To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [272]
Jordan de Ribérac was tired. There was no hurry: the King was still at Ancenis. The vicomte retired to his chamber and slept. Then, upon rising, he refreshed himself with a change of clothes and a modest repast with some wine. Next, he commanded the governor to show him the way to the cells.
The room they unlocked had a window, lately fitted with bars, and was better provided than most, for the place was a residence more than a keep. A figure rose from a bench.
His first impression in the half-light was that the child was exceedingly fair, which was of course not necessarily impossible. The next was that it was of unusual height – indeed of 3 height which was quite impossible. The third, when it spoke, was one of disbelief. The child – the boy – the prisoner he had caused to be kidnapped gave a cry, a loud cry, of ‘Grandfather!’ Then, before he had recovered from that, the boy proceeded to howl. ‘I told them! They wouldn’t listen! Oh, Grandfather!’ The brat’s cheeks were filthy with tears.
He hated tears. He despised them. He saw, with disbelief and with fury, what he had to contend with. He said, ‘Henry.’
The boy began to rush forward.
Henry. Henry his grandson. Henry, who was no use to anyone. Henry, who couldn’t be used to influence bankers or armies but yet was uselessly here, a source of danger. A source of ridicule.
The vicomte de Ribérac stood in the cold little room, massive, unyielding, a bastion of disappointment and anger. The boy stopped.
The vicomte said, ‘What have you done? How dare you! How dare you interfere with my plans! Get out of my sight!’
Chapter 37
THEY WERE SCYTHING the wheat as Nicholas made the gentle day’s ride from Saumur north-west to Les Ponts-de-Cé, parallel with the blue drift of the Loire. The wains full of sheaves rumbled beside him and, but for his escort, he would have dismounted in some deep golden field and shared his bread and meat with the straw-hatted harvesters, and heard all their gossip. But the King of France traversed this country, pursuing the concerns of his armies, and strangers rode under guard.
It was within a few days of September, and Nicholas was glad to move. Days ago, the Cardinal had received his appointment and departed, borne on the river. He would not return. Julius had also left, to go back to Bruges, and perhaps even to Cologne: Nicholas wondered whether he would find the Gräfin waiting, or whether she would have slipped off, in her cool, competent way, to oversee some other business. He had watched Julius and his Countess together; observed the grace with which she received her admirer’s ceaseless attentions. But her eyes did not caress as his did, and if their fingers touched, her breath did not quicken. You could see why he feared a rebuff.
Yet she was sensual. From long experience, Nicholas was sure of it. She had had one husband, and perhaps many lovers. They said the child was her own. It was most likely, Nicholas thought, that she was teasing Julius into losing his head. Then they would marry, and she would hold the ascendancy. He did not see how he could interfere in any way that would do good.
He observed, towards the end of his journey, that the fleur-de-lys flew from the steep blue roofs of René’s elegant home, and that Louis had therefore arrived. There was no hurry, however. Had the Burgundians triumphed in Picardy, he would have been sent for long before now. Louis had kept him waiting because there were no secrets that mattered. Or no Burgundian secrets.
In René’s exquisite painted chamber of audience, the bees flew back and forth through the windows and were snapped at by the dogs. The room was crowded. Nicholas, waiting aside, saw men he recognised, Gaston du Lyon among them. Louis was moving about with a jingle of spurs,