The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [40]
Instead she saw a man whose height and frame, if attenuated, were the same, but whose dress and face were together a rebuff and a mask and an omen of danger. And behind those, the thing that occasioned her outburst.
She had never had from him the look he gave her as she ended. Then his face melted into a smile and she saw him relax. She felt she saw each muscle relax as if separately levered. She felt ill.
Nicholas de Fleury said, ‘Mistress Bel! How are you? Lucia isn’t with you?’ And he stepped forward, still smiling, and embraced her.
She said, ‘No, I’m stupid,’ and releasing herself, sat down and blew her nose violently. ‘Aye,’ she said. And then, adopting exactly his manner, ‘No. Lucia’s at home. So is Jordan. But you couldna keep me away when I heard. How is the lass, Nicholas? How is Gelis?’
He looked down at her, smiling amiably still. ‘Blooming,’ he said. He had glanced round the room. She supposed he had never seen the inside of the house owned by the St Pol in Edinburgh which, since Jordan had bought it, was in the best site in town but not extravagant in its fittings. The parlour she sat in was decent, with a good timber ceiling, a few kists, a few stools, some canvas hangings and a board with some silver and pewter laid out on it. The house itself was of two storeys only, of white-plastered timber, and thatched. And well maintained. That too was the vicomte de Ribérac, not Simon. She realised now why the other had looked round the room. He was listening for footsteps.
He was adding something about Gelis. ‘Blooming, but better without me, I am told. The birth is not till the spring.’ He had glanced again at the door. He raised his brows. ‘Simon asked me to call.’
‘He’s been out, with the laddie. He might bring Henry in.’
‘Have I time to leave?’ her guest said, in pretended alarm. He had known, it was obvious, that a confrontation with Henry was likely. Once, in Madeira, Simon had planned to take his son to the beheading of Nicholas, but Nicholas had failed to keep the appointment. He and Henry had not as yet met.
‘Aye. Ye’ll have heard about Henry,’ Bel said. ‘You’ll try to have patience.’ She could hear the footsteps now. A man’s and a boy’s. Nicholas didn’t reply.
The door opened.
It was like Simon to push his son in first. As Nicholas de Fleury had done, the child stayed on the threshold, looking within. Against the darkness behind, he stood fair and straight as an angelic judge. The hair curling about the pure forehead was fine as gold floss and the eyes were of an extraordinary blue, saved from daintiness by the well-marked brows which drew together above them. Often as she had seen Henry de St Pol, future vicomte de Ribérac and lord of Kilmirren, Bel felt her throat catch at his beauty.
Then he turned and looked at the man who had married his dead mother’s sister. In the look was hatred, and fear, and contempt. Bel drew in her breath.
Nicholas spoke. ‘Henry? I have come to shake the hand of your father. I hear you are fighting tomorrow.’
‘Who are you?’ Henry said. His nose was taut.
‘I think you know,’ Nicholas said.
The boy walked forward and stood beside Bel. He said, ‘I forget. Are you Claes vander Poele the apprentice?’
‘I see you like fighting,’ his visitor said.
‘I don’t mind fighting,’ said Henry. ‘But that’s in the breeding. You’re a timid man, my father says.’
‘Henry,’ said Bel. She put her hand on his shoulder. He shook it off.
‘Henry!’ echoed a man’s voice reproachfully from the door. ‘Did I ever say that? Surely not. Meester vander Poele has an unbroken record of conquest. My dear Nicholas,’ said Simon de St Pol, coming in, ‘I thought the time was ripe to seal