to risk anything now, with a family. It’s a shame, in a way.’
The news of the family spread to Kilmirren.
It came to Lucia first, in her comfortable Vasquez hall by the park of the tower. She sat and screamed until Matten came rushing, and then showed her the letter from Diniz which, of course, Matten could not read. Then, without even accepting the restoring drink Matten had brought her, she ordered her hooded cloak and hurried across to Kilmirren Castle.
The rain was cold. The rain had never been cold in Madeira, or in Portugal where her late husband came from. Diniz, only half Portuguese, never seemed to notice the rain. Diniz had married a burgher’s daughter in Bruges, and seemed enchanted with her. Diniz had been enchanted by Nicholas ever since the African voyage. And now this letter, with news that Diniz plainly thought wonderful.
‘It is appalling,’ said Lucia de St Pol, thrusting her father’s chamberlain aside and bursting into her father’s parlour. ‘I am going to faint. What shall we do? I cannot believe it!’
From his great cushioned chair her great cushioned father surveyed her with astonishment. He said, ‘You have my permission to faint. Indeed, you may throw a fit, provided you do it on the other side of that door. You may not have observed. I am occupied.’
He wasn’t. He was as good as alone. The short, stout woman (who did rise to her feet) was that neighbour who was well-enough bred to act as Lucia’s companion from time to time when she travelled. Bel of Cuthilgurdy had accompanied Lucia to her husband’s villa in Portugal. The widow Bel, of sturdy constitution, had even travelled to Africa with Diniz, and Gelis, and vander Poele. Now she said, ‘Monseigneur de Ribérac, the lassie’s distracted. Mistress Lucia, come away in and sit down. What’s to do?’
Lucia sat, her son’s letter clenched in one hand. She said, ‘Diniz says they’re both pregnant.’
Her father stared at her. ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is indeed a matter for swooning with all imaginable diligence. Diniz and his wife?’
She loathed him. She had always loathed him. She understood how her grown son and her small nephew Henry hated him too. She said, her voice shaking, ‘You joke. Read that. Read that letter. Tilde de Charetty is pregnant. Your great-grandchild will be the descendant of pawnbrokers. But I’ll tell you something worse than that. Gelis van Borselen is carrying. ’
The face of Bel of Cuthilgurdy, featureless as a flour-bag, became slowly illumined. The countenance of Jordan de Ribérac expressed simple enquiry. He said, ‘And one should faint? I hardly think so. You have, as always, made a mistake, Lucia. Go away.’
‘A mistake!’ she said. ‘It is here, in black and white. The girl has hidden herself in a convent. The birth is due, they say – of course – in March or in April. A child! ’
‘Anything else would have been surprising,’ her father said. ‘Mistress Cuthilgurdy, will you excuse us?’
‘No!’ said Lucia. Even Bel, sometimes, could help.
But Bel was standing. ‘My hinny,’ she said. ‘A bairn still in the making is no threat to you, surely. Your father will know what to do. Calm yourself. There is no harm in childer.’
‘And you know Henry?’ Lucia said. It pleased her to see the other woman hesitate. Then, without replying, Bel kissed her firmly and left. The door closed.
Her father said, ‘If you are in some female decline, you might like to think of taking the veil. It would be a relief to us all. I take it you think Gelis is bearing to Simon, and will tell Nicholas so? I doubt it. She would lose her marriage settlement as a result. I see no cause for concern.’
‘There would be no cause for concern,’ Lucia said, ‘if every man thought as you do. But you expect Gelis to rear a bastard of Simon’s? You expect Simon to leave a child of his in Nicholas’shands? You are content that Nicholas, knowing nothing, should be left in his
The news of the family spread to Kilmirren.
It came to Lucia first, in her comfortable Vasquez hall by the park of the tower. She sat and screamed until Matten came rushing, and then showed her the letter from Diniz which, of course, Matten could not read. Then, without even accepting the restoring drink Matten had brought her, she ordered her hooded cloak and hurried across to Kilmirren Castle.
The rain was cold. The rain had never been cold in Madeira, or in Portugal where her late husband came from. Diniz, only half Portuguese, never seemed to notice the rain. Diniz had married a burgher’s daughter in Bruges, and seemed enchanted with her. Diniz had been enchanted by Nicholas ever since the African voyage. And now this letter, with news that Diniz plainly thought wonderful.
‘It is appalling,’ said Lucia de St Pol, thrusting her father’s chamberlain aside and bursting into her father’s parlour. ‘I am going to faint. What shall we do? I cannot believe it!’
From his great cushioned chair her great cushioned father surveyed her with astonishment. He said, ‘You have my permission to faint. Indeed, you may throw a fit, provided you do it on the other side of that door. You may not have observed. I am occupied.’
He wasn’t. He was as good as alone. The short, stout woman (who did rise to her feet) was that neighbour who was well-enough bred to act as Lucia’s companion from time to time when she travelled. Bel of Cuthilgurdy had accompanied Lucia to her husband’s villa in Portugal. The widow Bel, of sturdy constitution, had even travelled to Africa with Diniz, and Gelis, and vander Poele. Now she said, ‘Monseigneur de Ribérac, the lassie’s distracted. Mistress Lucia, come away in and sit down. What’s to do?’
Lucia sat, her son’s letter clenched in one hand. She said, ‘Diniz says they’re both pregnant.’
Her father stared at her. ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is indeed a matter for swooning with all imaginable diligence. Diniz and his wife?’
She loathed him. She had always loathed him. She understood how her grown son and her small nephew Henry hated him too. She said, her voice shaking, ‘You joke. Read that. Read that letter. Tilde de Charetty is pregnant. Your great-grandchild will be the descendant of pawnbrokers. But I’ll tell you something worse than that. Gelis van Borselen is carrying. ’
The face of Bel of Cuthilgurdy, featureless as a flour-bag, became slowly illumined. The countenance of Jordan de Ribérac expressed simple enquiry. He said, ‘And one should faint? I hardly think so. You have, as always, made a mistake, Lucia. Go away.’
‘A mistake!’ she said. ‘It is here, in black and white. The girl has hidden herself in a convent. The birth is due, they say – of course – in March or in April. A child! ’
‘Anything else would have been surprising,’ her father said. ‘Mistress Cuthilgurdy, will you excuse us?’
‘No!’ said Lucia. Even Bel, sometimes, could help.
But Bel was standing. ‘My hinny,’ she said. ‘A bairn still in the making is no threat to you, surely. Your father will know what to do. Calm yourself. There is no harm in childer.’
‘And you know Henry?’ Lucia said. It pleased her to see the other woman hesitate. Then, without replying, Bel kissed her firmly and left. The door closed.
Her father said, ‘If you are in some female decline, you might like to think of taking the veil. It would be a relief to us all. I take it you think Gelis is bearing to Simon, and will tell Nicholas so? I doubt it. She would lose her marriage settlement as a result. I see no cause for concern.’
‘There would be no cause for concern,’ Lucia said, ‘if every man thought as you do. But you expect Gelis to rear a bastard of Simon’s? You expect Simon to leave a child of his in Nicholas’shands? You are content that Nicholas, knowing nothing, should be left in his
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