Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [294]
Julius said, “Don’t do anything silly again. It isn’t worth it. It’s unfair to the demoiselle, too.”
“Yes. Of course you’re right,” said Nicholas slowly. He stopped rubbing his hair and found a smile, quite remarkably. “But I’ll pay for the damage, not the demoiselle. I only hope none of the dogs belonged to Simon.”
If that was how he wanted to construe the remark, Julius was willing to let him. Very soon, the boy arrived back panting with a set of dry clothes and Nicholas stripped and dried himself and dressed, fumbling only a little over the doublet fastenings. Then Julius gave him the wine the miller had brought, and he drank it all in one swallow and was immediately sick.
Julius said, “Come on. Back to Spangnaerts Street. It’s not every day you get your backside pricked by an ostrich.”
“You go,” said Nicholas. “Ill follow as soon as I can. I’ve got a call to make.”
Julius said, “Why? Where? I’ll take you, wherever it is.”
“No. I’ll manage,” said Nicholas. “It’s only to Silver Straete. Katelina van Borselen wants to see me.”
Chapter 42
TO NICHOLAS IT seemed fitting that on this, the worst day of his life, he had to pay for all his sins by meeting Katelina van Borselen.
After some argument Julius left him alone and, all too clearly confused and annoyed, went back to Spangnaerts Street. To report, no doubt, to Tobie and Gregorio. He would also have to say something, one supposed, to Marian, since the career of the plucked ostrich would be the talk of Flanders by now. Nicholas thought that Julius, not necessarily the most discreet of men, might have the sense to keep to himself what had happened after its capture. He knew very well that, but for Julius, he wouldn’t be here. Julius had done the same thing for him once before, in the water at Damme. He wished Julius would either keep him out of trouble or stop rescuing him.
Walking to Silver Straete was a trial. He felt stupidly weak, and no matter what back ways he chose, people kept hailing him. He hadn’t been able to decide beforehand what he was going to say to Katelina, and now, on the way there, he was given no time to think. He simply arrived at the gates, and the porter let him in.
It occurred to him, at the door, that he knew his way to the kitchen, and to her bedchamber. Even though her father was away, it was unlikely that she would interview him there. She would recognise him, at least, with his hair wet. Straight from the canal again. The whole history of their relationship had to do with water.
There was, this time, a manservant on duty. He was taken to a large parlour and shown in, and the door closed behind him. It was the room from which she had sent him that sober salutation, full of contentment, the morning after the Carnival. The morning he had run past with his goats, and bells on his doublet.
He turned his gaze from the window seat, which was empty, and found the rest of the room equally vacant. Then the tall chair by the hearth creaked a little.
No one rose from it. Of course, she was with child, and heavy. With his child. Nicholas walked forward instead, and stood before the chair, cap in hand.
The gross body filling the chair he had half imagined, and the tumble of velvet disguising it, and the animosity in the face above both. They were all there. Except that the face, the body, the hatred were those of a man, not a woman. Seated in the chair, sneering at him, was Jordan de Ribérac.
Already cold, Nicholas felt himself become perfectly bloodless. He stood idiotically, as if paralysed. Then sensation came flooding back, and he could feel all the colour return to his face.
Jordan de Ribérac, back from the dead. Alive, alive. But well aware now, one supposed, of the name of the person who had ruined him. Whom he did not like, very evidently, to think of as his grandson. It was necessary, too, to consider very quickly what else the vicomte de Ribérac might know.
Seated there, the trader and financier, companion of kings, didn’t look like a man broken from Loches, or