Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [228]
‘I want my dinner,’ said Henry.
‘It isn’t time yet, my hinny,’ said Bel gently. ‘Ines told you.’ The mouth opened, became square.
Diniz stirred. He said, ‘The girl should – where is the girl?’
‘In Funchal,’ said Bel placidly. ‘Simon sent for something he wanted. It doesna matter. We shall manage perfectly well.’
Gregorio thought of Agnès, the capable Frenchwoman who had spoken lovingly of this her nursling in St Omer. Lovingly of the boy, and of Katelina his mother. He rose. He said, ‘Has the child no one else?’
Bel looked at him. ‘He has his father,’ she said. ‘Simon wishes the boy to grow up a man. He is training him himself.’
They were speaking over his head. The child walked over to Bel, and kicked her as hard as he could in the shins. ‘I want my dinner,’ he said. Then he screamed.
Diniz, gripping both arms, had lifted the boy off the floor and held him suspended. The childish boots flailed in the air. The child in its rage had turned scarlet, and whooping cries left its lips.
‘Don’t,’ said Bel. Gregorio was holding her, and there was blood on the Canary blue damask. ‘Don’t. You won’t cure it that way.’
‘How will you cure it?’ Diniz said. ‘Except by starting again, with a different father?’
Bel said, ‘No.’ Removing herself from Gregorio’s arm, she shuffled forward. She said, ‘No. Put him down. Henry, hurting people won’t get you your dinner. Your father has to stay in Funchal, to make the ducats to buy you all these coats. He’ll be back. Soon, you’ll have dinner together. Now, when Ines is ready, you can eat with her. Come. She has toys you haven’t seen yet.’
They went, the woman limping, the child sullen and frightened, hand in hand. Gregorio said, ‘She’s a saint, that unlikely small woman, but I think it’s too late. There goes a man born to the mould of his father.’
Diniz sat. He said, ‘He has his looks, too.’ He paused. He said, ‘I meant to ask you about something else. Do you – did you know that Nicholas was born to Simon’s first wife? And used to believe himself to be Simon’s son?’
‘You’ve heard that?’ Gregorio said. ‘It’s true that he maintained it, but there’s no proof that he is. Simon and his wife were living apart when Nicholas was born. The woman is dead, and Simon refused to have anything to do with the child. I gather Nicholas never importuned him over it, but always hoped for some kindness. Instead Simon took against him, as you see. A wretched business.’ He paused. ‘Does it worry you?’
There was a long silence. Diniz said, ‘If it were true, Nicholas and I would be cousins.’
‘Yes,’ said Gregorio. ‘In any case he is a good friend. I know he is proud of you, although he wouldn’t have told you himself. A remarkable man.’
He got up quickly. ‘Diniz? You’re more tired than you know. That’s enough. Go and rest. We can go over the papers tomorrow.’
Diniz rose to his feet, with an effort. Gregorio walked with him to the door, also anxious. At the threshold, Gregorio said, ‘What are the chances? A terrible journey, you say. What are the chances he will come back from Ethiopia?’
‘I don’t know,’ Diniz said. ‘I don’t know what to hope for.’
Chapter 33
BECAUSE NONE OF THEM could see the whole, none of them (except Nicholas, who was not there) could admire the felicities of the plan which immediately began to unfold itself, touching lands lying between Scotland and the Levant, Flanders and the deserts of Africa.
Gelis van Borselen, who had seen those twenty-five written pages, knew part of it, and had time to consider it, and even elaborate on it, during that part of her life she was about to spend in an Andalusian city in Africa, in her well-staffed house, with no one from her past to visit her but Umar.
It was not a habit of hers to be lonely. Taken to Scotland, to Brussels, to Geneva; to any of those places where her father had business: she set herself to acquire interests and friends, or at least acquaintances.