The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [165]
On the night of the fire, he and Gregorio had met face to face. Because of what had happened, one of them would never forget it. But until Gregorio saw the other’s expression, he did not realise that Simon, too, had remembered. Simon said, “This man is not from Anselm Adorne.”
The girl’s face had changed also. She knew, it seemed, the tones of her husband’s voice. A look was enough to make the serving-woman curtsey and leave. Then the girl walked over and stood by her husband, facing Gregorio. She said, “Is this true? Who are you? My maid has gone for the steward.”
Gregorio doubted it. He thought: she has gone through scenes before. She knows what happens when he loses his temper. He opened his mouth.
Simon spoke first. He looked at his wife. “He talked to you. What was he saying?”
There was a line between the marked brows. She said, “Nothing. He asked about Henry.”
Simon began to laugh. He flung back his head, and gave way to peals of genuine laughter. When he straightened, his fair lashes were wet. He said, “He couldn’t resist it. How he must have longed to know. How he must have hoped to hear the right kind of news. Is it limbless, an idiot? Hard of hearing, ill-favoured, twisted? I trust, my sweet, you told our friend all he wanted to know? I hope you told him all about Henry?”
The lady Katelina stood without moving. Her eyes, already wide on her husband, remained there. Her mouth had slackened, while the rest of her face, in a curious way, had drawn back. She said nothing. Simon said, “Don’t you know who this man is? He’s the ledger clerk from the Charetty. The fellow whose books I flung in the fire. He’s been sent by young master Claes, to find out what sort of heir you and I have.”
By that time, she had probably fathomed it. He could see her throat move, and her skin was white and pink as strawberry cloth. She said, “Get out.”
“No, come in!” Simon said. He walked forward, hand outstretched to grip Gregorio’s arm. “Sit down! Allow us to give you some wine! I want you to go back to Claes and tell him how you have drunk the health of the first of my sons. Of my many sons. If he were to coax me, I might name one of them Nicholas.” His face was radiant.
The girl’s voice, on the contrary, stamped like a boot. She said, “Indeed, no. Get out.” She collected herself a little. “Simon, this is unlucky. What happens to Nicholas—Claes—has nothing to do with Henry. I will not have them linked. Get rid of him.”
“I am not here to link them,” said Gregorio. “I am here to talk about a ship called the Ribérac.”
He had expected a gleam of understanding, followed by ridicule and rebuttal. Instead, Simon of Kilmirren looked at his wife. “He knows!” he said. “I was longing for him to know. So you have told the great Nicholas that his career as a merchant has ended. We have sent a Doria to show him how it ought to be done.”
The man had not only felt confident enough to admit it—but his wife also knew. The frenzy of anger had withdrawn from her face, as if charmed by the name of Doria. In its place was not only tranquillity but something almost like triumph. Gregorio said, “You told him to rape Marian de Charetty’s daughter as well?”
The girl lifted her head. Simon said, “Her daughter?”
“Catherine. The twelve-year-old. Without her mother’s knowledge he took her to Florence and married her there. Then he sailed with her for Trebizond. A valid marriage, of course, would place Catherine’s husband in control of half of the Charetty company on the demoiselle’s death.”
He addressed it to the girl who, surely, was innocent of that part of the plan. Her face seemed to confirm it. Turned to her husband, it showed enquiry; disbelief; horror. Simon said, “I don’t believe you. Who would? The moment it happened, the demoiselle de Charetty would have run screaming to all the lawyers in Bruges.”
Gregorio said, “Would you like to see Pagano Doria’s letter to her, announcing it?