Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [5]
There was a small silence, in which Philippa’s epiglottis popped like a cork. Beside her, Jerott’s breathing faltered in the same moment and resumed, shallowly, as he went on straining to hear. The steam drifted, lazily, and there was a little fuss as an old lady was carried out, overcome by the fumes. The viol, which had paused for its rest break, resumed softly, some distance away. Lymond, who had received some gold coins from both Zitwitz and the soap-broker, was counting them. The soap-broker’s wife stretched her legs idly under the water.
After a long moment: ‘She might have been Queen of Ireland, she told me, that black-haired Irishwoman,’ said the young nun sulkily. ‘And the golden child on her knee.’
There fell a weighty silence again, filled with the rattle of dice. A small crisis in the passe-dix arrived and departed. The soap-broker threw, followed by Zitwitz, followed by Lymond, who still appeared to be abstractedly considering his money. He threw less than ten, and confronted by the controller’s outstretched hand, turned to the younger and prettier nun who had last spoken. ‘I’m sorry, mi bella, but I need my loose change.’
The nun flinched. The older sister, leaning over her, exclaimed, ‘Sister Anne has no money! What are you saying!’ The soap-broker looked outraged.
Francis Crawford’s voice was quite peaceful. ‘That she has twenty gold pieces trapped under her foot.’
Master Zitwitz suddenly said, ‘Ah!’ Both nuns had gone patchily scarlet and white. The older one said hoarsely, ‘You are baiting us! I shall appeal to the Cardinal!’
‘No need,’ said Lymond. And bending, he caught Sister Anne by both ankles and hurled them up over her head.
Whether she had purloined coins under her feet was not at that moment immediately evident. Her shout, and the tidal wave which went with it, brought each flaccid bather horrified to his feet. As Sister Anne floundered: ‘Now, by God!’ said the broker, and lunging, tripped over the large form of Master Zitwitz who, head dripping, had come up for air. ‘You were right, sir!’ said the household controller. ‘She had stolen——’ Then the broker’s shin cracked on his neck, and the waters closed over Master Zitwitz again.
The merchant’s wife suddenly giggled and Lymond also broke water, smoothly. The older nun, her feet pulled from beneath her by some unknown agency, disappeared likewise in a whirl of steam and a blizzard of water. Combers, running from side to medicinal side of the pool, overturned trays, wine, food and the more sportive bathers: the merchant, who had discovered why his wife giggled, advanced on Lymond through the water with dreamlike slowness, a pewter jug in his hand.
Lymond ducked. An attendant, running behind, seized his upflung arm, and Lymond, bending smartly, somersaulted him into the pool. He dodged another and watched, admiringly, as the controller, a majestic figure rising mother-naked from the depths, seized another by the liveried waist and delivered him into the arms of a Cardinal. Someone seized the soap-merchant’s wife, who was now laughing incessantly, and there was the sound of cloth tearing as she passed down the length of the pool.
Water leaped and spewed over the tiles unheard in the clamour of voices. Forms, pink and uninhibited, appeared and disappeared above the boiling arena: the viol, screaming, disappeared in a fountain of spray. Lymond, ripping out timber partitions from the seats and using them alternately as weapon and shield, was upholding his rights joyously against soap-broker, attendants and Church, Master Zitwitz aiding him stoutly, when he saw that the two nuns, struggling through the many-tongued steam, had found their way to the steps.
Philippa and Jerott Blyth saw them too. Standing, restrained by Jerott’s arm, not knowing whether to screech or to squeal with shocked laughter, Philippa saw the older nun climb out of the pool first, terror stark on her face, her draggled cotton clutched fast about her. She glanced at the dark-haired man and the girl, once,