Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [142]
In the middle of it, a door slammed below. She fought him, forcing him to continue. The resulting explosion paralysed them both for long moments. Then they lay, their heartbeats shaking the bed. They couldn’t have moved, had the door opened.
It didn’t open. One pair of footsteps shuffling about, far below, indicated a servant, intent on drawing water and setting fires for the returning mistress. Katelina, her nails skin-deep said, “Don’t go. There’s a way into the garden. Mother won’t come for hours.”
He lay still, his face buried. So much for self-control. He lifted his head from his arms and said, “Demoiselle.”
“Demoiselle!” said Katelina van Borselen.
He turned on his side and looked at her. Now she was white, unlike the blooming girl of the first seduction, and her skin was damp, her hair tangled, the hollows blue under her eyes.
He said, “What other name can I give you? I’ve taken something precious from you. I’ve given you, perhaps, what you wanted. If it’s wrong, it’s wrong. But for more than one night – that would be greed on both sides.”
She had not thought before of the question of pride. He saw her think about it now. She said, “If you were … a lawyer … would you marry me?”
So disarming, so cruel. He took her hand, full of affection, and said, “Even if I were a lawyer, you would be too far above me.”
She closed her eyes, and opened them. She said, “They said you were clever. I think you are more clever than even they think. Surely you should have trained as a clerk? Why an artisan?”
“Because I like it,” said Claes. “I did learn letters. But my mother died. Now I have all I need.”
“I think,” she said, “that you were lying when you said you wanted to marry one day.”
He said, “Yes, I was lying. But that doesn’t mean that I can come between you and your future husband again.”
She said, childishly, “You don’t want to?”
He sat up. He said directly, “Would you ask it of me? A servant?”
She had struggled up, too. “You’re not a servant,” she said. “In my eyes you are Nicholas.”
He said, “Because I’ve done what I’ve done, you daren’t think of me as Claes. But I am a servant. And a bad one. I’ve wakened you too far, Katelina. But what overcame me will overcome someone else, one day. You don’t need a paragon of a husband. You carry delight in your own body. You know it.”
She didn’t speak. She watched him dress, the first time she had seen a man cover his body, he supposed. She must be wondering if it would be the last. There was nothing he could add, or do about it. When he was ready he stood by the bed, looking down, and she spoke then. She said, “If he knew about this, I suppose Jordan de Ribérac would kill you.”
It had occurred to him. He said, “He won’t know. Don’t worry.”
Her face was pallid white. She said, “Why did he mark your face?”
He said, “He wanted me to spy for him on Simon. I refused.”
“Why?”
“Why did I refuse? Because if Simon gets killed, I don’t want to be charged with the blame. A charming family. They hate one another.” He thought about it for a moment.
She said, “Claes?” in an odd voice, but when he looked at her, she said only, “Be careful.”
He said, “Of course. I must go.”
She sat very still, the sheet folded about her like a habit, and he didn’t try to embrace her. Instead he bent, and lifting her fingers, kissed her hand like a gentleman.
She shivered, and he left quickly.
He didn’t realise that, once, he had called her Katelina. He didn’t understand, in the slightest degree, what he had done.
Chapter 21
HEADACHE-GREY, the first day of Lent dawned over the city of Bruges and smoke began to rise, with reluctance, from its chimneys. In the bright and well-ordered house of Adorne the children rose, and were groomed, dressed and marshalled for Mass in the Jerusalemkirk with their parents, household and guests. Afterwards their guests broke their fast and left, including the widow of Charetty and her two daughters, who curtseyed daintily and were kissed by the demoiselle Margriete.
The two daughters, unusually silent, were taken