The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [120]
‘Simon has gone?’ the other said slowly.
‘To Portugal, it is said. Or perhaps France. So,’ said Anselm, ‘there is no need for you to go back to Scotland. And if I do not forgive you immediately, you will stay and prove troublesome here. Am I right?’
‘Of course not,’ the man said. ‘Or, if you think so, you must arrest me at once. Or – be sure I shan’t try to escape – within four days, perhaps. I should like … I should like to be free when my child is born.’
‘What!’ said Margriet. ‘The baby? You have heard? It is due? Oh, Anselm!’
‘It is due?’ said Anselm softly.
‘In a few days. I am – I was going to the convent tomorrow.’ The blemished face turned towards her. ‘You can believe me. You will see Gelis when she can travel. Or before, if you like.’
‘Her baby!’ said Margriet. ‘I have a gift. Wait. I made it myself. You shall take it to her.’ Rising, she sniffed through her smiles. In her thoughts she saw the little van Borselen girl, her face rosy, her hair round her shoulders, a babe in her arms. She was thinking, hurrying out, that Dr Andreas might well be wrong. That Antoon needn’t be the last son: that she was only forty, and could give Anselm, surely, another.
She closed the door, and her husband sank back in his chair. ‘My wound is forgotten,’ he said. ‘Although it is not a ruse you could employ every week. There is a child on the way?’
‘A son,’ de Fleury said. ‘It is born. A mite premature, so that its birth has been post-dated a little. I should be glad if you would maintain the fiction.’
‘A son!’ Adorne said. In spite of himself he rose and took the young man by the shoulder. Then he found his hand and shook it. He said, ‘I fear you have softened my hard heart as well. I cannot send a father to prison. I must – Let us drink to it. What excuse can we give to Margriet?’
‘We are saluting your magnanimity,’ Nicholas said. ‘If you mean it. And what I have told you is the truth. You have a check on me, you and your family. I owe you a favour. Despite what you have done to my courier service, I owe you a favour. Concerning which, I should like to touch on the subject of horses. If I might sit down?’
When Margriet came back, they were drinking. It did not strike her as typical that, having brought nothing at all to his victim, Nicholas de Fleury should depart a free man, with a gift.
There remained Gelis.
She had not left the convent. His men, indeed, had made that impossible. It did not mean that she would comply with the directions he had given her, then or now. It was with silent amazement, therefore, that he opened and read a response.
She agreed to the birth-date. She agreed to a visit from him, and then, later, her family. The child would not, of course, be visible: its age would be patently wrong. Its premature birth would be sufficient excuse.
She would come to Bruges when he wished.
He received that letter the day after his interview with Adorne. Returning from that, he had gone to his room, where there was a pile of correspondence to deal with. Julius arrived in ten minutes: he timed him. He took quite a long time, for Julius, to assimilate Adorne’s amazing restraint.
‘I did give him something in return,’ Nicholas said. ‘You know his courier service?’
‘Damned pirates!’ said Julius.
‘They need horses. So does Scotland. I’ve started a breeding programme – bought some stables and put a good man in charge. I’ve offered Metteneye and Adorne part-shares. They’ll make money; so shall we.’
‘But –’ said Julius.
‘And if it fails, we shan’t suffer too much.’
‘Nicholas?’ Julius said. Smiling broadly, he affected to swing a slow punch. Good ideas always found appreciation with Julius.
It had been clear to Nicholas, long acquainted with ladies, that all Bruges would soon hear of the imminent birth of the baby. Reading the letter from Gelis, he resigned himself to telling his colleagues as well.
It appeared everyone had been anxious. His hand was wrung, his back slapped. Cooks wept. Godscalc wept.