which confirmed all her uncle’s suspicions. The King had gone. His official audience was cancelled. And it now became clear that it had never been the King’s intention to receive the Burgundian embassy. Whatever the excuse — affairs of state, illness, a family crisis — the effect was an insult. To Anselm Adorne, experienced diplomat though he was, it was a humiliation he could not forgive. He had begun by refusing, point-blank, the Confrérie’s repeated invitation to be their guest at these games. It had been Jerzy Bock, spokesman for the Danzig merchants and a St George’s Elder himself, who persuaded him to agree. ‘They wish to show that their esteem is not tainted by politics. Royal Prussia will be your friend, whatever Royal Poland may do.’
So Adorne had come, bringing his entourage with him, but leaving no instructions to pack. He had been obdurate. If the King wished to move, Anselm Adorne would follow.
‘How can he be so blind!’ Kathi had wailed to Robin.
‘He is not blind. He has been slighted. He needs to recover. Give him time,’ Robin had said. Robin was usually right.
Even so, the subsequent day had been miserable. The ceremonial ride to the ground had been disrupted by showers, the horses bucking and flying amid the rods of water discharged from the roof gargoyles. The street gutters flooded. Every other man told her, as men will, of the great plans to drain the moat and build a summer hostel for the Confrérie; but meanwhile they had to ride over the drawbridges and through the suburbs and past the watermills and the breweries to the edge of the vineyards, where the archery ground had been laid out.
This was simple enough, consisting of an oblong of grass upon which had been set a shooting-mast, a series of wands for field archery and, distantly, a mud wall on which targets had been fixed. Beyond that, there was space for flight shooting. There was a grassy bank on either side