Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [28]
João Vasquez was the Duchess’s secretary. The lord Simon, whose name lay ten feet underground in a chapel at Fleury, had a sister married to one of the Vasquez. Nicholas said, ‘Don’t try it. I know that Simon’s in Portugal.’
Colard’s pouched eyes disappeared in a scowl. ‘He might come back to Bruges. Or Katelina.’
‘And his wife’s in Anjou. I don’t want to know, Colard. I’ve done with them.’
‘Have they done with you? Not that Katelina. Once women get an idea into their heads,’ Colard said, ‘then it’s goodbye to logic. You’re thin.’
Nicholas rolled over and snatched unsuccessfully at a sketch-pad. ‘You bastard. I charge for modelling time.’
‘Your face has got thinner. I could get Mabelie for you.’
‘And that would make my face fatter?’
‘Or Mabelie. Here’s the boy,’ Colard said. The room was no more than an attic, built over the cloisters. The wood of the steps creaked, and then creaked again. ‘He’s got someone with him. There won’t be enough ale.’
The door opened. ‘I have brought my own,’ said Primaflora of Savoy. ‘If I am welcome? By one of you, at least.’
‘Christ Jesus!’ said Colard Mansion.
Last seen in the snow south of Bologna, the lady who entered the room was no longer distressed or dishevelled. She thrust back her hood. Her hair, yellow as buttercups, fell in tendrils over her cheeks and, rippling back from her temples, was caught in a fall of intricate and tight-pleated loops, all threaded with ribbons. She wore no jewels, and her dress of fine wool was high-waisted and plain above pattens. Below her short upper lip, the curve of her mouth made you think of soft fruit, come to ripeness. Her skin glowed. It was impossible, in the same room, to feel nothing.
The boy, following her, laid down a basket and was given money, for which he returned an admiring smile as he left. Nicholas rose shakily, walked to the door, shut it and turned. Her eyes had remained on him all this time, pale of iris and lapidary in outline. She said, ‘If you wish to leave, your friend and I will share the basket.’
Nicholas indicated his friend. ‘Colard Mansion.’
Colard rose from the floor; a fairly minimal operation. ‘A Venus. I see why he fears you. Come in. I will paint you.’
‘Colard Mansion, a scribe, an illuminator, a translator, a drunk. Myself, the last only. I have only one word to say,’ Nicholas said. ‘I am not going to Cyprus.’
‘Those are six words,’ she said. ‘Your floor is dirty.’
‘There is a clean cushion,’ said Colard. ‘Nearer the light. There. You did mention ale?’
‘Ale and partridge, bread and chicken and cheese. Why is this man called Niccolò afraid of me?’
Colard looked up, his arms in the basket. ‘Don’t you know him?’
Nicholas sat on the floor. ‘Don’t be stupid. We met for two minutes during a fight near Bologna. Carlotta of Cyprus wants me to take Astorre and some money and help her.’
‘Why not? You would get away from Katelina,’ said Colard. He carried the ale back to his mattress, leaving the food where it was.
The woman, kneeling, began efficiently to unpack and serve it. She said, ‘Who is Katelina?’
Colard drank. Nicholas, finding chicken before him, picked up a leg. ‘A woman in Anjou,’ he said.
Colard wiped his mouth. ‘He don’t answer questions,’ he said. ‘But I do.’
She sat down on her cushion. She sat like Loppe, with a natural grace which, in her case, had been carefully fostered. What he had told Thomas was true. She was – in whatever guise she appeared now – a courtesan by profession. He assumed Colard knew it. He didn’t know what Colard was up to, and was happy not to care. She said, ‘All artists love truth. So tell me. What is Niccolò?’
‘From what angle?’ said Colard. ‘That, for instance.’ The lamp shone on the sketch-pad. ‘That is the Nicholas that you see. Nicholas lost, with no mistress.’ He glanced over, his face full of evil delight. ‘Or