Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [238]
“I thought the fate of your son was the least of your worries,” said Katelina.
“No. No!” said the fat man. “I concern myself with him very much. I may not wish him in health, but I should like to be consulted as to the time and manner of his departure from it. I do not like to have my paternal rights in this matter pre-empted. Not that Claes, I believe, would have given me much concern. Claes is the underdog. He has beneath him the treadmill of perpetual ambition and perpetual failure. Look at his latest contrivance.”
She wouldn’t answer. She raised her eyebrows. The fat man sighed.
“Would you believe that he has induced his employer to marry him? Witnesses bribed, the son kept safely in ignorance, notarial documents prepared for all her property. With her loving acquiescence. I am told she is besotted. And that the only heir has now been tempted south, where he might discover a warrior’s grave. A scheme worthy of modest congratulation save that he made the error, in his excitement, of burning down his bride’s business, her house, her money and every one of her ledgers. It seems unlikely that she can rise to her debts. All is lost, save the marriage.”
Her stomach rose to her throat, and with anger, and hatred and fear and pride, she controlled it. She knew, from his face, that he could identify all these emotions, and was not abashed. She said, when she could speak, “I congratulate you. It’s a skill, carrying small items of news from one place to another. I trust your accuracy. I’m only surprised that the Charetty fire was an accident.”
He considered that, his face earnest. “You think it may not have been? Certainly, the young man had rivals. The pawnbroker Oudenin. Perhaps others. She’s a pretty woman, if no longer young. They made a touching picture, I’m told: the young husband, half-clothed, embracing his wife in her bedgown outside their shrivelling love-nest. So you understand why I say to you, Where is your husband?”
“I have no difficulty in understanding you, M. de Ribérac,” Katelina said. “And I repeat. Are you proposing marriage again? Perhaps I should be interested.”
The pupils of his eyes, sharply black, pinned themselves to her face. “Would you now?” said Jordan de Ribérac softly.
“But on the other hand,” said Katelina, “I might prove to be barren, or you might prove to be incapable, and all your plans would come to nothing. No. On mature reflection, I really cannot imagine the circumstance which would bring me to stomach it. Now, what shall we talk about? Or perhaps there is nothing more we have to say to each other. Let me find out if the Dowager will see you now.”
He rose when she did and stood, without moving, looking down at her. For a moment she wondered what she would do if his hand rose, as it had done to Claes, and the ring cut its way down her cheek. But he simply turned on his heel and crossed the small room to the door, where he took up his courtier’s stance, prepared to be led to his audience. Afterwards she didn’t see him leave the rooms, or the building.
Antoinette de Maignélais found her later in the room she shared with the others, and taking her to a window seat, embarked on a harmless discourse. Halfway through she observed, “M. de Ribérac contrived to see you alone. Does he suspect you?”
“He wondered if I still wished to marry him. No. He showed no suspicions,” said Katelina. “But I trust him less and less.”
“You have an instinct,” said the Duke of Brittany’s mistress. “And you are correct. Discreet enquiries have been made. Messengers have been followed. Banks have had tales to tell. The story is not yet complete. Records have to come from Burgundian sources, and time and money are needed. But in two months, I fancy, it will not be a new wife that my lord of Ribérac has to think of.”
It helped, a little, to know that he might suffer some of the devastation that he visited with such ready artistry on his fellows. He had been angry, she thought, that Claes had aspired, even briefly, and