Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [206]
Simon said, “Go off? You mean the bridegroom is abandoning Bruges before the jousting! I thought to find him in cloth of gold at the best window. Or even breaking a lance for his elderly wife. They seem to have admitted her son to the lists, so there should be no trouble about a landless by-blow.”
It had not been a very wise pronouncement. The Metteneye, like the Charetty, were of bourgeois stock, and landless, however long their line. Metteneye said, “I’ve nothing against the jousting. The Metteneyes have always taken part, and young Pieter will be there tomorrow. But sometimes affairs have got to come first. The young man is taking his wife, I understand, to call on the Fleury hotels in Dijon and Geneva. Kinsfolk, and no doubt important clients. And as for young Felix –”
The chaplain, smiling, nodded and pushed past. Metteneye, his face slightly flushed, continued to impart information.
“Young Felix did better, some might say, than take part in a joust. He had a personal invitation to hunt with the Comte de Charolais. Delivered by the Count’s Receiver. Unfortunately for the same Sunday, so what could he do? But I dare say,” said Jehan Metteneye, “that you’ll find someone worthy to break a lance against come tomorrow. Now we’re blocking your way, and you’ll be in a hurry.”
He was in a moderate hurry, but he still took time to walk, as recommended, past the large, well-maintained and orderly premises of the Charetty behind its long wall. He made a few calls. And then he went, thoughtfully, to call on the dark and stately Muriella.
His evening passed agreeably. The banquet was lavish, and his immediate company suited him. He entertained it with ease, and continued his bantering courtship of the young lady his partner, whose jewels certainly did nothing to reduce his standing with the nobles of Bruges. He had brought Muriella a rose, from someone who stored such things for him, and she had allowed him to caress her fingers when he kissed them. Then he avoided any growing complacency by paying particular attention to the lady who partnered his neighbour. She responded warmly.
As he had hoped, the banquet was not a long one. He escorted his lady home, well-attended, and took leave of her with gentle courtesy. She turned as she entered her lodging, the rose crushed in her fingers. He was, of course, still in the roadway. He bowed. That done, he dismissed his attendants and walked through the less busy streets in the anonymity of his hooded cloak. Idle, his thoughts turned to the white skin and dark hair of the Reid girl, and the explicit comforts that the rest of her might have to offer. He reached Betkine’s house hot with an awkward energy which, put to use, gave a few moments of extreme pleasure, but refused repeatedly to disperse.
He couldn’t stay all night. He stayed twice as long as he meant to, and left well after dark. By then, the lamplit hammering and the voices of straining workers had come to an end. The market place was brightly lit, and you could trace, by the occasional murmurs, the places where the town had posted its guards to watch over the confections of wood and lath and canvas until the jousting day dawned. There were other noises. The snuffling of the ubiquitous pigs. The squeal of cats. The muted wailing, behind a lit window, of a demanding infant. A batch of snores, from between open shutters. The lap of canal water. The shifting, in wind, of some litter. The hollow sound of lonely footsteps, crossing a bridge. From several places, the subdued barking of dogs.
He had lost a fine dog here, once. And a pretty, plump girl.
The wind had risen. It brought an odd noise which, standing still in the market place, Simon considered. You would think that tomorrow’s joust was being rehearsed at the edge of the city. A replica, in miniature, of the screams, the roar of the crowd, faint as the sea in the breath of a mollusc.
The wind brought it again. He listened intently, every sense fine-tuned to magnify the one sense