Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [64]
Katelina shivered. “Incompetent,” she said, “is not the word I would have chosen.”
Her father moved angrily. “I can certainly think of a better,” he said. “There is a man over there, Andro Wodman, a Scot living in France who is here in Jordan de Ribérac’s retinue. The vicomte, he tells me, was landless and of small fortune as a young man. He made his way then to France, fought for the King, gained a favoured place in the Scots Guard and, with advancing years, was given the estate of Ribérac by his grateful monarch. There he has invested his newly made fortune in trade and shipping and other such interests.
“He is a wealthy man now. King Charles leans on him as his adviser. When the Flanders galleys come in from Venice, or the Florentine, or the carracks from Cyprus, M. le vicomte sends his factor to Flanders, but rarely comes himself. He and his son, Wodman says, have not met for many years, but de Ribérac keeps himself informed of all Simon does. His good name, as you see, is of importance to him.”
“And Simon resents him,” said Katelina.
“He would do well to hide it,” said her father dryly. “From what I can see, he has in his father a powerful and unquestioning ally whom he may one day come to need. For instance, you had the vicomte’s favour, it seems.”
“And have forfeited it, it seems,” said Katelina. “Are you as grateful as I am? Or would you have enjoyed including Jordan de Ribérac in the family circle?”
As it sometimes did, honesty overcame expediency in Florence van Borselen. “No,” he said at length. “No. I cannot see myself or your mother, in truth, entertaining that man under my roof now or at any time in the future. There is something unnatural there.”
“Then –” said Katelina; and did not need to finish, for her father put his hand over hers.
“Then,” he said, “if you dislike Simon so much, I shall not force you. There is time. We shall find you a better husband, and one suitable yet.”
The exodus to Sluys came later, by decorated barges and skiffs, making their way by glittering torchlight along the river, through the Damme gate of Bruges and out by the canal to where the two Flanders ships lay outlined in light.
Moving along the canopied deck of the flagship, winecup in hand, the chosen guests would watch from the rail as sailors performed high on the rigging of the sister-ship, and tumblers somersaulted, and tightrope walkers moved dancing from mast to mast, and from mast to quay. And the walls and wharves of Sluys itself would be packed with all those who had not been invited, but who flocked every year to the extravagant theatre brought them every year by the generous, the hospitable, the inestimable Republic of Venice.
Only Katelina did not go. Pleading indisposition, she received no reproaches from her father, who understood perfectly, and who was content to have her taken back to his house by two stout men at arms and her own sensible maidservant. He did not know, therefore, when she changed her mind, and instead of making directly home, had them take her to the dyeing establishment of Marian de Charetty.
The iron lantern over the courtyard doorway was lit, but knocking at first brought no response. She had turned to leave when light footsteps approached on the other side of the door, and a woman’s voice made itself heard in civil apology, overlaid by the sound of withdrawing bolts.
The door, when it opened, revealed the short, neat person of Marian de Charetty herself, lamp in hand and, after the first flash of surprise, pleasantly collected. The Widow said, “Madame Katelina! Forgive me – all my household are off to gape at the galleys at Sluys. Please come in. What can I do to serve you?”
Katelina paused in the courtyard, her maid standing beside her. “It’s late. I’m sorry. I wonder if your apprentice is here?” she said directly.
“This way. Please,” said the widow Charetty. Holding open the door of her house, she ushered her visitor through a passage and up a few steps to a low-ceiling room where a fire burned and