Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [139]
He restored his weight to the seat. He said carefully, “They failed, thanks to you, demoiselle. I know who they are, I think. They won’t do it again. You needn’t worry. Tell your sister it’s all right.”
He watched her. She couldn’t have been alone on the streets. He had to know if anyone else knew. He said, “Did your sister come for you?”
The question alarmed her. She pushed her bowl away distractedly and, getting up, walked round behind him to the fire. There, where it had escaped his notice, was a striped towel, warming. She leaned over and picked it up as he turned on the bench, watching her. The firelight glowed through the fall of her linen, and he realised that she had left her outer robe on the trestle. She turned, the towel in her hands unfolded. She didn’t answer his question at all. She said, “Did he cut open your cheek?”
He remained still. “Simon? No.”
“Not Simon. Simon’s father, Jordan de Ribérac.”
It was like being in the barrel again, such was the buffet. Yesterday, she hadn’t known how he came by his scar. Today, she was able to connect it with Jordan de Ribérac. And to imply – as surely she had implied? – that they both knew that Jordan de Ribérac was responsible for what had happened tonight. Yet she hadn’t clamoured for help.
She was holding the towel bundled together before her, as if for comfort. He said, “You met him this evening? Monseigneur de Ribérac?”
“He offered me marriage,” she said.
Marriage! He looked at her now with sheerest bafflement. The light from the fire flickered and gleamed over the expanse of his skin like the Northern Dancers.
She had spoken with bitterness. As if Jordan de Ribérac had offered her something else besides marriage. If he had, it would hardly have been in the street. So it was here, in the empty house. But how could Jordan de Riéerac get himself admitted to the house of an un-chaperoned girl? In one way. Claes loosened his hands. He said gently, “He was masked? And he told you he wanted to harm me?”
“Something like that,” she said wearily. “He said he had settled Simon’s feud with you. Of course he had. He thought he had got these men to kill you. Gelis and I can testify to it. I shall tell my mother and father. He’ll be punished.” She was twisting the towel in her hands. She wanted de Ribérac punished.
Claes said, “Perhaps he did pay men to get rid of me, but I wonder what proof there is? Did anyone else hear him threaten me?”
There was a stool by the fire, and she sat on it. Her hair was brown tinted red in the firelight, and crimped where it had been plaited. She said, “He was here. I was the only person he spoke to. He was my partner for the evening. I thought he was … someone else.”
He had guessed as much. He said, “And the two men who attacked me? We’d need witnesses, or someone who knew them, or someone who could connect them with Monseigneur. Without that, accusing him would only link your name with his in a way you wouldn’t like. He could twist what happened quite nastily.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know who the men were. Don’t you have any evidence against him?”
“Nothing that would be any good. Look,” said Claes. “There’s no need for you to do anything more about this. It’s my battle anyway, although I’m glad you made it yours for a bit. Otherwise I shouldn’t be alive. But now, forget about what happened to me. Tell your parents only that M. le vicomte deceived you and made an unwelcome proposal. He shouldn’t trouble you again.”
He watched her. There was relief in her face, as well as disappointment. He had said what she wanted him to say. There was also resolve. She said, “It hardly matters if M. le vicomte or anyone else makes advances to me now. They’ll marry me off to somebody soon. In case I haven’t told the whole story. It’s a pity really that nothing happened. It might as well have done.”
And so he knew exactly why he was there. She was nineteen and clever and capable; but in this matter, she was thinking