The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [60]
Crackbene’s stare switched from the floor to the ceiling. Nicholas saw it. He realised that losing his temper was useless. Instead he said, hesitating, ‘There are certain problems. If you could manage to stay –’ He broke off. He felt marginally better. It was one of the functions of Julius, to make him feel better. Some, at least, of the time.
‘I’m not staying!’ said Julius with alarm. ‘So when are we going?’
‘Tomorrow. Or the next day. I don’t know. Should I announce it?’
‘I shouldn’t,’ said Julius. ‘Slip away. Crackbene?’
‘Slip away. Easy enough,’ Crackbene said. ‘I’m packed, anyway.’
It occurred to Julius that he was not. He asked other questions, but upon receiving minimal answers he retired presently, looking doubtful, to make lists. Crackbene sat on, having more to report and a letter, brought by the ship, to deliver.
It was addressed to Nicholas de Fleury in Gregorio’s writing. There was no time now, to read it in privacy. Whatever it was. Rising, de Fleury broke with steady hands the seal of the packet and drew out the single page it contained. He read it once by the brazier, before holding it over the flames to catch fire. Then he set it down on the embers, and prodded it slowly and deliberately into ashes.
Crackbene said, ‘You have blistered your hand.’ Nicholas had forgotten he was there.
The blisters were nothing. The rod he had gripped as a poker was red from its point to his fingers. Like blood on a knife. He knew, breathing slowly, where he wanted to sheath it. He said, without turning, ‘Shouldn’t you go?’ and heard Crackbene rise.
Crackbene said, ‘You are going on with it?’
‘Oh yes,’ Nicholas said. He turned. ‘Something made me angry, that was all. Nothing has changed.’
‘So I see,’ Crackbene said.
It was the season for hunting: the season when, tempted into the open, the chosen prey turned and twisted and fled, and the young and strong and handsome raced after, to kill.
It was the day, the cold day of Crackbene’s visit to Berecrofts, when the child Henry, bored with Kilmirren, persuaded the young hunt-servant left by his father to take him out on his pony and, collecting a group of young people, well attended, to spend the brightest hours hunting small game with them in the snow. Their sport took them to the door of Bel of Cuthilgurdy, who invited them in and gave them what refreshment she had.
Since Edinburgh, she had not laid eyes on Henry. It had worried her. The gossip she heard of Simon’s vanity-struck disordered household gave her no confidence in his understanding of the boy, or his ability to make a home for him. Yet the constant practice, the training in chivalry in all its aspects, the concentrated attention must at least restore the child’s confidence; must make him at least feel secure. But it pained her, a little, that the boy had not come to see her.
And now here he was. Because, it seemed, Simon was in Edinburgh, and had been for some time. Jordan his grandfather, of course, was in France. So, alone in a household of servants with his nurse, his tutor, his master-at-arms, Henry had felt himself bored and neglected, and was in the process of seeking a remedy.
There were few chances to talk. He looked as beautiful as ever, and well; had grown a little; was boisterous and commanding in the presence of children and servants; less so with the older boys, who delivered sly pinches and blows when they were not devouring her food. He had brought them for the sake of his popularity, that was all. It was what she should have expected.
At the end, they all politely thanked her, including the servants outside, and Henry, taking his leave, submitted to two or three questions to which he gave careless answers.
She found the answers disturbing. She continued to find them disturbing all evening. After an uneasy night, she rose in the dark before dawn and rode out the short distance