The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [113]
No one spoke. He didn’t argue, or plead. They were not footpads: they had not saved his horse or cut his belt or opened his purse. They knew who he was. They were what he had set upon Simon: bullies with clubs. Bullies with orders to frighten, to capture, but forbidden to kill.
After a while he stopped struggling, since he was patently in their power and they might prefer to save their energy, too. They saved it by knocking him efficiently on the head. By then, he had worked out whose they were.
Chapter 16
SERVING FRANCE AS he did, the vicomte de Ribérac was not a man who frequented Bruges, and when he came there, it behooved him to stay with those families such as van Borselen, Gruuthuse or Vasquez with which his son Simon and daughter Lucia were connected. Even then, it did not always suit these gentry, however eminent, to have the French King’s adviser so close, and he would be installed in one of the family’s country manors outside the walls, and the Duke duly informed. The vicomte was generally watched, but had many ways of evading the watchers.
Nicholas did not know the house into which, waking, he found himself being pushed and, since it was now dark and heavily raining, the landscape in which it was set was invisible. He judged, however, from the severity of his headache, that he had not been unconscious for long, and so could not be far distant from Bruges. He was pleased to think that the raincloak, though torn, had come in handy: the rain itself had revived him. Through the soreness, he felt alert, expectant, even elated. The truth was, he wanted an opponent who wasn’t a woman. He wanted someone who would hit hard, and whom he could hit back.
The house was old, with worn tiles on the floor, but the door they brought him to was heavy and carved. His escort knocked and, opening it, ushered him in.
It was a bedchamber. Eating in front of the fireplace, napkin under his jowl, was Jordan de Ribérac. He attended to what was on his plate, speared something on the point of his knife and opened his mouth to receive it. His jaw movements resumed. Then he looked up.
As gross men do, he wore loose robes, buttoned tight at the wrist, with his shirt-bands not quite closed at the throat. His outdoor hat had been replaced by a deep cap of felt swathed in white pleated muslin, which tumbled over one massive shoulder and into the napkin. Both were spotted with gravy. His knife was of silver. Its matching case lay on the cloth with his wine-cup. He said, ‘Untie his hands and wait outside. One of you fetch him dry clothes.’
‘Monseigneur?’ said the chief of his captors. De Ribérac was alone in the room.
‘Untie him,’ said Jordan. ‘He isn’t going to kill me yet. Are you, Nicholas?’
‘I don’t know, yet,’ said Nicholas, holding his hands out. Someone did actually cut through his bonds. He added, ‘You might simply have sent for me.’ The men who had freed him hesitated, and then left. He stood, pensively rubbing his wrists.
‘And you would have come alone?’ said the vicomte. ‘I don’t think so. I know the warehouse in Antwerp; and the office, the apartments, the soldiery the Bank has not been told it possesses. I cannot imagine why your guard were not with you just now. On such mistakes rest an old man’s feeble triumphs. And now you will undress for me.’
‘To music?’ Nicholas said.
‘Was such the practice in Trebizond? One never ceases to learn. My son strips before me whenever he can,’ said the fat man. ‘To allow me to savour the contrast. Of course, I could summon my men.’
‘I expect they look the same, too,’ Nicholas said. ‘You have heard from Simon, I gather.’
The fat man swabbed his platter with bread. ‘I have heard from Simon. I have visited Diniz. I have spoken to that fool of