The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [168]
Chevaliers. Children, trained to stay children. Gregorio looked hazily up.
The sword had not descended. He could see the furred hem of Simon’s tunic, and the handsome leatherwork of his girdle and baldric, and a lot of unpleasant red on the pleated bodice which must be his own blood. And Simon’s cleanshaven chin, lifted in challenge, and his eyes, which were no longer deadly and narrow but open and rather empty.
A voice said, “Well, my dear; I think that is enough for today. Katelina, my son needs a wash, I believe, and a change of dress. And the room! The young at play. Endearing, but not really consistent with the dull world the rest of us have to survive in. And when the young are no longer young, not even endearing, I fear. Really, we shall never be allowed to come here again.”
Simon stood without moving. The voice said coldly, “Put your sword down, you fool. Or don’t think I won’t get my grooms in to thrash you.”
Simon’s face was bone white. For a moment the sword seemed to move, as if he would like to use it, and not on Gregorio. Then he lowered it.
“And now, poor Master Gregorio. How is it with you?”
Hearing, like sight, had become vaguely unreliable. But above him Gregorio saw, quite distinctly, the form of the largest, heaviest man he had ever encountered, swathed in opulent velvet and topped by a broad-brimmed hat made of fur that would have kept a dozen men dry. The eyes trained upon him were as chilly as the question had been.
He could not speak. The man smiled, unperturbed. He said, “The vicomte Jordan de Ribérac. You have heard of me. It was my ship which my son here so inconsiderately removed from Antwerp without my permission. I believe it is now named the Doria. So appropriate, is it not, for Colchis and the Fleece? We are dogged by gold in this kingdom. We would rather be dogged by gold, however, than lawyers and, unlike my son, I prefer talk to action. Will you talk to me, my dear Master Gregorio? When you feel better?”
Gregorio said, “You watched?” He saw dimly that the girl, who had not spoken throughout, had risen to her feet by the window and was looking at them.
Jordan de Ribérac smiled. “Did I delay a little too long for your comfort? I was curious to see if you would fight. You did. Not very well, but you did. Allow me the pleasure of seeing your wounds of honour attended to.”
Gregorio’s wounds of honour were attended to on a pallet in a strange room by the same white-capped woman he had seen on his arrival. She seemed to be as expert with sword-cuts as with infants: for a while, dosed with possets and lapsing drowsily into various states of unconsciousness, he felt like one. The last time he woke, the candles were lit and Jordan de Ribérac was seated in a tall chair beside him, his hands clasped on the knob of a stick. Gregorio stirred.
“Ah,” said the fat man. “The paladin is restored. I am glad. I should prefer to be assisting Louis de Gruuthuse celebrate his hard-won knighthood. I hope you feel well enough to depart?”
“Certainly,” said Gregorio shortly. He was, he saw, already wearing someone else’s shirt and an unknown doublet lay at the foot of the bed. His arm, bandaged and strapped to his side, was brutally painful. He added, “When I have what I came for.”
The fat man laughed. His several chins gleamed. He said, “We are to receive no thanks for our labours?”
Gregorio held the unpleasant gaze with his own. He said, “I am grateful, of course. Thank you.”
“Thank Agnès. It is she who saved you,” said Jordan de Ribérac.
“Your son’s servant?”
“He thinks so,” said the fat man.
“You spy on him?”
“Of course. We dislike one another. But that does not mean I wish him exposed as a murderer as well as an idiot. Neither Agnès nor I rescue my son’s victims out of