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He conducted Mistress Clémence to the door. He had informed her about the vicomte de Ribérac who owned a castle in Scotland and enjoyed an estate and high office in France. He had explained that the vicomte’s Kilmirren was not far from his own place of Beltrees. He had further explained that Mistress Bel, the widowed lady within, had been a friend of de Ribérac’s family, and had travelled to Africa with M. de Fleury himself and his wife. Nicholas said, ‘She would have made a better man of young Henry than his father and grandfather have done. She is a good person to turn to in trouble, even though her tongue can be sharp.’

‘I shall remember,’ said Mistress Clémence, whose linen headgear nothing ever dared disarrange. She glanced at the child. ‘I dare say she knows all about parrots, as well.’

‘There is very little about parrots she does not know,’ said Nicholas seriously, and knocked.

He had sent young Robin to say he was coming. Belatedly he had reviewed his choice of that particular messenger, and cursed himself quietly. There was a stage between obsession and idiocy. As an antidote, he had chosen to bring Mistress Clémence along with the child. An upper servant from Kilmirren opened the door, and they were shown into Bel’s chamber.

She looked the same at just over fifty as she had when they had quarrelled more than two years before at Kilmirren. He had bought Lucia’s land, and Bel had professed to think that she, too, was homeless. She had kept her house. It had been a way of warning him, he thought, that he could not necessarily count on her. She needn’t have troubled. He saw, amused, the two women exchange stares as he introduced them: Mistress Clémence upright, composed; and Bel blunt-featured and squat, with her grey hair bundled up in a napkin. Next, Bel lifted her eyes and ran them over Nicholas, much as his armourer did. Then she looked at the child. ‘Eh,’ she said. ‘Eh, the wee man.’

Nicholas said, ‘He understands a little Scots.’ Mistress Clémence said nothing at all but, drawing off Jordan’s great hat, flicked his hair and crossed her wrists, the hat dangling.

‘Never tell me!’ said Bel of Cuthilgurdy, laying a hand to her lips. She took it away. ‘And French as well? They tell me the bairn can speak French?’

Mistress Clémence looked surprised and then brushed the child’s ear with one finger. ‘Madame demande …’

The child interrupted, smiling with confidence at the old lady. ‘Oui, madame,’ he said. ‘Aye, mistress. God strake him, he’s near chowed aff ma prick.’

His eyes sparkled with triumph. Bel flung back her head with a shriek. She was laughing. Mistress Clémence said, ‘Forgive him. I am afraid …’

‘I speak Scots,’ Jordan said.

‘And you have a parrot,’ said Bel. She spoke in French.

‘Un méchant, oui. ’Suis alloui,’ continued the linguist, with the same unalloyed confidence.

‘Jordan!’ said Mistress Clémence.

‘Oh, never heed, never heed!’ said their hostess, switching tongues. ‘Weans and wames are near the same word, with guid reason. And if ye canna understand that, the lad’s father will tell ye. Is he allowed a piece of marchpane?’

‘Me?’ said Nicholas.

‘You? It would turn black on your tongue. I was about to ask Mistress Clémence if she would like to take the wee man to the parlour. There’s something there for him to see.’

‘Quoi? Quoi done?’ said Jordan. His hair curled like a terrier’s round his neck, and his cheeks had turned crimson with pleasure.

‘Tiens! Tiens! Comme c’est gars bachique! Va-t-en, tu l’ verras,’ said Bel. The child ran off with his nurse, and she watched him. The door closed. She said, ‘I’ve fair amazed ye. How d’you think I kept an eye on young Henry there, travelling to Ribérac? What tongue d’ye think I spoke, living in Lagos? What tongue do you ken that I dinna ken?’ She turned back. Her eyes were still brilliant.

‘You can’t swear in Greek,’ Nicholas said.

‘I can so,’ she said. ‘From the same source. And if I had the beak, I’d take a lesson or two in emasculation forbye.