Niccolo Rising

  He and Claes appeared to converse mainly in sign language and Catalan, which they all knew bits of from Lorenzo. He was a very large negro, with shoulders like mattresses, and Brother Gilles was afraid of him and prayed when he came too near, which the negro seemed to enjoy. So they rode on sedately south, glittering with helmet, cuirass and leg-armour under the banner of Astorre, nobly horsed, with the nose-piece of his helmet supplying a profile of astonishing dignity, considering the convulsed and furious face that worked beneath it.

  On the way to Geneva, Claes was thrown to the bowmen, and it was discovered that he had an accurate eye, which allowed a respite to some of his bruises. This lasted for a day, at the end of which an outburst of maniac inventiveness got him thrashed by Astorre himself. It had very little effect. His superabundant energy, it was apparent, had returned. He was cured. That was the night before they entered Geneva. Once settled in their chosen inn, the doctor tossed a phial-end of salve to Julius’ African and told him to smear some on Claes’ lacerations. The black man, who answered to Loppe rather than Lopez, appeared to understand well enough, and went off with it. The doctor said, “You know Geneva well and so do I, but what must these two, Loppe and Claes, make of it all? Or do we keep them too busy to think?”

  Julius had been wary of Tobie at first. Astorre still thought he was a spy, and fingered his half-ear when Tobie contradicted him. Tobie had a tongue in his head like a whiplash but had shown no interest, till now, in the Charetty family. And even now, his box on a bench, the doctor was only chatting while working.

  Julius was working too, a ledger laid on his knees and his tender backside sunk in a cushion. “Oh, Claes knows Geneva,” said Julius. “Poor bastard. He was dragged up in the kitchens of the Fleury family till they kicked him out and Corneille de Charetty took him in as an apprentice. The Widow’s sister married into the Fleury.”

  “Why did they kick him out?” said the doctor absently. He had cleared a space on the commonroom stool for his bowl and pestle, and was blending powders, crushing and grinding with circular movements, the candlelight glowing on his toughened, bald scalp.

  “Why did he get a thrashing today? Too much energy and no sense of direction,” said Julius. “Also, a peculiar household. Wait till you meet Esota.”

  “Esota?” He went on grinding.

  “Wife of Jaak de Fleury. Jaak, the head of the business. Old Thibault’s sick; stays outside Dijon; does nothing now. Jaak runs it all. Was running it when I was there as his notary. Claes had gone by that time. I stuck it a year, until I heard there was work at the Charetty.”

  The blending was finished. Tobie released his spatula and exercised his fingers, looking up. He had the most unremarkable face Julius had ever seen. Sheathed in fine, spindrift hair, the bald head descended through a flat, faintly-lined brow to colourless eyebrows, round pale eyes and a small spare mouth, tinted pink. Its single decorative note was formed by the pads of his nostrils, which were round and fleshy and curled, like two notes of music. Tobie said, “We have to go there, don’t we? How do you feel about meeting them?”

  “Oh, we didn’t quarrel,” said Julius. “I left to be tutor to Felix. Jaak was angry because he was losing me, and he doesn’t like the Charetty family – the demoiselle’s sister was only a second wife, and the Fleury don’t really recognise the relationship. But Corneille de Charetty was useful as a Bruges agent: buying stuff like pewter from England for de Fleury’s clients, or herring or pictures or painted canvas. And in return, Jaak sells Charetty cloth at the Geneva fairs on commission. So he complained – didn’t he! – when I left, but he didn’t want to fall out with Corneille.”

  “So of course you don’t mind going back,” said the doctor. “Well-found, with authority, the notary of a promising war-band with excellent prospects. He’ll regret even more that he lost you.” He leaned forward and, lifting his bowl, began to fill a jar methodically with its scourings.

  Julius gave a wry smile. “It will be amusing,” he said. “I suppose it’s Claes one should be sorry for. Poor bastard. Eight years later, and look at him. They’ll be glad they got rid of him when they did.”

  Tobias said, “Well, you saved the boy’s life there at Sluys. He seems quite attached to you. Is he frightened now? What will he do when he comes face to face with this family?”

  “Smile,” said Julius.

  The doctor raised his brows. He said, resting his hands on his knees, “You make him sound simple. From all I hear of him, he can be highly ingenious when he wants to be.”

