Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [180]
When they left, they were all in good humour. When they reached home they would be inclined, from the share they had been pushed into taking, to be defensive about the marriage rather than to attack it. And they all knew the terms of the contract, why it had been drawn up, and whom it favoured. In this way, the only way it could have been done, the most powerful homes in Bruges would at least know the facts.
When the Bishop had gone, and the Burgomaster, and the lawyers, Margriet van der Banck put her arm round the bride’s plump, pretty shoulders and drew her into her chamber to prepare for the journey home. Their new notary, the alert Meester Gregorio, had already left to go back to the Charetty house. There, as soon as they returned, the news about the marriage would be broken to her employees by the demoiselle herself, her partner by her side. After, that is, she had told her son and her daughters.
A daunting prospect, after a difficult morning. The demoiselle was white with weariness. There was nothing one could put into words. Margriet hugged her, and tried to tell her, silently, that she was a friend. She was a proud woman, Cornelis’ small widow. She had not given way, but had clung a little, in Margriet’s embrace. Then, drawing off, she had stood alone and thanked her quietly.
Later, when the bride and bridegroom had gone, Margriet said as much to Anselm but, although she waited, he didn’t say what happened when he, in his turn, took the young man Nicholas off. Indeed, there was nothing to tell. After his guest, Adorne used the offices of his house and, returning to his room, had been in time to see the bridegroom, hitherto entirely composed, shiver and sit, as if a bolt had come through the window. Then, hearing Adorne cross the tiled floor, he had turned round.
Stopping, Anselm had looked down on him. “How much sleep did you have last night, friend Nicholas? None, I should think.”
Suspended in battle, men inflated their lungs in this way, and expelled the ache, suddenly, with the air. Nicholas smiled as he did so, and shook his head, smiling still. Anselm wondered where or how the lad had passed his last night of freedom. Of youth, in a way. He said lightly, “Every bridegroom is allowed a night with his friends.”
He had hoped the boy would take up the vein. Instead, his eyes strayed elsewhere, as if he were already distracted by other things. He said, “Oh. No. I spent it in my room.”
Anselm Adorne looked at him. Then, drawing up a stool, he had sat on it, looking at the withdrawn profile. He said, “Nicholas? But you wouldn’t wish to go back, if you could? To getting up to the work bell, and stirring cloth in the dyevats, and keeping company with simple people and children? It would be a sin, with what you can give the world with your talents.”
“Money?” said Nicholas, to the window ledge. “I was fairly happy with nothing. And I could make other people quite happy as well.”
“Of course,” said Adorne. “But that was the work of your youth. You needed more. You left of your own accord.”
“Yes,” said Nicholas.
Anselm Adorne watched him. There was no point in saying: You chose this. Didn’t you anticipate what it would be like? Didn’t you realise that you weren’t yet ready to manage it? He thought: he’s going to have to manage it, for the sake of that poor woman in there. What would help? Not to drown it in drink, that’s for certain.
Adorne said, “I expect my wife and the demoiselle will have something to say to each other. While you wait, will you let me see if Marie and Katelijne are free of their schooling? They would never forgive me for letting you leave without seeing them.” He paused, and added, “Of course, they know nothing, and would care less.”
Anselm Adorne was a man who tried to understand the feelings of others. Sometimes Margriet had warned him, You can come too close. Anyway, Anselm, sometimes you are wrong. He wasn’t wrong this time, although the young man did nothing more than say, after a moment, “I should like nothing better.