Free Caprice and Rondo by Dorothy Dunnett

had taken their place were, many of them, the same as those who had served the Knights as factors and agents, and their customs and tongue were still German. The husbands of these women knew every town of the Hanse, had lived in Veere and in Bruges, were familiar with London and Leith, Perth and Aberdeen, the Bay of Biscay and Brittany. Despite the hearty, disarming chatter, Kathi had to remember that they knew as much of her family as she did; and would wonder why she had married whom she had married, and what she was doing here. She would be regarded, of course, as her uncle’s spy.
    Nevertheless, she was also a source of information and entertainment and they were not, she found, malicious in their enquiries as a Venetian, for example, would have been. They talked of her home town of Bruges, and their husbands, and invited her to trust them with any gossip attached to the members of the Kontor, the council of Hanseatic merchants living in Bruges. How could it be healthy, to demand that honest men live as monks, without their wives to console them? And such wine, such fabrics, such jewels, they said, could be bought for nothing in Bruges! Katelijne’s betrothal ring was passed round, then her earrings, then one of her shoes and a sleeve. They spoke admiringly of her handsome young husband — and Scottish, not Flemish: how important his father must be! They sought to compare German and Flemish wedding-bed customs, and exchanged reminiscences about the performances of their own husbands under the eyes of the statutory witnesses:
    Did he pretend to do something, then?
    Oh, the rogue, no: he pretended to pretend, but all the time …! The thumb-marks next day!
    It was all comfortable, coarse and not unfriendly: the feminine equivalent of the Bergenfahrers. A little flushed, Kathi collected her wits and replied as cheerfully and uninformatively as she could. Fortunately, there was no one else to be embarrassed: Robin was at the Town Hall, where the Council and Jury were receiving my lord Anselm Adorne and the Patriarch on the first full day of official meetings. The morning was wearing away before she managed to enquire where Paúel Benecke lived.
    She had asked Barbara Bischoff, one of the daughters, but a different girl remarked, ‘Why? Have you met him?’ The speaker was built like a bison, and was eight inches taller than Kathi. Barbara giggled.
    Kathi said, ‘I met him in Iceland with Nicholas de Fleury, Lord Beltrees. Or Colà, he calls himself now.’
    ‘Did they share you?’ enquired the young woman.
    ‘Elzbiete!’ the girl Barbara said.
    ‘No, my brother and Robin were there, and Lord Beltrees, of course, was still married. You know Lord Beltrees?’ Kathi said with exquisite nonchalance. ‘Under both names?’ The conversation about her was dwindling.
    ‘Colà z Brugge the madman, of course. Everyone knew who he was: they all kept quiet, for they thought he was spying. You say, was still married?’ said the girl.
    ‘To a lady called Gelis van Borselen. They have separated since, and await an annulment. I hope he is in no danger,’ said Kathi solicitously. ‘I know that Captain Benecke owes him his life.’
    ‘I should not thank Colà for that,’ the young woman said. ‘Paúel Benecke is a black whoring rat.’
    Through a chorus of screams, Barbara patted the girl’s brawny arm while explaining to Kathi: ‘Paúel Benecke is her father. What she says is quite true. Did you want to meet Colà? Nikolás of Fleury, as you say?’
    Kathi swallowed. She said, ‘I should like to surprise him.’
    ‘That can be arranged,’ said the thoughtful bass of Elzbiete. ‘So, tell us what you know of Nikolás, Colà. Does he keep extravagant mistresses, or does he make do with inexpensive bought favours, as here? Was his wife, Gelis, frigid? Is he a vigorous man, and well made, as they say? Is he depicted in the great painting at Oliva?’
    ‘None of his wives was what you’d call frigid. What great