To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [56]
The nurse moved. Nicholas said with unusual irritation, ‘I told you. The boy is not at the camp.’
She stopped. ‘But you are bringing him there?’
‘He has left camp for good,’ Nicholas said. He sounded impatient. ‘You are not going to the camp. You are going with me to Scotland. That is why you left your maid and your bags at St Omer. You agreed. Or do you want a divorce?’
‘You lied. You said nothing of this. What is happening?’ she said. Turning painfully, she looked for Mistress Clémence.
The nurse, her hands folded, returned a calm gaze. Mistress Clémence said, ‘I had not been told either, my lady. All I know is that I stay with Pasque and the child.’
‘Then I stay,’ Gelis said. She could hear the hopelessness in her own voice. You won’t find him, he had said. She stared at him, her eyes dry, and then flinched.
He had done her no harm; simply dropped on the floor the glass beaker which had stood on the table. It broke not in fragments, but in half. He said, ‘Will it ever mend, or are you now an idiot for life? Have you followed nothing of what I have told you?’
She stared at him, shivering. Behind her, Mistress Clémence rose and placed a hand firmly on the shoulder that was unhurt. It felt reassuring and calm. Nicholas said, ‘I shall see you below,’ and went out.
The cavalcade was four times larger than she expected: a troop of glittering men-at-arms in the black and white unicorn livery of the Banco di Niccolò. There were some well-dressed riders among them, one a priest in black robes, one a man with an extravagant jewel in his hat. A chain of laden mules sagged behind that, and three disconnected baggage-carts to one side of a huddle of draught oxen chained to a gun-carriage. A team of four horses stamped and jingled before a long padded cart whose hooped cover was incongruously pinned with cheap streamers.
The man with the jewel in his hat was John le Grant, whom she had last seen at Innsbruck, and who had shown her courtesy but little else. The priest was Father Moriz the German, who had also been in the Tyrol. She had received a homily from him on her departure, but he had not been unsympathetic; he might help. Especially now, when she saw that he seemd to be disputing with Nicholas. Then Nicholas himself turned, and came over.
She had recovered enough to need only a groom at her elbow. Mistress Clémence stood at her side. Nicholas, ignoring them both, jerked his head at the groom, saying ‘There!’
He had indicated the wagon. Gelis said, ‘You owe me a little. May we speak?’
He looked at her. ‘Later, of course. Can you climb, or may we lift you into the wagon?’
‘I can climb,’ Gelis said. The groom, none the less, took her arm.
Dust eddied and rose. Men scurried over the cobbles; a horse staled; a mélange of eye-watering odours hung in the air, accompanied by a cacophony of human and animal voices. The hall of Medea, al fresco. The hooded cart, as she drew near, rocked as if crammed with vigorous passengers. Vigorous, talkative passengers, of which one at least was a woman.
The camp followers. Captain Astorre, come to escort his patron to the coast, had brought his women, and she, Gelis, was expected to travel with them. She would rather ride, broken arm and bruises or no. Gelis halted again. Up in the cart, a flurry of activity culminated in a view of a woman backing out from under the canopy, scolding. It was not a camp follower. It was a woman no camp would have invited to follow. It was Pasque.
Astonishing her groom, Gelis thrust him from her and began to limp to the cart. She was halfway there when Pasque saw her, and dropped her jaw with its yellow-pegged teeth. She had almost arrived at the wheels when the person Pasque had been admonishing scrambled out from the hood and stood, viewing the scene with delight. The childish brow, stuck with brown hair, was unchanged, but in nearly five months the soft lips had firmed; the nose and chin had wickedly redefined themselves.
Here; here; here, Jordan