Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [138]
She looked at him with contempt. She said, “Do you think I’ve never seen a whole man before? My parents sleep in a naked bed, and my servants, and my cousins.”
There was no towel within reach. Matter-of-factly he palmed the tub-rim and hoisted himself up and over it. He treated her to whatever view she wished of his back as he walked without haste to the fireplace and, picking up his damp shirt, wrapped it round his hips and tied the points neatly to hold it. His fingers were withered with soaking and someone had unbuckled his muscles. He put a steadying hand on the chimney-piece and turned, smiling. “Now,” he said. “There was something about chicken broth.”
She hadn’t moved from her bench. She said coldly, “Get it yourself if you want some. It’s there at the fire.”
He left trails of water wherever he moved. He saw that she observed it, but in her turn of mood was disregarding it. In any case, the room was heavily warm. He found the pot on its chain, and stirred it, and went to the wall press for two bowls, nursing his energy as it began to come back. He needed the broth, and hoped that he might have time to take some before hostility, for whatever reason, became open war. He filled the first bowl from the pot and placed it deftly on the table before her with a spoon. He said, “The demoiselle will also eat?”
He had presented her, somehow, with a problem. She said rather shortly, “We shall both eat at the table.”
There was a second bench, on the opposite side of the table. He took his bowl there and sat. “God save the hostess,” said Claes. She didn’t look as if she wanted the broth. He picked his up and drank it off immediately, thick and warm and nourishing, dispatching the lingering taste of canal water and malmsey. He said, putting down the bowl, “You’ve saved my life twice. First the canal, and now the soup. I haven’t thanked you yet.”
He had no doubt she had questions to ask. There were quite a few he wanted to ask himself. Such as who else had seen what had happened apart from herself and Gelis. Such as how she had come to be there, unaccompanied. Such as why, having rescued him, she hadn’t raised an outcry and called in her parents, or the magistrates. And why he was here, like this. Had it been anyone else, he would have known. It was a puzzle, like the Medici ciphers, to be approached indirectly. All he could do was offer a comment, and hope a conversation would follow.
Nothing followed. The lady Katelina dipped her spoon in and out without answering. He waited politely.
She was a handsome girl, and nicely made, like a good piece of wood-turning. Her breasts, under the chemise, were round as small Spanish oranges. His gaze, on its way somewhere else, drifted over the rest of her. The linen was so fine that you could see the colour change, where the white of her skin ceased below it. His gaze continued until it rested on his own bowl, which gave him time for a little necessary self-discipline.
He knew his reputation, and it was mostly deserved. He liked girls. He liked them, of course, for providing him with life’s greatest and most inexpensive delight; but also he liked their company; their opinions. He liked to make them talk. This girl was a virgin. He was sure of it. Of these, he had little experience. Girls of that sort who offered themselves were usually too young to be responsible: one did not take advantage. Sometimes, with an older woman, it was a kindness.
This girl didn’t look as if she wanted to talk. She was already half-regretting what she’d done. It would be easy to make the situation quite impossible, so that she’d ask him to leave. A little loutish behaviour would do it. But then what would she do? Better to help her. He said, “Do you know, demoiselle, if Meester Simon is in Bruges?”
Her hand with the spoon stopped immediately. She said, “He was not responsible.” Then she flushed. She added curtly, “He is not in Bruges.”
She was not a serving-girl, and she’d caught the other thought in his mind. Now she would ask him