To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [189]
Dr Conrad, of course, was aware of it. As the illness developed, he frequently came and sat with the child, speaking sensibly to his nurses and discussing methods of easement. He did not answer Pasque’s aggressive questions, and Clémence asked none. It was too soon. Time would tell. Then one day he had returned from his supper below to come to the bedside again, and had removed his hand from the whimpering child to exchange smiles with the nurse and with Pasque.
‘The sickness of the water-pox, not the other. It is plain. A bath in warm water in which starch has been dissolved. Prevent him from scratching. Keep him away from other children until the blisters have healed. In three weeks he will be well. I shall go and inform Mistress Gelis, and convey the news to the Castle.’
Jodi, who did not know he did not have smallpox, burst into tears, and was prodigally comforted. Later, alone with Clémence in their room, Pasque spoke her mind. ‘That lady,’ she said. ‘Does she care for the garçonnet, do you think? Or was she afraid, if he died, to have to confess to the father?’
‘Surely she cared,’ said Clémence de Coulanges. ‘And it is as well, for Master Jordan is fond of her.’
‘Accustomed to her,’ said Pasque. ‘As he is accustomed to everyone. I expect that woman will come.’
‘Which woman?’ asked Mistress Clémence. It was surprising what Pasque understood.
‘That widow who lives in the west, Mistress Bel. The master took Jodi to see her in Edinburgh. You went.’
‘I remember,’ said Mistress Clémence. ‘Yes. I suppose she might come, when she hears. And, of course, the father is expected back soon, with young Robin.’
‘No!’ said Anselm Sersanders for the third time to his sister. They sat in her room in the guest-quarters of the Bishop’s Cathedral at Skálholt, which was a collection of snow-plastered buildings surrounding a handsome small church made of wood. The roofs were of much-nibbled grass covered with footmarks, and blackened and singed from the smoke from the kitchen. There was no fire in Kathi’s room, which contained a standing bed and a chest and a basin, and bore signs of an abrupt evacuation. Three women’s shoes of differing sizes lay under the bed, and the curtain over a corner proved to have a thick sheepskin garment hanging behind it. It was a man’s. It looked dirty, but comfortable.
Kathi herself was dressed like a very small man, in boots and leggings and a belted tunic down to her knees, peasant-fashion. She sat on her bed swinging her legs while Sersanders thumped himself down on the box in a pet. Old eider feathers swam from the cushion: he sneezed. He said, ‘I am not going back to the Svipa.’
It was hard luck, Kathi knew. Sersanders never forgave Fate for its blunders. Victory over M. de Fleury had been so deliciously close. Here they were, the strenuous journey from the Markarfljót behind them, and a mere day’s ride between them and the Unicorn. First, they had been prevented from leaving because of a dearth, so it seemed, of fresh horses. And now here was the Bishop’s bailiff, just back from a visit to Hafnarfjördur, to tell them that there was no point in going at all. While they were stranded at Skálholt, the Unicorn had loaded and gone.
It was smart, even for Martin. But of course, he wanted to protect all that sulphur for their uncle. He wanted to get home really fast, avoiding anyone else, such as a vindictive Paúel Benecke and the Svipa. And of course (as she said to Sersanders) Martin could have had no idea they were hoping to join him. He appeared to believe her.
She had continued. ‘It’s good news really, when you think. The ship will get home. Uncle will recoup all he lost from the cargo, and it will pay nearly as well as the fish. And we can go back on the Svipa.’
That was when he said, ‘No!’ for the first