Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [95]
There had been some small successes. Questions of trade had been ironed out, concessions made, arrangements reached, friendships formed. Communication with Bruges and Burgundy would henceforth be easier for a while. But nothing could compensate for the rebuff by the King and the Confrérie or — more wounding for Adorne than either — the recall which meant he would never travel the road his ancestors had taken, down the great rivers and over the steppes and the mountains to where his coat of arms decorated the frowning towers of castles, and he could make or stop wars with his letters, as his ancestors had done with their swords. If lost now, the opportunity would never be vouchsafed him again.
That afternoon, as the business had reached its conclusion, Kathi had made her own pilgrimage through the town, along the clamorous wharves and below the creaking wheels of the Crane, up the broad market street past the Artushof; over the ground trembling with the force of the Ordensmuehle. Past the church of St Nicholas, from which a cheerful Scots voice issued to hail her, and into the cathedral with its great astronomical clock, telling the phases between wars.
She called on the houses she knew, and sat in the shade of their orchards, where once she had trodden in snow, and related all the gossip of Thorn. All of them wished to know about Colà. All were surprised at the news, although none could match the intensity of her own relief, when she first heard it. ‘He is going to Persia! And escorting a young married woman for part of the way! Would her husband not object?’
She explained about the Patriarch, whose household Anna would join. She explained about Julius, now slowly recovering, but was vague about the source of his hurt. It should not have surprised her, calling on Elzbiete, to find that Elzbiete already knew.
Paúel Benecke’s daughter had lost none of her bulk, nor her forthrightness. Hugging Kathi in welcome; exclaiming in rapture at the news of her forthcoming child, Elzbiete was uncompromising in her opinion of Nicholas. ‘Of course, he shot the fool to have the wife for himself. She is the woman who bought half his ship, but hasn’t yet paid for it? My father would have done just the same. But you are not displeased? The story I told you has helped? We agreed that Colà should leave, and even that a woman might coax him. Maybe you chose the woman yourself?’
‘He knew her already,’ Kathi said. ‘And it isn’t quite as you think. She’ll take care of him.’
‘Like Gerta,’ said Elzbiete.
‘Yes. No,’ Kathi said. She laughed. ‘Just accept it’s a good thing. What about your father?’
‘What about him? He is on the high seas, stealing something, no doubt. He was angry with Colà; then he set to planning what they will do when he comes back. Will he come back, Katarzynka?’ Elzbiete said.
‘He might come back to Poland, but I don’t think he will sail with your father. I think that is over,’ said Kathi. ‘Your father will find someone less wild.’
‘He liked Colà,’ said Elzbiete. ‘They would have killed each other, but he liked him. Now he will die of drinking instead.’
THAT NIGHT, lying still in his arms, Kathi touched Robin’s cheek. ‘I don’t want to leave Poland.’
‘You must.’
‘Of course. I know’ They had talked for a long time of the coming child. Thinking of her own childhood and Robin’s, of her uncle’s pride and love of his family; thinking of what Nicholas had undergone, and of what Elzbiete had told her of her father — abandoned, brought up at sea, condemned to search all his life for a companion — she had realised that she must bear her child at home; that she had been wrong to think