The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [294]
Behind them, Astorre walked about, banging back shutters. Simon put out the lamp and turned, composed, in the restored daylight. He said, “The girl owes me money. Her husband left debts.”
“He wasn’t her husband,” Gregorio said. “They were never married. No one owes you anything. Catherine, go downstairs and wait. Nicholas, come away.”
Nicholas spoke. “She has a dagger. Take it from her.”
Astorre, who had been swearing continuously under his breath, moved to the girl and lifted her hand and took the knife from her. She tried belatedly to tighten her grasp and he said, “You’ll cut yourself.” His eyes met Gregorio’s over the top of her head. Astorre said, “Here’s your sister. Here’s Tilde, and two of my fellows to see you home.” To Gregorio he said, “I don’t mind killing him.”
“I don’t mind killing him either,” Gregorio said. “But that wouldn’t help anyone.” He saw that Nicholas had moved, and was sheathing his sword in one movement, as Astorre did. Gregorio walked over beside him.
“She is dead?” Nicholas said. “How?” He looked up, and Gregorio forced himself to return the look, answering.
“She fell ill in Burgundy, north of Geneva. We were too late to see her alive, but we saw her. We buried her. Tasse was with her. The maid. We brought Tasse back with us.”
“We?”
“Tilde was travelling with me. She’s here.”
Nicholas turned his head to the door. “Keep her from Catherine,” he said.
“I couldn’t,” Gregorio said. Astorre was still here, and two of his men. The rest had gone back downstairs. Simon, seated on the corner of the writing table, was nursing one half of his parti-coloured hose, and still smiling. Astorre never took his eyes off him. Gregorio said, “Where are you hurt?”
Nicholas said, “Only where I was kicked.” He laid a hand on Gregorio’s upper arm and drew him aside, his eyes on the door. Tilde stood there, facing her sister. Nicholas said, “Is she like Felix?”
Of course, he could hardly know. Tilde and Catherine had lived separate lives from their servants; and after he married their mother he had missed the following year. Gregorio, her travelling companion, had cause to know that Mathilde de Charetty had both her dead brother’s nature and looks. Tilde was pallid and sombre and brown-haired, with a narrow face and intense eyes and a brow scored with fine lines in the centre. She was between fourteen and fifteen, and careworn. When reckoning numbers, the lines became thin and black, as if painted there. You could see them now, as she stood in the doorway. She said to her sister, “You killed her.”
“Tilde,” said Nicholas. He walked forward.
“Oh, you too,” she said. “Because of you, Catherine was sent off to Brussels. Couldn’t you have married her instead of my mother? You would have got half the money.”
“He preferred to acquire all of it,” Simon said.
They had forgotten he was there. Gregorio said, “Tilde, we’re going. Catherine, go with captain Astorre.”
Tilde said, “He didn’t get any of it. Then or now. The marriage settlement divided the company between Catherine and me.”
Simon slid off the bench. He said, “My God!” He stared at Nicholas, his blue eyes wide, and then exhaled, laughing. He said, “I did bring you bad news.”
“My congratulations,” Nicholas said. He was halfway across to Tilde. He took her by the shoulders and said, “Not before other people. You are head of the company.”
“And me,” Catherine said. She screamed. Tilde, struggling out of her stepfather’s grasp, had seized the bright red-brown hair of her sister and hit her, hard, on the face.
“You killed her,” she said. “You couldn’t wait for a man. Well, you haven’t got one now, have you? You’re not even a widow. He never married you. That man over there paid your great Pagano to pretend that he wanted you. All they wanted was your share of the business. They thought we would be ashamed to tell everyone that you were just Doria’s whore. I