Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [23]
When he opened the door, he was reminded for a moment of the statue he had seen in the street. Fog, crimsoned by the low fire, lay like a cloud in the room and stirred as he entered. He shut the door and, crossing, fastened the half-open window and closed the shutter over it. When he turned, he saw that of course Marian’s chair was empty, and his own stool replaced by a better one. By Julius, he supposed. There was a ledger laid on the table, bound in the Charetty blue. Not his colour now. He was colourless. He was a self-pitying ass. He looked around.
Everything in this room was Marian’s. The high settle, copied from one lost in the fire. The chest, well-locked, in which she stored her money. The cabinet where she kept the strong wine Henninc didn’t know she possessed. By the rate card were her scales. The merchant’s scales, with which Vikings used to be buried. Marian had not taken hers on her journey. Instead, she had taken something of his: a silver music box, they had told him in Burgundy. It was in her hands now.
He wondered what, if she were here, she would have wanted him to have. The porcelain vase, perhaps, from her bedchamber. In season, she had filled it with roses. A cushion. A ring from her finger. But Tilde would have those; and her keys. The insignia of her profession; the essence of Marian de Charetty.
The fog suddenly stirred. He must be going. In any case, he knew what he wanted. He crossed to the desk and picked it up, and saw as he did so that the keys were lying there too. He lifted them.
Yellow light flared, from a half-open door. ‘And we have you!’ someone said. A man’s figure stood in the door, club upraised. Behind him, others pushed to get in. He could hear loud voices, and screaming. Someone had seen the mattress. Someone had warned Tilde. Silently, they had waited to trap him. Nicholas threw down the keys and sprang to the window. He took the first blow as he unlatched the shutter. Before he could open the window, a hand seized his arm and a stick glanced off the side of his head. He ducked, using his fists, taking blows, thinking fast.
He had no weapons, but he knew where the furniture was. He thrust one man against the hard settle, kicked the legs of another from beneath him and closed with the third, dragging him with him out into the passage. From one end, he saw another two of Tilde’s bodyguards rushing towards him. He turned to the other, which led to the kitchens.
It was blocked too, but with faces he knew. Bedmakers and laundrymaids; a pair of youths from the stables; Marian’s cook. Someone hissed ‘Claes!’ and the knot of people admitted him, and closed behind him: he could hear indignant shouts as Tilde’s men tried to follow. Shouts with pain in them. He remembered the clout Marian’s cook could deliver. He vaulted downstairs to the kitchen and fled to the door. It was open. It opened wider just as he got to it. Outside was Tilde, a cloak over her nightgown. And beside her was the town guard, with their swords drawn.
Chapter 4
HE SPENT THE night in prison, his bruises stiffening in the cold. It was nothing new. He had not been the most docile youngster in Bruges, and had landed up in the Steen several times, with someone’s stripes on his back. What was new was the attitude of reserve among his fellow-inmates. He was no longer Claes, but a rich man called Nicholas who seemed to be interfering in the lives of his step-daughters. Once, he would have worked hard at setting this right, but now it seemed easier to retire into sleep.
Before that, Thomas had appeared, gibbering, and Nicholas had calmed him, and sent him off with a message to Godscalc. Do nothing. There is nothing to worry about. Whatever happens, Tilde must feel she can depend on you all. But of course, they knew that already, or they would have prevented his arrest on the spot.
He did spend some time puzzling out why the town had taken Tilde seriously. They might have resented his marriage to Marian, but there had never been any doubt of his honesty. And the most bigoted would allow that a man