The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [55]
An innocent, to whom it seemed Gelis van Borselen had been mildly attached. An innocent who did not understand, it was apparent, why her husband’s father Lord Boyd appeared rather less often at Court, or who did not hear the rumours which even Burgundians heard. Which especially Burgundians heard, since the man responsible for some of them was said to be Nicholas de Fleury.
Perhaps public opinion was wrong. Certainly, here, Nicholas de Fleury hadn’t mentioned the Boyds. On the contrary, he was explaining, although not very energetically, how well his dear wife was bearing her pregnancy, and how it pained him to be far from her side. But – new to fatherhood – he understood that some young mothers craved privacy, and he had agreed, at her wish, not to leave his affairs until the glad time was near. In March or April, they thought. By March or April, of course, he would be in Bruges.
He spoke with unstinted frankness; and if he caught his breath once, the rest of the time he sounded like a man in full health.
Katelijne listened. This performance was less believable, by a long way. The Princess appeared to accept it; Dame Betha, proficient with daughters, was more likely to have reservations. Katelijne wondered what Whistle Willie would think, or Mistress Phemie, who was accomplished with words. They weren’t naïve, and neither was M. de Fleury, whom you didn’t trust even when singing. As Willie had said outright to him once, it took a knave to make cunts of his tonsils. She wasn’t supposed to have overheard that.
She did not interrupt: it was not her place. The sickly conversation came to an end. The Princess, with tears in her eyes, stretched out her hand and laid it on that of de Fleury. He smiled gratefully, and she removed it and rose. She had no natural grace, and her reddish-brown hair and long face were unimproved by the geometry of pearled wire and veiling that surrounded them. Even with the canvas inside, you could count her ribs through her braided silk bodice. She said, ‘What will you name the child when it arrives?’
Adorne turned a natural movement into an indolent one. Katelijne watched through her lashes until she saw de Fleury had started to smile. He said, ‘Of course, the name will be Mary. If your grace would allow.’
The long-shafted face flushed a little. Mary Stewart said, ‘Tell your wife we are pleased. And if a boy?’
This time, the answer was ready. ‘If a boy, then it will bear a van Borselen name. Or like your cousin, aspire to Charles, for the Duke. We have not yet reached conclusions.’
‘It is another reason why you should not delay your return,’ said Mary Stewart, Countess of Arran. ‘The choosing of names for their children is what a husband and wife must speak of together.’
Her eyes were damp. Dame Betha said, ‘We are tiring M. de Fleury. Come, Katelijne.’ And with a strong, freckled hand she shepherded the Princess from the room. With reluctance, Katelijne walked after them.
Anselm Adorne stayed behind.
‘Yes?’ said Nicholas de Fleury.
Adorne said, ‘Are you in pain?’
‘No,’ said de Fleury.
‘I see. There is something I have to say. I shall say it quickly. But for good luck, today I might have killed your reconciled friend, Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren. One of the spears given me at the barre was a war-lance. The coronal was missing.’
The face on the pillow was unaltered; incurious even. ‘So you didn’t use it?’
‘I had it changed for another. But I might not have noticed.’
De Fleury said, ‘I might not have stopped the skewering of John of Mar.’
Adorne said, ‘We are talking of Simon, not his son.’
‘You are,’ said de Fleury.
Adorne looked at him, and then let his eyes travel down