To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [350]
‘I have an arbitrator,’ Gelis said. ‘Open the door.’
The adjacent room led to a passage, and to the back entrance to the lodging. It was small, no more than an antechamber; and a red-haired man was standing there, a powerful man with bad teeth whom he had last seen waving at him at the Luxembourg portal. Martin. Martin of the Vatachino.
Nicholas said, ‘I thought we should be alone.’ Then he stepped back and said, ‘But, of course, we spoke of it.’ The sense of loss deepened and spread, bringing with it a weariness which almost stopped him from speaking.
The man strolled forward, his knowing eye resting on Gelis. She hardly glanced at him. She said to Nicholas, ‘Have we stunned you into silence? You want to talk of achievements, competitions. Martin is here from the Vatachino to remind you how often they’ve won, competing against you; how often they’ve tricked you and bested you; to tell you of victories you don’t even know about yet.’
‘How kind of him,’ Nicholas said. ‘He has come to apologise?’
She laughed: a small, excited laugh that he recognised; that once had been private between them, when no words had been necessary. She said, ‘He has come to tell you that I work for the Vatachino. That most of their successes, and your failures, are because of my advice, my information, my help.’ Her eyes were immense. Beside her, the man Martin smiled.
Nicholas said, ‘Then he is your witness, not an adjudicator.’ His voice was quite steady.
She said, ‘Oh, perhaps. But he is here to supply proof.’
Alone with her, he would not have lied. Alone with her, he would have left aside the script and the mask, and told her as much of the truth as he dared. Then, beginning as they had begun, he would have moved, step by step, in the hope of an understanding. And one day, when it was all over, he would have told her, somehow, what he had done.
He abandoned that now, but neither did he take up his weapons. Instead, he chose the middle option, the course which he himself, in his right mind, had once dismissed.
He sat down. He said, ‘If that is so, you are a threat to the Bank and a power, yes, which it would be my responsibility to appease. So give me your proof.’
*
The air in the herb gardens was mild, and the gardens themselves, remote from the turbulence at the Abbey, were reposeful and quiet. Freed from her heavy morning of duties, Mistress Clémence of Coulanges moved along the patterned walks, pausing now and then, her grey skirts slurring behind her. There were still some pansies in bloom, although the Church preferred more utilitarian plants. She saw some aristolochia, and thought she must tell Dr Tobias. If, of course, the exigencies of decampment allowed.
A voice said, ‘Demoiselle?’ There was a note of insolence in it. She turned.
A boy. A youth, as no doubt he would prefer to be called, of twelve or thirteen, of quite singular looks. She had last seen him in Bruges, his face swollen and bruised from a blow struck by young Jordan’s father. Henry de St Pol, he was named. She said, ‘Sir?’
‘You don’t remember me?’ the boy said. He was well dressed, but hollow-eyed and dust-caked from long travelling. The sun glittered on his brilliant hair. He said, ‘I thought Jordan would be with you. He is called Jordan, isn’t he? The little bastard?’
There was an arbour nearby. She turned into it and sat, pursing her lips. ‘His lady mother gave him his name. But I do not think if you have seen him, that you could call him a bastard. You are like your father. He is like his.’
‘His father tried to beat me to death,’ the boy said. ‘He didn’t succeed. My grandfather saved me.’
‘To death? That is not like Lord Beltrees,’ said Mistress Clémence thoughtfully. ‘It is generally a matter of honour to choose an opponent at least as old and as skilled as oneself. But I am glad that your grandfather rescued you. Would you like to tell me about it? Or perhaps you are hungry?