Free Niccolo Rising by Dorothy Dunnett

on hers, glimmered in the firelight. Gnats, moths, flared, died, and dropped on their laps. She said, “Has no one told you that before?”
    “Who?” he said. “Who said that?”
    “No one you need be afraid of,” she said. “Except that I heard it. Except that it’s true.” Without him, her skin wavered between cold and hot, and she was still shivering.
    Very slowly, Simon of Kilmirren stood up, and the smears on his face were not comical. He said, “You father does not think so. Do I begin to see why you refused his lordship, and are unmarried at nineteen? You are malformed?”
    She stood also. “Yes,” she said. “If it means I have a dislike of fumbling attentions.”
    “You invited me here. I see. So all you want is a convent?” The anger in his voice was so well controlled that it hardly carried. His voice itself was low enough to escape any listener.
    “All I want is a gentleman,” said Katelina loudly.
    And found herself, somewhat naturally, alone in the garden.

Chapter 4
    D RAWN FROM THE comforts of the van Borselen kitchen, the servants of the noble Simon had to scramble to put on their jackets, collect the hound and attend, torch in hand, as their master, without taking leave of his host, set off at a smart pace for the market place and the Bridge of the Crane, beyond which lay his lodging. The dog, which he ignored, skipped and barked, excited by his streaked face, his blackened shirt and his air of displeasure. His servants walked carefully.
    Curfew fell at nine o’clock, and all those in the streets were home-going. After that, the only lights would hang at the gates of the wealthy, or flash from passing boats, or glimmer from pious niches, illuminating little.
    The night-life of Bruges after nine o’clock was pursued with minimal light or none at all. Despite the patrols of the Burgomeester van de Courpse and his officers, there were taverns and bath-houses and certain other establishments which did not shut their doors at nine, but these were careful to show no outward lights.
    No lights were carried by the officers of the peace who stood, turn about through the night, at the foot of the belfry, nor by the men who watched with bell and horn from the top. The nine closed gates and the five miles of ramparts were not lit, since Bruges was at peace. Only, from the country outside, you might see a tint in the clouds here and there, where they hung over a palace or courtyard or friary. And from within, observe from the cracks between shutters and the broad underfoot traps of the cellars, which householders were still up, and busy.
    Later, animals would prowl rustling among the refuse that would be swept up so excellently by the scavengers in the morning. The dredging boats would move slowly from canal to river, scouring the silt and netting the day’s quota of bloated pets and rotting vegetation. Near the bridge (here, where my lord Simon walked on without sparing a greeting) the kranekinders were checking and greasing the Grue, thetown crane, a task which could only be done at night, when business was over.
    Their lanterns flickered on the ground, illuminating the huge wooden framework raising its snout to the sky, with its pair of vast treadmill wheels roofed like farmhouses, and its mighty double hooks dangling. At its peak, from whatever whimsy, had been erected an effigy of the bird which gave it its name, and smaller cranes perched single-legged on the long sloping spine of its neck, freed by night from the jostling abuse of the seagulls. Familiar as the belfry to those who lived in and frequented Bruges, it drew no glance from the Scots servants of the fair Simon, steward of Kilmirren. Only one of the felt-capped men lying inside its wheels whistled between his teeth to the other and jerked his head, so that a drop of grease splashed on his cheek and made him curse amiably. Neither left his job, and indeed they had no need, for every man with night-business in Bruges came by the Crane