Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [109]
Claes took his time over answering. No one was going to interrupt him. He analysed the suggestion, like a puzzle. Half the pieces were missing. He said, “Because, monseigneur, you want me to kill him?”
The fat man smiled, but said nothing. Claes said, more slowly, “Or because, after this talk, it ensures that I shan’t kill him in case it would please you?”
The fat man’s smile broadened. He said, “So subtle! You will have me thinking of you as Nicholas. You will do it then?”
Behind the table, the demoiselle made a slight movement, and stopped herself. Claes ignored it. Claes stood in front of the fat man, and heard his heart beat through the soles of his boots. He said deliberately, “You forget your own manhood. Even an artisan is excused from dealing with animals.”
Palms on his chair, the man slowly rose. As tall as Claes and twice as broad, he levered upright his bulk, steady as the town crane, until he stood face to face with the youth. He went on, with a relic of grace, to lift one thick arm until it stretched, like a dancer’s, high over his head. The hand, heavily ringed, lay curled in the air, as if about to curvet in a greeting. Then M. de Ribérac swept it downwards. His palm remained cupped towards him. His outer hand, with its heavy quartz ring, burst its way carefully down Claes’ cheek, from his eye to his chin, holding its blood-infilled course till the end. Then he drew his wrist back and let it dangle. Below the ring, blood appeared on the floor.
Marian de Charetty, on her feet, had seized her handbell to ring it. Claes moved, his hand on her arm, and prevented her. The fat man, smiling at Claes, spoke to him as if nothing had happened.
“If we are trading insults,” said the fat man, “try that for another. I made you an offer. To refuse it with crudity was an error. You will observe, in the weeks ahead, other tokens of my interest in your affairs, and the affairs of your employer. You will notice, too, when I have groomed my son to my taste.”
“If he survives it,” said Claes. He let the demoiselle’s arm go. Blood, dripping from his jaw, was reddening his shirt and he lifted his fingers in a vague gesture to stem it.
The fat man looked at him, and then at the widow. He sighed. “Who knows what lies ahead of him, or of you?” he said. “You will remember today. Especially, of course, when you look in the mirror. It is not, my dear knave, the face of a Nicholas, is it?”
Marian de Charetty was standing, her hand still on the bell.
Jordan de Ribérac smiled. He said gently, “Demoiselle, you have not been wise. God give you good day.”
The door closed behind him. There followed the sound of his ponderous tread, moving away. Without asking leave, Claes sat down suddenly and bowed his head. Between his knees, his hands gripped each other, and blood splashed on them.
He was not often out of control. His body and brain had a good partnership and the difficult moments, if any, were always in private. This one was not. His skin pricked and crawled and the frame of his bones held a wasps’ nest. He became aware that Marian de Charetty was beside him, and saying things in an abrupt voice.
“That was assault. Why did you stop me? I’ll call in the magistrates.”
When he paid no attention, her voice died away, but she was still there. Something touched his torn cheek. He put a warding hand up and found a cloth there. She relinquished it into his fingers and took a light grip of his shoulder. Then her other hand moved to the nape of his neck and spreading, blanketed it.
She held her palm there, warm and firm, as he had seen her do for her children. When he stirred, she moved it away. He saw her face bent over him. She looked half-smiling, half-agonised. She said, “My dear. What a homecoming.” Below the wired headdress, her brow had puckered, like roughened water.
My dear. He tried to think about that, but it escaped him. The cloth was sodden but he kept it to his face. His other hand, palmed on his knee, wanted to massage and work like a fuller. He fell into speech. “Why