To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [245]
They also possessed a magnificent home. The approach to Camp-veere – the old ferry to Campen – was both by road and by water, and made to enchant a small boy of three and soothe the fears of a man of fifteen. The seigneurial boat, with its strong oarsmen and magnificent awnings, pranced over the sparkling waves, and Jordan’s new sister fed him sugar almonds. Embraced by the competent arms of her sweetheart, Jordan rode through groves and beside streams and pools full of herons, and screamed at peewits and at the black-headed birds he had fed at the Nor’ Loch in Edinburgh, which his sister called mouettes rieuses. In Walcheren everything laughed, even the gulls.
Occasionally Catherine cried, Robin observed, from pure happiness. He had heard – everyone had – of the great scandal of her silly girlhood, from which she had been rescued by her mother’s young second husband. Robin realised that she loved Nicholas de Fleury, and hence his son; and the last of his fears was assuaged.
The castle of Zandenburg, once a fortress, was now a hunting seat for the van Borselen, and also a place of business, as were their other houses in Flushing, in Bruges, in Champagne. The black and silver family arms were painted over the great gothic entrance gate, and in their chapel within the vast church of Our Lady, and flew from flags at the port: the small harbour whose jetties, though simple, could accommodate ships of any size. The anchorage outside was calm. And from Veere to the sea represented a voyage of less than two hours, free of rocks or of shoals. The Veergat almost never had ice.
So, more and more often, a little fleet from Scotland or England or Denmark was to be found unloading at Veere. And, while Bruges and Calais might at present hold the monopoly, Veere was there, with its humble advantages, and when one town or another fell out, Veere ran seductively into the gap. Veere was no virgin.
If the lord Wolfaert, his mind on these matters, was vexed by the incoming cavalcade, he was courteous enough to show no sign of it. When little Lodewijk, two, and his baby sister, screaming, made their appearance, Robin realised at last why no pains would be spared to make this visit agreeable. He found himself thankful that Pasque was the immediate quarry, substituting for her absent superior. He didn’t think Mistress Clémence would have liked Veere.
While the children were carried off to eat and to sleep, Robin found himself included, awkwardly, in the family dinner. He was accustomed enough to a table of state: his father and grandfather were not solely merchants, and round their Lanarkshire board would feed chaplain and tutor and secretary, factor and steward, just like this. As a page, his position was low, although in deference to his master he was placed at the same table. Next to him, already seated, was a boy of eleven.
Robin collected his French. ‘We haven’t met. My name is Robin of Berecrofts. May I join you?’
The boy looked up and smiled. The smile was breathtaking; his voice, low and sweet, answered in Scots. He said, ‘I know what your name is. Fuck off.’
No one from the family had noticed. There was no other seat he could take. The boy, having spoken, lowered his stupendous lashes over his glorious blue eyes; a beam of sunlight turned his hair to pure gold. Wolfaert van Borselen, from the end of the room said, ‘Ah, Robin. Is it Robin? Quite; yes. Robin, meet my young kinsman, your mistress’s nephew. Henry. Henry de St Pol of Kilmirren, a welcome addition to our little brood.’
Robin, rigid, gave a bow and sat down. The boy, lifting his head, gave him a smile as sweet as the first, and transferred it modestly to Wolfaert van Borselen. ‘My dear surrogate father,’ he said and, still smiling, hacked Robin under the table. Robin, gasping, didn’t even think to kick back.
This was the boy born to Gelis van Borselen’s sister, now dead. This boy’s father was Simon, monseigneur’s worst enemy.
The meal passed in a blur.