  “Well, of course he is,” said Julius, irritated. “He’s picked up reading and writing, and scraps from the classes at Louvain as Felix’s servant. The Widow’s harsh, but she’s never stopped him improving himself. I’ve taught him myself. He’s good at numbers. In fact, that’s what he’s best at.”

  “And still a dyers’ apprentice?” said the doctor.

  Julius’ annoyance changed to amusement. “Well, can you see Claes in clerical company?” he said. “He’d empty anyone’s office in a trice. He likes his life. He’s happy. I sometimes wish that he wasn’t. He lets other people do what they like with him. If he settled down and applied himself, he could get the better of them sometimes at least.”

  The doctor was mildly interested. “So,” he said. “This sudden plunge into soldiering. Is it his idea? Or the only way the demoiselle could get rid of him?”

  “Oh, the demoiselle,” Julius said. “Bruges complained. Someone had to knock him into shape. And at least, now he’s learning to defend himself.”

  “So I see. I hope my salve lasts out,” said the doctor. “And what if he turns to the attack one of these days?”

  “I wish he would,” Julius said. “We all wish he would. I’d support him. In fact, if he really put his mind to it, I can tell you, I shouldn’t care to be one of his targets.”

  “Yes,” said Tobie thoughtfully. “I agree. He’s a big fellow, Claes. I wonder if the demoiselle has really been wise? To put a sword in his hand instead of a dyestick?”

  Julius didn’t trouble to answer. Claes was Claes. Julius knew him, and Tobie didn’t. All you could do was keep pushing him, and hope that one day he would take the initiative.

  They passed through the gates of Geneva next day, with the dazzle of Alpine snows on the skyline, and the wind blowing straight off them. Not a big town, clinging to its steep hill at the end of the lake, but built where it mattered: where roads and rivers led north to France and south-east to Italy and south to Marseilles and the Middle Sea, and merchants from all these places could meet, and exchange goods, and spend money. The big stone fortified houses with their tower-staircases and their vast cellars belonged to the merchants, and there were well-kept quays down on the lake, and inns and warehouses and well-built market booths at the Molard, near the Madeleine, and rows of notary-benches up in the square by St Peter. But the burgess houses were narrow, and only of wood. Not all the town shared the wealth of the merchants.

  Surrounded by traders, Geneva was also surrounded by predators. The Dukes of Savoy might currently control the city, appoint the Bishops of Geneva; name their sons as its Counts. But France’s unstable monarch had a greedy eye on these Fairs which milked off the trade of French Lyons. And the Duke of Savoy was not always very wise. He had given help to the Dauphin, the King of France’s estranged son, now sheltered by Burgundy. He had let the Dauphin marry Charlotte, the Duke of Savoy’s plain young daughter. Periodically, the King of France leaned on the Duke of Savoy, and Savoy and Geneva periodically stopped plotting and cowered. They were too vulnerable to be brave about it.

  Which was why, to be sure, the traders who dabbled in banking and the bankers who dabbled in trading tended to have, always, stout branches elsewhere. At the first breath of a threat, the assets of the Medici mysteriously would transport themselves in the form of ledger books and anonymous paper over the Alps to the safety of Florence and Venice and Rome. The house of Thibault and Jaak de Fleury hedged its bets through its connec
tion with Bruges and Burgundy through the Charetty company. But it was very careful to keep the esteem of Charles of France.

  So reflected Julius as the cavalcade wound its way, mules, wagons, soldiers and all, up the steep streets towards the Hôtel de Fleury where it was to unload and disperse. Claes, he saw, was quite near, labouring seriously on his horse, tin hat on his nose. On impulse, Julius said, “This is no pleasure for you, meeting Monsieur and Madame de Fleury again. I’m not looking forward to it either. They were severe with you.”

  Claes’ caterpillar lips, expanding, paralleled the rim of his helmet. He said, “Oh, I forget. I got used to the hobble. And they always brought my head back in the morning until the string broke.”

  “They treated you like a serf,” Julius said. “Even after you left, people talked about it. Don’t you bear them a grudge?”

  “I’ll try,” said Claes, “if you want me to.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Julius shortly.

  He spurred on. He reminded himself. Talking to Claes was a mistake.

