Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [274]
Heigh-ho. Those who eavesdrop never hear good of themselves. With some difficulty, Nicholas de Fleury, by-blow, produced and dwelled on this piece of philosophy. The effort almost made him miss a slight noise. He turned, fast, on the step.
Below, his face set and sick, stood his other son, Jordan. Nicholas said, softly and sharply, ‘Go. Go outside, down to the river. I’ll come.’ For a moment, he thought the boy would refuse. Then he spun round and went.
Inside the room, Muriella was speaking. ‘… care? Your father’s a worse goat than that, everyone knows. Jordan isn’t the same as his father. He’s not a bastard. He’s kind. You’re not a bastard, but you make fun of me.’
‘I don’t!’
‘You sneer at everybody! You tell fibs! Jordan doesn’t wet the bed!’
‘How do you know?’ Henry’s voice hardened. ‘Muriella! How do you know?’ Nicholas moved.
The girl’s voice said petulantly, ‘I just know. I haven’t been in his bed.’
‘Then he couldn’t give you a baby,’ Henry said. His voice softened. He said, the cajolery mixed with a kind of off-hand complacency: ‘Look. You like to look, don’t you? Go on. You like it when we do it?’
A moment passed. The girl said something, obscurely. Her voice was shy.
‘And there you are, now. And me. Isn’t that nice? I’m going to give you a baby,’ said Henry, in a soothing voice broken by hurry.
Which was when Nicholas, sick to the heart, encompassed the stairs and, not quite in time, crashed back the door.
They were on the floor, rosily geometrical, and fully and rhythmically conjoined. Henry, blind and deaf, could not at once stop; Nicholas pulled him off and sent him sprawling. ‘Dress!’ The blue eyes, glaring at him, were like those of a madman, what with near-coition and fury and anguish.
The girl was bare from the waist, her legs thin and white, the place between them apricot-coloured. She was sobbing. She said, trying to bring her skirts lower, ‘Don’t look!’
‘Why? Is there more to see?’ Nicholas said. When the boy, part-laced, came at him like a fiend he slapped him hard on the face and then flung him back in a corner. The girl tried to run for the door.
‘Later,’ said Nicholas, grasping her arm. He pushed her into a chair, and set his back to the door. He said to her, ‘Shall I call your father?’
She stared at him, speechless. Henry said, ‘Do. We’ll deny all you say.’ He was still breathing in gasps.
‘All right,’ Nicholas said. ‘We’ll call Muriella’s father, and if she says this didn’t happen, we’ll ask a physician to attest her virginity. Yes?’
‘No!’ said Muriella.
‘I don’t mind,’ Henry said. ‘She’s been with plenty of others. I’ve never touched her. I’ll tell them.’
She didn’t quite understand. ‘I haven’t!’ she said. For a moment, she just sounded indignant.
Henry said, ‘You’ve been with Jordan de Fleury, his son. You told me. He wets the bed.’
She stared at him. Nicholas said, ‘You’d swear to it? That she and Jordan are intimate?’
‘All the time. Everywhere,’ Henry said. In the midst of the horror, Nicholas ached for him. Always, always, no matter whom it hurt, Henry lied to cover his sins. Perhaps it was in his nature, or instilled by the Church. More likely it had its roots in a very old fear: the dread of his grandfather’s mockery; and later, of Simon’s. Other people solved the problem by admitting to everything.
Nicholas said, ‘Then I’m afraid you’d still be proved wrong. Jordan is too young to be anyone’s lover just yet. It’s just as well, isn’t it? You do realise, both of you, that if Muriella became pregnant, you would have to marry? Exactly as your father did, Henry? Unless, of course, you really plan to spend your lives together. But it seems a little early to force Muriella to choose. Especially the kind of coward who will deny everything and put the blame on the girl. Do you want to marry him, Muriella?’
‘No! I hate him!’ she said.
‘It didn’t look like it,’ said Nicholas dryly. ‘Or is it just the attention