Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [235]
And now, what? The Dowager’s poor silly sister had consumed green apples and vinegar to preserve her from motherhood. She could try these, or harsher remedies. She was in Brittany, far from home, and no one would know. Every court had a servant who knew someone – a barber, a midwife who could interfere with nature. But it would have to succeed. Sometimes the child persevered, and was born mangled. Sometimes you died yourself.
Suppose she allowed the child to finish its term? Then she would have to leave court, find friends to hide her, and foster it. It had been done, by women with money. She had no resources. She could see no way of keeping such a thing secret. And the shame for her family would be terrible. For their sake, she must provide the child with a father. So she needed, quickly, a rich and powerful lover. Or, of course, a husband.
There was a rich and powerful lover at hand. She guessed her father’s dreams that one day she might be the mother, married or unmarried, of a Burgundian prince. He would think no harm in a liaison with a profligate duke with a permanent mistress. But the more high-born the lover, the less flattered he would be at the arrival, after seven months or less, of a son or a daughter. And the less inclined, from experience, to acknowledge and rear it. Whereas a husband, contractually bound, might well ignore the calendar, and be happy with whatever heir he had so quickly begotten, rather than be labelled a fool.
She had wanted a husband. She had hoped to make up her mind here in Brittany, free of family pressures. And she had certainly been free of those. No letters had reached her since she left in April. In the early weeks, indeed, before she was sure where she stood, she had enjoyed the sort of life she had envisaged: of undemanding companionship to the Dowager; of becoming acquainted with the dramas, the actors in yet another court; of choosing her own role to play in it. She learned to evade the Duke, and to make friends with his mistress. The first visit of Jordan de Ribérac had been therefore doubly unpleasant.
Later, she was to be glad that she had then been ignorant of her condition. She had had no warning. He had arrived on an April morning in the Dowager’s audience chamber. The room, which was small, became simply a shell for his bulk and his height. His robe was of Lucca velvet. The scarves of his hat were embroidered with gold. His face with its many chins was fresh and smiling, but the eyes scoured her naked.
The last time the seigneur de Ribérac had visited Bruges, Claes had nearly died in the fire at the Carnival. The last time she had met the seigneur de Ribérac, he had proposed, placidly, to requisition her virtue on her kitchen floor, preparatory to marrying her. What she had denied him, she had presented, the same night, to Claes. But that Jordan de Ribérac couldn’t know. Or he wouldn’t just scar his face, or order his death by two inept assassins. He would personally kill him.
Now, it appeared, he was merely in course of a courtesy call on the Dowager. He spent half an hour and spoke to all the ladies of honour. She couldn’t leave. She hardly believed he would address her but he did, his eyes cold, his smile delightful. “What, mademoiselle! No suitor yet for your charms? Or none we know of in Bruges, where they keep their fools in barrels like fish, so I’m told. You are wise to come to Brittany. Make your choice here. Wait until the air is clearer and fresher before you venture to Flanders again.”
She said, “Even in Brittany, monseigneur, the air is not as fresh as I would wish.”
It was childish. It made no impression. He merely spread his smile