Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [244]
‘But for Gelis, I might not be here,’ Adorne said.
These days, there was a passage between the Berecrofts house and its neighbour. Crossing back to their own side, Moriz stopped just before the connecting door, and drew Nicholas to a halt. ‘May I ask you something?’
‘From the sound of it, probably not. What?’ Nicholas said.
The mountainous face glared up at his. ‘You tried to claim legitimacy once, I am told, and then retracted. Now Julius thinks he can try for you again. Do you in fact believe—Do you know that you are Simon de St Pol’s son?’
He didn’t want to reply. He had said more of his family in the last half-hour than he ever normally did. But this was Father Moriz, who wore the mantle of Godscalc.
Nicholas said, ‘Yes. Yes, I believe it. Yes, I am sure it is true, but I don’t have proof, and don’t want any.’
‘Even for the sake of your mother?’
‘I have thought of that,’ Nicholas said.
‘But other things are even more important. I see. But it has occurred to you, while thinking so deeply, that if you are Simon’s son, then Bonne may be his granddaughter?’
‘She is not mine,’ Nicholas said.
‘You think not. But are you sufficiently sure to risk a relationship forming between Bonne and Henry?’ Moriz asked. ‘For Henry, beyond doubt, is your son, and Simon does not know it.’
‘There is no risk,’ Nicholas said. ‘Bonne is penniless, fatherless; her mother impugned. Henry’s wife will be a rich, landed heiress, personally handpicked by Simon.’
‘Did I mention marriage?’ said Moriz.
He opened the door. Since they left, the convivial clamour from the other side had become louder and, it suddenly appeared, less convivial. Wavering above the uproar was a single thickened voice: that of Julius. Shouting it down was another, far more furious, rather less inebriated and also unmistakable, although it had not been heard by anyone there for seven years or more.
‘Simon,’ said Nicholas. He turned. ‘Tell Adorne—’
‘—not to come,’ Moriz finished. He had already spun round.
‘And tell Wodman,’ Nicholas called after him. It was necessary. This wasn’t the lord of St Pol, executing a bold plan of revenge. This was a man in his cups, come to wreak against someone the hatred and fear he could not indulge in at home. This was … Simon.
Nicholas walked through the door and slammed it shut with a report that made the walls shudder. The shouting sharpened, diminished and stopped. The voice of Julius was the last to fade, as he belatedly turned. But before that, blue and white and gold, incandescent with anger, Simon de St Pol had dropped his arms and focused his gaze on the door, and then, with increasing satisfaction, on the man standing before it.
Julius hiccoughed.
Katelinje Sersanders said something under her breath, and Tobie closed a hand on her arm. John le Grant sent a swift glance to Crackbene, and Gelis remained where she was, between Robin’s chair and the motionless figure of Clémence. Only Jordan de Fleury, aged nearly twelve, quietly set down the mugs he had been filling and, crossing the floor, went to stand by his father. Nicholas smiled at him.
Simon said, ‘What a big bang, my poor Claes. Was it to bring your other men running? Well, there is young Jordan, at least, to protect you. You didn’t dare come to me.’
‘I could come tomorrow,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or now, when we have eaten. Will you join us?’
It sounded almost normal, even to Kathi. In fact, he was raising a screen; picking words that would guide them all, not just himself, through the dangerous, secret-filled ground.
Simon laughed a little. He was dressed for the field, and still armed. He had probably been called out on duty, as they had. He said, ‘Eat with you? Hardly. I want a word with your sad henchman here, and one with you, and then I propose a fair fight between you and me. The King couldn’t object, could he, to a fair fight to wipe out an insult? Jordan, did you know that your mother’s a whore, and your father fornicates with the cripple’s wife?’
Everyone but Nicholas moved. But before the first