Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [147]
They came back four hours later with nothing wrong but a sprained wrist (Sersanders’) and a bill for three pigs which Felix had chased and stuck with the wrong end of his pennant after they wandered by mistake into the lists and upset his charger. They had also stopped off on the way home to show off their armour and drink to the success of the tournament. This Marian de Charetty deduced from the erratic clanking which preceded her servant Claes’ scaling of the stairs to her office. He knocked thunderously on the door and came in apologising because he still had his gauntlets on, there having been a bet that he couldn’t drink from a glass without removing them. His face was scarlet, the scar crimson.
“If you must sit down,” said the Widow, “I think that chair is strongest. So it went well?”
He sat down. It sounded like a meal being dished up item by item. He was beaming. “I should say so. I don’t know when I’ve laughed … Yes, it went very well. No trouble at all. That is, the pigs. We – I have to tell you about the pigs.” He told her about the pigs, while she refused to smile. His face, blotched with sweat, grazes and tears of laughter, was a mess and he couldn’t wipe it, either, because he couldn’t get his gauntlets off and she wasn’t going to help him.
It didn’t seem to trouble him. She said, “I’m glad you’ve had such an enjoyable time. It must have been more interesting than earning your pay in the dyeshop.”
Through the drink, she had his attention. He said, “Demoiselle? I’m sorry.”
If she were as honest as he was, she would say what was in her mind. She would say, accusingly, “Why are you so happy, so often?”
Instead, she said, “What about Felix? That was the purpose of it all, surely?”
He said, “He has great promise, and courage. All the courage in the world.”
“But not yet the skill for the White Bear tournament?” said Felix’s mother.
“Nothing like enough skill. No. Not yet. And because he’s brave, he won’t recognise his shortcomings. He’ll take risks, and run into danger. He should be prevented from jousting at Easter. Prevented at all costs,” said Claes.
She was silent, trying to imagine herself forbidding Felix this thing he had set his heart on. She said, “How much danger would there be? Blunt swords, buttoned lances …”
“Men still get killed,” said Claes. “And things happen that aren’t accidents. Suppose someone wanted to ruin your business?”
She stared at him. She rose, and coming round her desk, held out her hand and said irritably, “For goodness’ sake, get these gloves off. Felix is hardly the backbone of the business.” She dragged, clanking, at one glove. “In any case, who would go to such lengths?”
“Felix is the heir,” Claes said, offering the second glove, and then looking at the kerchief she was holding out to him. “That’s the second time you’ve had to give me a cloth. You must be surprised to find I’m even house-trained.” He paused and said, “As to that, if you remember the first time, you’ll remember some quite distinct threats.”
She stood, a glove in either hand. “Jordan de Ribérac?”
Claes dropped his eyes to the kerchief. “I had an encounter with two of his men the other day. Not a pleasant one. And don’t start thinking of formal complaints: nothing can be proved. Indeed, he’s gone back to France now anyway. But it made me think. For example, the vat explosion while I was away?”
She sat down, the gloves in her lap, looking at him.
He said, “I felt it wasn’t an accident. I made them show me the new vat, and the new pump. They’d been connected up wrongly. You’d have had another accident in less than a week.”
“Who –?” she said.
He shook his head. “Someone Henninc didn’t know, with all the right credentials. I’ve told him to have no