The Unicorn Hunt by Dorothy Dunnett

surrounded him. The exceptions were, perhaps, the child Margaret who scowled, and the girl Katelijne who appeared merely thoughtful. The third exception was the prospective father himself whose face had lost life for a moment, as it had when he caught sight of Ada. It came to Will Roger, with shame, that he might have mistaken that look.
    Then Nicholas de Fleury smiled, the crimson flooding down to his throat. He said, ‘Shall I confess that I knew of her hopes? And now I know it is true: she is carrying. What can I say? I am speechless.’
    ‘You knew!’ said Katelijne, delighted. ‘That is why she didn’t come!’
    ‘Of course,’ he said, the dimples round as two nutshells. The nuns, exclaiming, were bringing fresh wine. The man called Michael Crackbene stared into his cup as if navigating.
    Roger wondered why the detachment. Himself, he felt a sudden deep affection for the man-with-keys-in-his-head. He said, ‘Well, you don’t drink to this news in your wretched water. Here’s to you, Nicholas de Fleury of Bruges, and to your first-born son or daughter to come!’
    He watched de Fleury set his lips to the wine, unsure whether well-water might have been kinder. But the man emptied that cup and the next, and matched the best of them for the rest of the evening. And even leaving, he only stumbled a little.
    Having a hard Scandinavian head, Michael Crackbene steered vander Poele to his bed in the guest-quarters.
    He thought of him as vander Poele because he couldn’t remember to call him de Fleury. He had no interest in using his first name. He recognised that this was why he, Crackbene, was here: because he was a practical man who took employment from whomever might offer it, and could sail from Newcastle to Leith with his eyes shut.
    People called him a renegade, but he was not. He was always meticulous in ending one contract before he went to take up another. Vander Poele had laid hands on him once as a warning, but had still employed him again when it suited him. He respected the man. He also knew – it was nothing to him – that vander Poele had not heard from his wife since he set out for Scotland.
    They had been given a room to themselves in the guest-wing. Crackbene got rid of the pages as ordered, and debated how far toundress his companion. Of the two of them, he himself had had far more to drink. But vander Poele, perched on the bed, unclasped his doublet and dragged off and dropped his own boots before thudding back on the pillow and staring up at the crucifix on the canopy. He said, ‘What about Ada?’
    Crackbene said, ‘They all sleep over the kitchen. She has to get up to suckle the children. There’s a shed with straw by the kiln where she’d meet you. Or here. She doesn’t charge much.’
    ‘Children?’ vander Poele said. He turned his head.
    ‘You’re going to spew,’ Crackbene said. There was a bowl by the window.
    ‘Maybe. Shellfish,’ said the other inexplicably.
    ‘Shellfish? We didn’t have any,’ said Crackbene. ‘Children. She wet-nurses. Sometimes it stops the next child from coming and sometimes it doesn’t. One of the babies is hers. She’d be quite lively, I think, if you don’t mind milk all over the place. Do you think you are up to it?’
    ‘No. But I think you are,’ vander Poele said.
    Crackbene gave a rare laugh. He supposed it was obvious. He said, ‘And you’d pay for it?’
    ‘I’m generous. But I’ll not pay for aborting a Viking. Find out before you start which child is hers, and how old it is, and take precautions accordingly. If she comes from Dean Castle, she’s got friends.’
    Crackbene had already lifted the latch of the door. He said, ‘That’s why she charges. You’ll manage?’
    ‘I’m sure both of us will,’ vander Poele said.
    It was just before dawn when Crackbene returned. He was not done, but the girl had to get back by sunrise. By then she’d fed the two gasping brats twice, regardless of anything he might be doing. The first