The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [16]
‘Anselm?’ said Katelijne. Behind, a man in burgher’s dress had joined her uncle and Metteneye. It was almost certainly Master John Lamb, their host. Adorne was introducing Maarten. She said, ‘Anselm?’ again.
‘Yes?’ said her brother. He was drifting backwards and watching the strand. Play was being resumed. This time, the participants were lining up in two teams, four to a side, and people were scattering back to make room for them. The rest of the riders, dismounted, joined the spectators.
The wagering had started again. The teams were hopelessly uneven – children’s teams, with the red-head and the boy of eleven in one, and Alexander of Albany in the other. The spaces were filled up by those who had already taken the greater part of the action – the men in red and green, black and blue. The eighth player was a handsome woman in velvet.
Katelijne said, ‘You know why I’m here?’
Her brother grunted. He hadn’t wanted her to be sent to Scotland. She knew that; but also accepted, without resentment, that she was a nuisance at home. And it was a privilege among Flemish families of rank to offer a child to serve a foreign princess. Her uncle Adorne had just left a daughter in England. Gelis van Borselen and her sister had both held positions in Scotland. All the same …
At last, her brother had taken the trouble to observe where she was looking. He said, ‘The red-head? You think that brat is Albany’s sister? The one you’re coming to serve?’
‘He called her Margaret,’ Katelijne said. ‘I was told she was eight. I was told she was bright and adventurous. I think I’m going home.’
Her uncle, approaching, had overheard. He said, ‘No, you’re not. You don’t need her, but she needs someone like you.’
‘If she survives. What are they trying to play?’
‘Tzukanion,’ her uncle said. He spoke rather slowly.
‘What?’ said her brother.
‘It’s a game horsemen play in the Orient. They use long switches like that, and a ball. Each team tries to push the ball over the other team’s line.’
‘How do you know?’ said Katelijne. She wasn’t jealous of his knowledge; just interested.
‘From cousins. You ought to know. There have been a lot of Adornes in the Levant,’ her uncle said. ‘And tales come to Bruges.’ His face, normally composed, had become neutral, as if he were back at home, judging a dispute between traders. He added dryly, ‘Your little lady will come to no harm. Two at least have played it before.’
Long ago, Katelijne had learned to trust her uncle Adorne, as had her brother. Watching now, she saw that he was right. Roaring, screaming and whacking, all eight amateur players of tzukanion were joyously slamming the ball. Two, however, were experts, sitting easily in the saddle, swaying and swooping to one side or the other, and connecting each time, stick to ball, with a sharp and satisfactory click. The athlete in red, and the acrobat, the actor in black.
She had no sooner distinguished it than one of them hit a lifting and powerful stroke which sent the ball whistling over their heads and beyond beach and crowd into acres of bushes. There was no possibility of recovering it.
As neat a way as any of ending the game. The air was filled with catcalls and laughter and the sound of coins changing hands. The angry shrilling of the child Margaret’s voice halted them.
‘They should stop her,’ said Katelijne.
‘In public,’ said her uncle, ‘it would be difficult.’
‘Then they should find another ball quickly. Oh dear, but no. But no. Anselm, that wouldn’t be fair.’
‘What?’ said her brother.
The man in black, facing inland, was pointing. The man in red, following his finger, turned his horse and began to trot up the beach and towards the rough grass of the links. He came close, so that for the first time they clearly saw his brown hair, his firm nose and jaw, and the set of his straight double-velvet-clad shoulders.
They recognised him. He saw them at the same time and, with