Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [164]
“He couldn’t!” said Katelina sharply.
“He probably could, unless I can show him he’d lose by it. Do you know Andro Wodman?”
A banquet for last year’s commander of the Flanders galleys at which she had met Jordan de Ribérac. And her father, quoting a Scot called Andro Wodman in de Ribérac’s retinue. She remembered, but said nothing. Claes said, “No? Well, he’s an archer of the French king’s bodyguard. I’ve seen him both with the vicomte de Ribérac and in the … associated with the Dauphin. He tried to hide from me. Also,” said Claes, retrieving his hands and linking them together again, “M. de Ribérac knows more than he should do about Gaston du Lyon, the Dauphin’s secret envoy.”
Claes, in the vicinity of the Dauphin? She said, “What are you saying? That the great Jordan de Ribérac has been bought by the Dauphin, and the King of France doesn’t know?”
“I think so. The vicomte knows far, far more than he should.”
How did Claes know? Rumour, picked up in offices, taverns, brothels? Hints and fantasies, built into some vindictive falsehood? He had said nothing of this before. He might not have known. And before, of course, she had had a reputation to protect. The scar of de Ribérac’s blow stood, a glimmering stripe on his cheek. Katelina looked at it, and then at his eyes, which had no venom in them. She believed him. She said, “You have evidence, then.”
“Only a few facts,” he said. “I haven’t looked for anything more. But I’ll find all the proof that you need if M. le vicomte frightens you, or tries to make you do anything you don’t want. You’ve only to tell me. You’ve only to tell me if there is anything else I can do.” He paused. He said briefly, “I thought you would loathe me.”
She didn’t loathe him. You don’t hate a servant. She had only been angry with him because she was ashamed and angry with herself. She said, “After all you’ve said, it’s your turn, surely, to abhor me. I invited you to do what you did. I told you there was no danger. A child born of that bedding could ruin your life more than mine. Unless, of course, you were to marry me.”
It was said for the second time, and for the second time she awaited his answer. She didn’t know what gave her away. Her insistence. The shrewish form of her anger, instead of an outburst of accusation and anguish. He dropped his hands and looked at her. His eyes saw to the back of her skull. She looked away.
“You aren’t pregnant, and there is no trouble,” he said flatly.
She was Katelina van Borselen, who had not hung her head, ashamed, since she was a child. She looked down, and was silent, through the swift movement by which he left her. He said, “Why?”
From his voice, he was standing still on the floor by the bed. He had not fumbled to dress, or to cover himself. When she looked at him he was standing straight-backed and selflessly natural, like the men she claimed to be familiar with: a whole man, waiting for an explanation which was due to him. He knew the reason, but this time, he meant her to tell him. She said, “You would not have come otherwise.”
He said, “And has it become any easier, now that I’ve come?”
She shook her head.
He said, “And what, then, is to happen? I am your servant, of course, in every way. But not in this.”
She sought for some defence. She said, “It was marriage I was speaking of.”
“Seriously?” he said. “No, demoiselle. Only to discover how you ranked in a new field of conquest. You have no peer. I’ve told you that. I have no wish to marry. I’ve told you that, too. And marriage with me is the last thing you want.” He brought the volley of words to a halt. His expression, which had been less than patient, switched to one of exasperated amusement. He let out a sigh like a puncture. “Katelina, what you want is what you have just had, and any husband will give it to you.”
She lay becomingly disposed along the length of the bed, and the ache overwhelmed her. “You don’t want it from me ever again, even though I’ve no peer?”
“Of course I want it. Of course I want you,” he said.