The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [49]
It was not as bad as it sounded. She wanted to marry him. But when she felt less than well, and her stomach ached, and her skin became inflamed and tender and sore, she wanted her mother. Of course he was her chosen lover. He was the most wonderful man in the world. But now it was time to marry, and go off back home.
He had tried to explain, back in Brussels, what a long trip he was about to embark on. It was the thought of losing him for many months that had persuaded her into coming. Now, in her discontent, she considered that many months had passed. He had surely completed his business. He could sail the ship home, and buy her a house, and she would be a married lady in Bruges, with a bracelet and earrings and a terrier. Nor did talk of honour this time convince her. Who was to know if she was a woman or not? And he had the papers, and his friends to be witness and (he had said) a nice priest. Didn’t he want to marry her? The weeping, gaining in volume, had turned into frenzy.
He had dealt with such fits of emotion before, but had the wisdom now to get the Flemish woman instead of himself to restore the child to her senses. When he returned, she was lying huddled in blankets with a hot swaddled brick in her arms and steaming flannel over her stomach. He crossed softly and sat on the bed. The terrier squealed, and he rose and sat again. He said, “Caterina. Would you like rubies, and more dresses of silk than the Duchess has?”
She peered at him over the brick. She had circles under her eyes. He touched her cheek.
“Do you know what has happened? The Emperor has sent for you.”
She was not excited. “In Germany?”
“Where would be the fun in going to Germany? No, my sweeting. Another emperor. The richest, noblest man in the world, who has invited your Pagano to his court, and wishes to see his Caterinetta.”
She had never failed to believe him before but at present, he saw, her imagination could not deal with the matter of emperors. She said, “Who?” Her voice verged on the querulous.
He wondered what she had been taught. He doubted if, outside his stories, she had any idea of the world outside Florence and Bruges. He said, “We have been invited to the court of the Byzantine Emperor. The Emperor David of Trebizond. He has rubies and silk dresses for you, and chests of silver for me. But unless you come I shan’t go. You mean more to me than any emperor.”
She stared at him. “It hurts,” she said.
He hesitated, then bent slowly and kissed her. “We shall make it better. Don’t think of it now. But when you feel well, come and ask me about it. Trebizond, Caterinetta. Where they make lovely girls into princesses.”
He left the child after that to her nurse. The upset continued next day: instead of speaking to him, Catherine hugged herself whimpering; and when the dog tried to lick her, she slapped it. Pagano Doria looked at the sky, and tested the wind and then sought out the stout nurse and questioned her.
The woman was useless. All that could be done was being done. Who knew what the girl had eaten? Something from the dog’s dish, like as not. Certainly she could not travel as she now was. Messer Pagano would have to be patient. Or if he doubted her, call in a doctor.
Pagano Doria preferred not to call in a doctor. On the other hand, if the illness developed, he could not avoid it. If the illness developed, he could not sail with her anyway. He conferred with Crackbene his master, and sat at his papers, interviewing people, dealing with all the last-minute details of sailing. Now and then he could hear the girl crying in a lonely, dispirited moan. Touched, he had tried to cheer her at first. Now he sent in little presents: a pot of herbs, a lotion, a phial of red for her lips. That night he went to bed thinking he had lost his game against Fate. He could never sail at the right time. The girl was dying; or was at best an invalid.
He woke to the sound of a scream,