The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [198]
‘And the succession?’
‘I do not think,’ said Gertrude dryly, ‘that the Emperor is altogether disappointed that they have not produced an heir. It may even be another reason why the marriage is encouraged to continue. And meantime, as I said, she studies his needs.’
He had wondered, looking at the red-faced little Duchess and her troop of winsome attendants; thinking of the half-grown young he had already seen in the castle. The Duke of Burgundy could afford to beget powerful bastards who would form a circle of reliable leaders but never usurp the place of the heir. Sigismond’s love-children were seeded like grass, brought up amiably and amiably cared for, but born of no line that might threaten the Imperial throne.
The woman was watching him. She spoke gently again. ‘I respect the Duchess,’ she said. ‘She has been impressed by you. She asked me to find out if there was anything you might want. The castle has some resources. But I think you need rest.’
Nicholas smiled, although he had not been unaware of the charms of the Duchess’s maidens. He said, ‘I know my place as a guest. I am glad to be here. You are kind.’
He looked at her directly, and she smiled in her turn. She said, ‘That, too, in my time. But there are several younger and prettier to choose from. Or it might simply suit you to sleep. There is an inner room here.’ Her voice was soothing and had become very soft.
His lids closed. He thought at first the lamp had gone out. The room was cold and quite dark, and he was overcome with a lethargy so immense that it was beyond him to open his eyes or to move. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘No. Stay where you are. I will lock the door. Now.’ She stopped speaking. There were movements: the warmth of a brazier pulled close, the weight of a blanket, something soft into which his head sank. She said, ‘Sleep where you are. You can have a bed later.’ She spoke hastily, as if she knew what was wrong, and disapproved.
When he woke later, it was to the same shadowy chamber lit by the flickering red of the brazier and a single lamp, shining on the waist-length hair and pale bedgown of a woman sitting quietly watching him. Gertrude, whose bedroom it was.
She said, ‘You must be warm.’
Under the rug, he was still fully clothed. She rose and stooped to draw the cover away. He smelled a scent deeply placed. She was about Marian’s age. The age Marian would have been. He said, ‘I am not sure what happened.’ She was bringing him wine.
‘You found silver,’ she said. ‘They will ask you to look for other things. It is not just the climbing which tires you. The other man died.’
‘She told me,’ he said. His throat was dry, and he drank.
‘But not why. He was not looking only for metal. He could find anything. Anything. He could find, and he could cure. Sick people came, and he sent them away well.’
He put down the wine. He said, ‘Don’t tell Father Moriz.’
She stood by the small tongues of flame, her own cup in her hand. Her fingers, like her face, were long-boned and fine, and the damask of her gown was half opaque. Oh God, a tub of water. Steam, and long hair, and untouched fires, ready for rousing. That was not a dream.
The woman beside him spoke with insistence. ‘I have told you the truth. It killed him, for he took the ills on himself, instead of making himself only the instrument. He told me. If Duke Sigismond finds you have this gift, he will not let you go.’
Steam, and a bath, and a conflagration. ‘The Duchess will tell him,’ he said.
‘No. Nor will her household.’
He said suddenly, ‘He could find anything?’
He had startled, even frightened her. She, too, put down her wine. She said, ‘He found a man who had died in the snow.’
‘How?’
‘He knew him. He thought of his face.’
‘But if he didn’t know him? If he didn’t know what he looked like?’
She said slowly, ‘Then he could not find him. Unless he had something – a shoe, a glove. What is it? What is it? I am