Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [131]
It made her tired, thinking about it. Her escort caught her when she stumbled the second time and said, “You must be weary. Shall I take you back to your house?” They were the first words he had spoken after the greeting, and she could not detect in them any accents at all of Courtrai. She said, “I think you’d better.” Then she said, “After you’ve taken the mask off.”
They had stopped facing each other. She waited for him to obey. Instead, the mask with its unblinking owl’s eyes turned from one side to the other in explicit refusal. She stood for a while to see if he would give up, and when he didn’t, she turned and walked off frowning. After a moment he caught up and took her elbow again, for which she was grateful.
At her gate, the duty porter recognised the mask, and being well-trained, merely wished them both a good evening and opened the gates without smiling. He went ahead to unlock the door which led into her hallway, and make sure that the lamps were all burning.
She led the way to her mother’s parlour. She had drunk a great deal, but thinking of this moment, she had made sure that she was not in any discomfort, and he too, she was aware, had calmly absented himself from time to time. Another, if minor, sign of the adept. So now she could discover from whence all this expertise came.
The fire had burned low. She went to repair it and he said, “Watch your cloak,” in the same level Flemish. She waited, allowing him to unclasp the garment from behind before she knelt: she felt his fingers brush the ruffled rope of her hair. Then, as she mended the fire, he crossed and laid her cloak on a stool.
She expected, when she turned and rose, to find that he had done the same, but he had discarded nothing. She said, “Now you reap your reward for all your gallant service this evening. It is only, I’m afraid, another cup of good wine but at least you may sit, and let me give it to you.” She had reached the cupboard, smiling, but still he had not moved. She lifted two cups and a flask and began to bring them back to the settle before the fireside. She said, “I understand. There is an owl’s face under the owl’s face?”
The cloak was blue in colour, and thick, and fell straight to the ground. He made no effort to remove it. She bent, a little impatient, and set the cups and the flask on a stool and was aware, as she did so, of a lock of released hair swinging close to her shoulder. She tilted her head to collect it, even as she realised what had happened. In removing her cloak, he had released all her hair from its pleat.
She turned, lifting her eyes to question him. She found he was immediately behind her, and the owl mask inches away. He said, “And now the rest of the pretty laces.”
She jerked away from his hands. She moved so sharply indeed, that she left her necklace still in his grip. “Oh no,” said Katelina. “That isn’t part of the bargain.”
The owl stood where he was. You couldn’t tell if he were dismayed, or angry or merely patient. He said, “I haven’t made any bargains.” He began, without haste, to walk towards her.
She was between a chair and the wall. She said, “You have. My mother’s arrangement. The scroll gives you leave for an evening, as my escort. Now you must be content. If you want more, you can call on her tomorrow.” She ran out of breath.
He had stopped at the chair. He said, “If I want more? But it’s you, demoiselle, who wanted this, surely? You knew when you saw the scroll that I was not from the seigneurie of Courtrai. You knew when you brought me home that I was not one of the three suitors your mother had chosen. No one has made a bargain. No one has given me leave to be here, except you. And why, if not for this?”
“It was not for this,” said Katelina.
“For the wit of my conversation? But I have passed the whole evening in silence. For the