Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [51]
It was Marthe’s voice from the ladder which woke her. A watery sun, filtered through canvas, shone through the hatchway on to the crossed arms and yellow satiny coils of the other girl’s hair, and Philippa, staring glumly at that finely sculptured profile, saw there was a smile on it. ‘They’re back,’ Marthe was saying. ‘They’ve just come on deck after changing, and the ship’s complement are being mobilized like cattle. They say Salablanca came on board with them, but not the well-favoured Oonagh.’
Sitting up, Philippa was dragging on clothes. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know.’ The cornflower-blue eyes narrowed, following some unseen movement on deck. ‘But our Envoy is not quite himself.’
‘Let me see.’ Shoving past, Philippa got to the hatchway, and leaned an elbow on the cover. The deck was swarming with feet and at first she could see no one belonging to them. Then, farther down the long gangway, she saw Lymond talking to Jerott. Dismissed, Jerott turned away, dressed, she saw, in a sensational russet that clashed with the awning, leaving Lymond in full critical view.
Marthe had been right. From polished head to fingertips, his grooming was faultless. But once or twice on this journey, and once or twice at his home back in Scotland, Philippa had seen him loose his tongue and his temper like this; his face contemptuous, his manner insufferable. He had not, she judged, had any sleep. He gave orders, as she watched him, to three other men, and each in turn jumped to obey him. Then he moved off with the bos’n swiftly out of sight to the prow.
Jerott, approaching, blocked her view and would have passed if Marthe had not called him. ‘Dare you pause and tell us what’s happening?’
He glanced down at her, but failed to smile. ‘The Viceroy is embarking at noon. After we have eaten and he has gone, we set sail.’
‘The woman is dead?’ Marthe put the question, sitting on the hatch-covering hugging her knees, while Philippa peered up at knee level, holding her undone hooks and eyes with one hand.
Jerott hesitated. Then, surprisingly, he sank down on his heels at their level, russet velvet and all, and said, ‘Yes. We found her, but she was dead. The circumstances were … I can’t tell you. But, for God’s sake, put up with anything he says or does today. He has reason.’
‘They like to mutilate their dead,’ said Marthe. ‘He must have been prepared for that, surely.’
‘For what Gabriel did to Oonagh O’Dwyer,’ said Jerott with precision; ‘nothing on God’s earth could have prepared him. Do I have to go into details?’
‘And the baby?’ intervened Philippa quickly.
Get rid of the women, Lymond had said. Just that: one laconic order among many. It could not be done here, but at the first opportunity, Jerott knew, they were being sent off. This was no voyage for them. So he touched Philippa’s thin, bitten hand with one of his own, and said, ‘I’m sorry. But it seems the child died.’
‘Seems? You don’t know?’
‘When Dragut Rais left for the winter, they were mostly sold off. Oonagh’s baby was going overseas, but it died on the way. So they say, and I believe them,’ said Jerott Blyth glibly. ‘You know he offered a lot of money for the return of the child? So I don’t think they were lying.’
He saw Philippa’s eyes become perfectly round and thought, ‘Hell. Now she knows he was interested.’ But she suddenly stopped asking questions and it was Marthe who said disingenuously, ‘Did he? How much?’
Jerott’s black eyebrows disappeared into his hair. ‘It’s none of your bloody business,’ he said, and stood up. ‘And a word of warning, besides. You don’t discuss this with Lymond.