Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [39]
Nicholas said, ‘It’s all right.’
‘Well, of course it is,’ Henry said. He backed, and Nicholas walked past him and into the parlour. Henry shut the door and stood still, his gloved hand on his sword, his chin up, as if on guard for his grandfather.
It was not a large room, and Jordan de St Pol of Kilmirren was the only other soul in it. The stoutness that had come with his wealth had increased over the years since he had lived in France and fought for the King, father of the present King Louis. At seventy he was gross, his bloated chins swathed in the scarves of an old-fashioned hat, his gown falling in opulent folds from massive shoulders, his thick fingers heavily ringed. Seated in a high-backed deal settle, he seemed to occupy all the space and all the air, like a portly illumination: a painted initial on vellum. Our Father. It was no wonder that Simon and Henry were afraid of him.
His eyes, deep in the glossy cheeks, gazed at Nicholas. ‘Are you disappointed? You hoped to come and quarrel privately with Henry.’
‘I can do that any time,’ Nicholas said. ‘No. He told me you were here. I am willing to quarrel with both of you, if you insist, but it was not my intention.’
‘A social visit, no more?’ the fat man said. ‘How inexplicable. Did I not draw blood, the last time we met, all those years ago? And you responded by disarranging my livelihood. But as you see, I am back, and not inconvenienced.’
‘That was why I came,’ Nicholas said. ‘To put it to you that the sheet is now balanced, and there seems no need for further scoring or friction. I am willing to let the past rest.’ He crossed to a stool opposite the old man and sat. At the door, Henry cleared his throat. The old man sat staring at Nicholas. Beneath those cold eyes, he felt his face throb, quelling the incautious aspirations of his features. It was a handicap, losing his face, and making do with a collection of bruises, an inflamed eye and a discoloured cheek, down which ran the thin seam of a scar that both he and the fat man knew all about.
The fat man laughed, saliva issuing to rest on his lip. He said, ‘Does the trumpet decide to blow truce, or lie like a clod, waiting the lips of its master? My dear Nicholas! You have no power to end the friction, except conceivably by cutting your throat. If I ever tire of it, I shall tell you. Meanwhile you must manage your life as best you can. Bring your wife and your child, and let us see who survives. That is what you want to know, isn’t it?’
‘Very well,’ Nicholas said. ‘You relish the feud. Simon doesn’t greatly enjoy it but, being your son, feels committed to waging it. You think that will not change. But I suggest that my son and your grandson should be kept out of it.’
‘You would send Jodi away?’ said the fat man with exaggerated surprise. ‘Force him to live away from the new marriage-bed of his parents? How surprising, by the way, that crude little reunion was. And what of poor Henry’s new lucrative post? He is to leave it so that you may feel safe while you deal with—let me see, who are all your other ill-wishers? John, Earl of Mar, for a certainty. And David Simpson for another, whom I had to expel from my business. Tell me, are you going to ask them to be your friends also?’
Henry laughed. He moved from the door and sat down, studying Nicholas as if counting the marks of his failures. He said, ‘I want to see you begging for the kiss of reconciliation from Johndie Mar.’
‘Did you think I was begging?’ Nicholas said.
The fat man turned his eyes.
Henry said, ‘I heard you beg us not to hurt that little turd Jodi. You’re afraid of my father and grandfather.’ There was the curl of a smile at his mouth.
Nicholas said, ‘I was also promising not to hurt you.’
‘And you think you could!’ Henry said. His dense blue eyes shone at his grandfather.
His grandfather sighed, and made a small, cursory sign. Henry, puzzled but willing, jumped up to bring out cups and some wine. He poured, glancing up at the old