Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [62]
Then her father entered the circle and Simon turned and saw her. He frowned. Frowned!
“My lord Simon! How delightful,” said Katelina, “to see they have released you. Were you in prison for long?”
She spoke in French. Even the Venetians, she hoped, would manage to translate most of that. To her gratification, the volatile face of her suitor went white with anger. Her father, gripping her arm, said, “Katelina, what are you thinking of? Monsieur of Kilmirren has not been imprisoned!”
She looked puzzled. “For killing that youth? Oh, forgive me! As a foreigner, of course you would be exempt from our laws. What am I thinking of?”
A sonorous voice at her ear said, “Madame, whatever your thoughts, they cannot fail to enchant by virtue of their delectable instrument, your noble person. Perhaps I might beg to be presented?”
The speaker could only be the seventh man, he of the Italian-French. She turned, amused, and felt her confidence dwindle.
The florid words had not come from a smiling gallant, but from a man in his early to middle fifties, whose substantial height was only matched by his stoutness. The fur-trimmed velvet which fell to the ground would have made the sails for a good-sized cargo-vessel, except that few fleet-owners could have afforded its price. The jewelled chain round his shoulders was worth a castle and the fur on his plain hat was sable. Below it, his clean-shaven face was many-chinned like some fat friar’s, but unlike the traditional fat friar, held no geniality. The lips which had paid her the compliment were politely smiling, but the eyes were wintry.
“Ah, your pardon.” The Duchess’s secretary. “Madama Katelina, may I present le sire Jordan, vicomte de Ribérac? Monseigneur lives in France, and is here on business to do with the galleys. Monseigneur, Der Florence van Borselen and his elder daughter Katelina. And Madama, may I make known Messer Orlando and Messer Piero of the Flanders galleys?”
A slight movement of the fat man’s broad shoulders appeared to constitute a bow. “Then continue, Madame Katelina, with your lively history,” said the vicomte. “A Scottish war has broken out, here in Bruges?”
Someone laughed – the Lucchese Arnolfini. “Not quite, monseigneur. An episode involving an apprentice with no harm done on either side. Madame Katelina has clearly heard some false rumour.”
“I am afraid she has,” said Simon clearly. His face was still rather pale, with its frown firmly imprinted. He said, “Indeed, I see friends I must rejoin. Will you excuse me?”
He turned without waiting for leave. “Friends?” said Katelina as he passed her. And in a voice pitched to carry no further, “Female friends, perhaps? The other kind seem to be lacking.”
He paused. His back to the company, he kept his voice low, as hers was. He said, “Your apprentice friend has them too, you know. Indeed, you might well blame yourself for what happened to him. It was you, after all, who passed on his good opinion of me in the first place.” Then she was left, frowning in her turn, gazing after him.
“Madame can tell us,” said the mellow voice of the vicomte de Ribérac, again in her ear. She turned round resentfully. She understood, she thought, why Simon had looked so ruffled when she arrived. His anger had not been directed at her. And yet – he did have a temper. How had he discovered that it was the apprentice who had spoken those disparaging words in her hearing? It worried her. Because it made her responsible, too, for what had happened.
The fat man said, “Madame Katelina, you cannot leave