To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [53]
Today had been planned as a trial, a punishment, a means of underlining and studying her helplessness. He had also wanted to know what value she placed on the boy. He had probably found out all these things quite quickly and now, you would say, had tired of his role and was playing; was releasing, seductive as a drug, that uninhibited genius for mischief which could bind people to him for life. And you had to resist the enchantment, for it was never spontaneous.
She collected herself, and saw him watching her. Then he laughed: an acceptance of failure. He was standing outside a pair of great doors, waiting for her to go in. The last room, the room of Medea. And this time, she knew, as if she had been told, that everything would work.
Just before she walked through, she spoke to Clémence: ‘Be careful.’ She wondered what the nurse thought of them both. She thought suddenly that, if they both died, she and Nicholas, Jordan would have no one else. Then she thought of nothing but of what was before her.
Here was no sign of neglect. This chamber was as big as a hall, its high ceiling painted blue with gold stars. Angels stood about with silver-gilt wings, their limbs and appendages turgid with pent water. Gelis said, ‘The lady Violante’s husband is going to Persia. Were you not one of her lovers?’
‘Julius would remember,’ said Nicholas. ‘Didn’t you mention romances? Not that the lady Violante was quite what he fancied. So what did you think of the Gräfin Anna von Hanseyck and her daughter? Is Julius serious?’
‘It was the talk of Cologne,’ Gelis said. ‘Beautiful, wealthy and widowed. You should divorce me and cuckold Julius. Give me my son and take the Gräfin’s charming daughter. She is eight.’ She stood in mid-chamber, Clémence beside her. The floor was cut into recesses and channels, and Nicholas was closing the shutters. A lantern flickered. Somewhere, she could hear the sound of a drum, like a heartbeat.
‘Too young for me,’ Nicholas said. ‘I should tell Julius to ship her to Simon. We know that Simon can’t get her with child, and someone ought to give him a virgin instead of all these used matrons he tries out.’ He turned. ‘Did you think I should let you walk free?’ His voice was sweet.
‘Of course not,’ she said. The air sighed. The drum deepened its sound. Beside her, Mistress Clémence took a quiet step and placed a hand under her arm. The hand was steady.
The last shutter closed. The lantern glimmered, the only light in the room. There was another sigh, and another, and the ground began to slide under her feet. She sprang aside, taking Clémence with her, and, scrambling, made for the wall. The floor in the centre had changed. The uneven paving had sunk, forming a broad rectangular pit which barred her way to the end of the chamber. Across it lay a finely wrought bridge, upon which Nicholas stood, his eyes wide.
He said, ‘The door behind you is locked.’ Somewhere, someone started to chant. Mistress Clémence, pressing her arm, had brought them both to stand with their backs to the wall along which the paving still ran, high and firm. Immediately ahead lay the edge of the chasm. Other voices joined in the singing: the sound was serious, liturgical, soft, the sound of a blessing or maybe a curse. Something materialised from the gloom of the pit and rose, whirring. It was joined by another. Its flight, inconsequential as that of a dragonfly, stirred her hair and fluttered the nurse’s stiffened voile, so that she put a hand to her throat. The voices were those of women. Dim in the light, the golden stars glittered and the panelled walls faded, replaced by shadowy boughs, glimmering fruit, floating garlands. Mistress Clémence said, ‘Toys.’
She spoke to