The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [36]
‘Simon will tell him,’ she said.
‘And earn the immortal enmity of the van Borselen? No. Simon will do nothing,’ her father said. ‘And you will do nothing. Or I shall see that you never leave Kilmirren again.’
‘You can’t!’ she said. ‘I have money now. I can go where I like!’
He looked at her. The door had opened, on what summons she didn’t know, and two of her father’s servants stood there. ‘My daughter is sick,’ said her father. ‘Find a room for her, and send for a doctor.’
They were, as always, gentle, but held her tightly none the less. She screamed from the doorway, ‘What if vander Poele knows?’
Her father paused. Then he said, ‘If he does, then I imagine he would do almost anything to prevent your making it public. Think about it. I do not wish to be harsh. But you find yourself in all these difficulties only because you will not think.’
He watched her leave. There was no one at the door when Jordan de Ribérac, lifting his bulk, moved soft-footed down the stair and walked towards the block which held the apartments of Simon his son. The rain had stopped, and there was some activity – two jousters – in the tiltyard. He heard the raucous voice of his son’s master-at-arms before he saw the fellow, encased in full armour with a lance in his fist. The figure at which he was roaring was short as an undented whistle and topped by a spray of plumes as tall as itself. Two red-faced grooms stood by with horses. De Ribérac walked past without speaking.
Simon was in the room off the yard where the castle arms were secured. The trestle table was littered with pieces of equipment, and Simon was pacing the straw, throwing remarks at the two or three men who sat motionless, arrested while cleaning them. He looked up at his father’s shadow.
‘Get out,’ de Riberac said. The men left.
Simon said, ‘This time, the girl is under the table.’
De Ribérac gave no sign that he heard. ‘The child is wearing silver,’ he said. The articles of armour on the table, of full size, were of niellated silver as well. He sat down. ‘How did you pay for it?’
Simon pushed aside a sword and perched on the table. The hair that looked artificial in Lucia was fine-spun gold when framing her brother’s face – his angelic face, with its arched brow and lethargic blue eyes. Simon said, ‘Out of my share of the profits from Africa. There is enough left for my next meal. I am told you’ve dismissed my farm manager. Another economy?’
‘I have engaged a replacement. You will meet him tomorrow. I have news. The woman Gelis van Borselen is to give birth in March or in April.’ Deliberately, he had given no warning.
Simon responded in character. His gaze lost its focus and shifted. His lips parted; a touch of red appeared on each jaw. Then his eyes returned, full of slow wonder. ‘Holy Mary!’ he said in a whisper.
‘It was not, unfortunately, the Annunciation,’ said Jordan de Ribérac. ‘All that can be said is that the child is not yours.’
‘You don’t know,’ Simon said. The flush had deepened. His voice gained in strength. ‘How do you know? If it’s mine, it’s due long before. In February. In the middle of February. She’s lying.’
‘It is not yours,’ repeated de Ribérac. ‘It is not yours, even if it were to emerge upon stroke of bell forty weeks past its begetting, with the name Kilmirren stamped on its forehead. The mother is a van Borselen. As you did not advertise your carnal connection, so you will not advertise its unfortunate outcome.’
‘But …’ said Simon gently. He got off the table.
‘There are no buts. I have told you. She has not confessed to vander Poele: I am told he suspects nothing. Bruges believes the child to be born of the marriage. She has retreated, I am told, to a convent.’
‘To hide! She must know it is mine!’
‘Perhaps,’ said the vicomte de Ribérac wearily, ‘she is not yet sure herself who the father is or, you might think, the nuns would already have found a way to resolve her difficulty. The date of her accouchement, yes, would clarify matters, but shall we ever hear it? The sisters are remarkably