The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [191]
‘Was he not in Scotland?’ said Nicholas. He might have been more straightforward had he known how much she knew. He had heard, at Dean Castle, all about Antonio Cavalli. He had heard all about Eleanor of the Tyrol. And what he hadn’t learned there, he had learned at court. The Scottish Court, and that of Brussels.
She was answering, undisturbed. ‘Master Cavalli stayed with my niece at Kilmarnock. The lady Mary, Countess of Arran. Your wife served her once. You say the Countess has left Scotland with her husband?’
Her voice remained mild. Nicholas said, ‘She was attached to him. Had he stayed, the King your nephew would have been forced to execute him. Instead they are both free.’
‘If in exile,’ said the Duchess.
‘At least,’ Nicholas said, ‘exile can be revoked, unlike death.’
She said, ‘For one? Or for both?’
Nicholas said, ‘I doubt if the Earl of Arran would be allowed to return. His lands are too valuable.’
‘You expect to acquire some?’ she said. ‘Or have you lost interest in Scotland? Having poached, so I am told, our good goldsmith Wilhelm of Hall?’
‘I have an office there,’ he said. ‘And a house in the Semple district of Renfrewshire. A little land seldom comes amiss.’
She stitched. She said, ‘My father is buried in Paisley. The monks still have their fustian sent from Ulm. The King my nephew would like us to send him cannon.’ She looked up.
‘Guns are fashionable,’ Nicholas said. ‘But, of course, their utility depends on the skill of the casting.’
‘A badly cast gun killed my brother,’ she said, and stuck the needle finally in her work. She rose. ‘As you know. You have been luckier today. I am going to give you some wine. Your arm looks painful.’
They had put it into a sling. He got up as well. ‘It will be stiff tomorrow, that’s all. Don’t trouble. I drank something below.’
She paid no attention, crossing to the board and pouring with her own hands. Her heavy robe smelt faintly of horse. He thought of other women of power in his life: the brave and delicate mother of the Persian prince Uzum Hasan; the noseless grotesque in Cyprus who had given birth to the beautiful Zacco; Bel of Cuthilgurdy, if you liked, whose influence came not through a son or a grandson but by way of a peculiar strength of her own.
Eleanor of Scotland was not a woman of Bel’s kind although, coming back, she dropped into Scots as she put the cup in his hand. ‘Drink it. It’s a receipt I keep for sair heids. Whiles, it seems that every princeling in Europe sends his bairn to the Tyrol to be reared, and a good smack or a physic does wonders. I’m told ye’ve begotten a knave on your wife?’
‘A son of six months.’ The outer voice answered. The inner voice contradicted. A son of eight months, eight months by now. If it was a son. If it was anything. Four teeth in a smile. Kicking. Or crooked. Or dead and decayed in the earth.
The wine was strong, with something herbal in it. He added aloud, ‘We are delighted.’
‘I’m sure of it. An heir. My niece the Countess was very taken with Gelis van Borselen. I should tell ye that the wine will put ye to sleep in ten minutes, so you’d better finish it off and get gone. I’m not a great believer in conversations over the grape. Besides, I’ve a harder head than you’d expect. I’ve had practice.’
He got up. Her unsmiling face appeared made of red granite; her eyebrows were black. He realised that it was her eyebrows that he should have been looking at. The dread left his mind, and he laughed.
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Well, we’ve got one reaction that you meant. Let’s see tomorrow if we can find one or two more.’
Next day, riding out at her side, he felt restored and a trifle light-headed. He did not remember going to bed, but deduced that his lapse had not only been condoned by the rest but appreciated: no one much liked being with a man who was afraid to take a drink. He wondered why, possessing such a helpful beverage, she had not tried to make better use of it. It put him in her debt. That was probably why.