The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [102]
But for that, he thought she might have even confided Tilde to their care, for a home had to be found for the girl in her absence. The shortest trip, to Dijon and back, would keep the demoiselle from Bruges for six weeks. A return journey to Florence would take twice as long. If she had to stay to start legal proceedings over the marriage, the demoiselle might not see her business or her elder daughter much before the Flanders galleys arrived in the autumn. If she did go to law, Gregorio proposed to join her in Florence, whether she wished it or not.
So matters stood when the two letters from Nicholas came. Marian de Charetty had been absent on business all that day. At dusk, Gregorio had dismissed the clerks from his office but stayed at his own desk for an hour, studying papers and checking over the day book by the light of the good wax candles his employer allowed him. When the bell rang at the gate, he heard the porter go out, and soon afterwards someone knocked at his own door. It was one of the Charetty couriers, still spurred and cloaked and unfastening a satchel of letters among which was one for him, and one for the demoiselle, both from Florence and both sealed by Nicholas.
It was an occasion, a budget of news from young Claes. That is, from Nicholas, the demoiselle’s husband. There was no getting rid of the courier, who knew no more than the last stage of its transport from Geneva to Bruges. Gregorio sent for mulled wine and told the fellow to sit and got some of the news of the journey while he took the letter up to his desk and unfolded the wax paper and severed the threads.
He knew the code so well by now that he got the gist at the first scanning. Then he picked out the items written in clear and entertained the courier—and the man who came agog with the wine—to a crisp resumé.
“It’s their last letter from Florence. They’ve acquired a fine galley from the Medici, and were expecting to sail right away. They’ve got their cargo of silk, and a good many other commissions and a full crew, he says, of experienced men. Their captain’s John le Grant, the engineer from Constantinople. And best of all, they’ve been given authority. The Medici and the Emperor’s envoy have appointed the Charetty company to represent the Republic of Florence in Trebizond.” The ring in his voice was hardly forced. Nicholas, by God. He had done it.
The courier, sprawled on a bench, rested his heels on his spurs and raised an arm in a burst of euphoria. “Here’s luck to you, Claes, you young bastard.”
“Gregorio?” said a curt voice behind him.
The courier got up quickly, stumbling. The manservant jumped to one side. Gregorio, his black skirts hitched on his desk, put his own hot wine rapidly down and stood, the letter still in his hand. He said, “Demoiselle.”
Marian de Charetty came into the room as she was, her cloak still fastened, her hood fallen back from her headgear. She walked to Gregorio and then turned to the other two men. She said, “You may go.”
The manservant had already slipped through the door. The courier, uncertain, gave her a bob and, still holding his cup, bent and hauled up the satchel and made hurriedly for the door. On the way, he turned and threw a comical glance at the lawyer. Gregorio knew better than to give any sign in reply.
Once or twice since Nicholas went, he had seen her angry like this. She never quite lost her high colour, but it settled on the rim of her cheeks, and brought out the brilliant blue of her eyes. As a girl, it must have suited her. Tonight, with her face sharpened with worry, it distressed him. Surely, now, a casual reference to Nicholas should not upset her so much?
Then he saw, from her fixed gaze, that she had not even heard, very likely, what the courier said. Her anger was all for himself.
She said, “Sit down. Is that a letter from Nicholas?” She wrenched apart the clasp of her cloak. He heard it tear. But when he moved to help her she moved away