The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [163]
“Of course. Why not?” said Gregorio. He remained seated beside Alighieri. He had no intention of being browbeaten by this man. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alighieri shake his head and begin to get to his feet.
“Yes! There is something for you and Michael here to tell your friends the Medici. Here are the Magi from the East, said the noble Duke. They have come to the star they perceive in the West: the star of the Fleece, the light of which illumines the Orient, and guides her princes to you, who are the true image of God.”
“But you don’t expect him to give you anything?” Gregorio said.
“He will,” said the friar. “But not perhaps as he expects. You will not see Michael again, despite the signals he is trying to give you. We are here to sell Jesus, not gall nuts. Give my regards to your Jason in Colchis, and remind him that the Order has now distinguished not just the fleeces of Jason and Gideon, but six different skins, with as many praiseworthy qualities. For Jason, magnanimity. For Jacob, justice. For Gideon, prudence. For Mesa King of Moab, fidelity. For Job, patience. For David, clemency.”
“For me,” said Gregorio, “I should find Jacob sufficient.”
“Then you are as young as your master,” said the friar.
Chapter 24
THE NEXT DAY WAS the last Gregorio spent in St Omer. In it, he saw Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren, as he had planned.
No, not as he had planned; although he believed he was ready for most things. Instead of the gown of his profession, he dressed in the ordinary pleated tunic, short sleeves over long, that he wore when about his own concerns, with a stiffened cap without ornament. With it, he knew, he lost ten years from his age. Because he had a nose like a duck, he had a face excessively droll (Margot said) for a lawyer except when framed in black lappets. Freed, his hair fell into coils even less suitable, which he kept ruthlessly trimmed. The rest of his person he could do nothing about, except keep it resilient. Dressed as he now was, he could have been of any rank. Even the good dagger in its worn sheath at his side was only what you might expect of a traveller. He didn’t conceal it. He meant what he had said to Marian de Charetty.
The hour arrived. Seated below their heraldic devices within the tapestried walls of Nôtre Dame, the Tenth Chapter of the Golden Fleece began their deliberations. And Gregorio of Asti, civilian, called at the house of Louis de Gruuthuse and asked for the lord Simon de St Pol. By good fortune, the steward he spoke to was new. He said, when asked his identity, that he was a servant of Monsieur Anselm Adorne, the Bruges nobleman.
Within the rambling house, the room they showed him to was one of a wing, occupied, it appeared, by Katelina van Borselen and her Scottish relatives. The little receiving room was empty but for a stout woman in a white cap, sitting sewing by open shutters. The glazed upper window painted an acne of colour over her face. When she got up and curtseyed, he deduced that she was prepared for him, but hardly excited. As the steward had done, she repeated that her lord was detained, but her lady would see him directly. From her accent she was neither Scottish nor Flemish, but French-born. He took the seat she offered and watched her settle back in her own. Small talk was easy in a house recently blessed with an heir. He asked about Henry.
The baby! Her eyes changed at once and the sewing crumpled as she leaned forward. “Such a stout fellow, monsieur! Strong as three horses, and hardly a cry, unless his wetnurse oversleeps! But for serving my lady, I could hardly bear to be here, and miss seeing him grow!”
“A happy child,” Gregorio said.
“Happy and handsome. His mother’s face, his father’s hair,