To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [70]
On the surface, it was no trouble at all to exchange simple courtesies with well-dressed people of different stations, some strangers, some formal acquaintances, some known to her by reputation. They were all men. That was natural. The head of a bank, bearing the goodwill of Burgundy, would be met by his equivalent in authority: by city councillors and merchants; by high officials of the church which was his landlord; by the officers from a few lordly households. She saw some lawyers in a group and, surprisingly, Archibald Whitelaw, the King’s Secretary, in person. She walked beside Nicholas, linked to him by his child, and was exposed to no hint of embarrassment. Behaving impeccably, she watched how Nicholas greeted each man, and memorised it.
She was taken unawares twice. Once, when her hand was touched, then taken by a young man of much her own age whom she saw to be Adorne’s nephew Sersanders. Whatever formalities he was uttering, they could not wholly conceal his unease. He had heard the rumours, and did not know what to think. She spoke to him serenely, and moved on without haste.
The next time she was surprised by a clear-eyed man who, having welcomed her diffidently, immediately squatted and held something out to the child. Jordan released both hands and received it, then burst into rapturous squeals. As she leaned to see what it was, the man exchanged smiles with Nicholas, who suddenly laughed. Then Nicholas himself was engulfed by the last of those waiting, and Gelis drew the child to her side as she watched.
Do you sing? Like a lark? One of the men now greeting Nicholas was Will Roger, the royal musician. Whistle Willie, the girl Katelijne had called him. As Gelis recognised him, he released her husband and whirled, his eyes moving from her to the child.
He took her hand. ‘Unless this is painful? I trust you are better? You are a brave woman, to throw in your lot with this idiot. And now you have permitted him to set foot in Scotland, an act of charity for which other countries will vote you a pension. And this is Lancelot du Lac, I presume? And what is that?’
He was crouching, like the other, in front of the child. The object in the child’s hand was a whistle.
She cleared her throat. ‘His name is Jodi,’ she said.
The musician looked up. ‘Is it? I thought it was Jordan. Jodi, blow.’
He blew. He knew how to blow. He had learned, on the little whistle Nicholas had thrown into the water in Venice. He made it cheep, his cheeks inflated, and stopped.
Nicholas said conversationally, ‘This is a man called Whistle Willie. Will you let Whistle Willie blow for you? He will give it back. You will also get leprosy.’
The child looked up, at first puzzled; and then reassured by the ordinariness of his father’s expression. The musician took up the whistle and, still kneeling, set it to his lips. Gelis stood, watching.
‘One must be musical, which I am not, to appreciate it,’ said a voice. ‘But I am told the man is a master performer. May I make myself known? My name is Martin, of the Vatachino company. I came as a courtesy to your husband and to make the lords happy: they think it will benefit prices if they see two financiers vying for trade. I trust your arm does well now?’
She turned. The speaker smiled. Beneath the triangle of his hat was a short, coarse pelmet of hair, orange as carrots. His eyes, round and pale, were fixed on her. The notes of the whistle yelped and swooped and chortled: Jodi was crowing. She knew that Nicholas, who had not turned,