  Since, teasingly, the Charetty notary had not described the Fleury family in any detail, the surgeon Tobie was curious. He was curious, primarily, about Julius himself, who seemed an extraordinary mixture of innocence and ambition. The widow de Charetty, Tobie guessed, had disappointed Julius in some way. Now he appeared to hope his fortune was going to be made in the train of a great mercenary company. He was a good accountant, and he was possibly right. Tobie, with a year’s experience of Lionetto’s unlovely ways, recognised in captain Astorre a man of equal ambition and perhaps equal lack of principle, but with a rough regard for the rights of his men which Lionetto had never troubled with. Before age overtook him, Astorre wanted, Tobie guessed, the big prizes that had so far eluded him – the great reputation, the statue in the market place with laurels on it. Half a day in Astorre’s company, and he was sure of it.

  Tobie knew Astorre was watching him, and moderated his own abrasive style not at all. If Astorre didn’t want him, he could say so. But he would want him. Tobie knew about Lionetto, who was after the big prizes also, and who had sworn to get in Astorre’s way if he hindered him. Some time, when he trusted him, Astorre would ask Tobie about Lionetto. Meanwhile, at the thought of Lionetto, Tobie’s back occasionally twitched.

  But Astorre would keep him, of course, for even better reasons. Tobie was the finest surgeon this side of the Alps, and maybe beyond them. Maybe. That, in a way, was what he was trying to prove. There was no medical crisis known to man that you didn’t come across treating an army, except maybe childbirth. He had worked in a kind of furious ecstasy all the past year, and had found out things and done things he hadn’t believed possible. Including curing the boy, which had led to his being here. The boy Claes, who must come to no harm in the house of the Fleury. Or at least, not until he and Tobie had had a talk about hair dye, and love potions, and holly.

  The Hôtel de Fleury was massive. The yard swallowed their cavalcade: the cellars accepted, in their various quarters, the furs from the Doria and the barrels of salmon from the Strozzi; the goods from the Charetty which Jaak was to market; the consignments from the five merchants who had travelled with them and who would pay, heavily, for the privilege of warehousing until the next Fair.

  The goods for Italy were stored in yet another area, ready for transfer to packmules for the Alpine crossing, and the Lorrainer carters paid off with their wagons and beasts. The horses for Pierfrancesco, with care, were led to the stables and housed with Jaak de Fleury’s own.

  The consignment they called Brother Gilles, with less care, was required to wait in the biting wind in the emptying courtyard, listening to the raucous voice of the Fleury steward and his henchmen and the dwindling noise of the men at arms as they were led off to their quarters. At last, none was left in the yard but the captain Astorre, his deputy Thomas with Claes, Julius with his African servant, the silent, shivering singer, and Tobie. Then, and only then, the massive double doors of the Hôtel de Fleury creaked and opened: a servitor, bowing, stood back, and there emerged on the threshold the magnificent person of Jaak de Fleury.

  Magnificent, thought Tobie Beventini, was the word. Not in the way of Popes or Doges, a tribute to status, to trappings, although this man had both. Magnificent in physique and in presence: a being to command. Jaak de Fleury was taller than most, and built like an athlete at the peak of his powers. His shoulders were of a breadth to wear like thistledown a gown of double cut-velvet lined with the finest of sables. His face below its wide jewelled hat was smooth and tanned and heavily handsome: the nose solid and straight in the French manner; the eyes dark and intelligent; the well-shaped lips smiling; the smile itself serviced by gleaming whorls: round the lip-corners, under the high, solid cheekbones, extending the full, well-lashed eyes.

  Jaak de Charetty said, “Well, Astorre my poor man, how late you are. To be expected, of course. I expect you tried to tear yourself away from your employer as best you could. The ladies, God bless them, and fools that they are. You had better come to my bureau and – ah, I see my little notary with you. Both of you. My wife is somewhere, and will look after the rest of you. Is that a heathen I see? Not in the house, surely. Or the knave.”

  “They both come indoors,” said Julius. The hardness of his voice surprised Tobie. Julius added, “The servant is mine, and is Christian. The young man is Claes.”

  “Claes?” said Jaak de Fleury without interest. His steward waited for orders, a bone-cracking grip on Loppe’s arm and another on Claes’ nearest shoulder.

  “He lived with you,” Julius said.

  The luminous eyes studied Claes, from the dented bowl on his head to the stained and battered links of his shirt-mail, the uneven hem of his doublet, the darned stuff of his hose and the scuffed, borrowed boots on his feet.

  “So many did,” said Jaak de Fleury. “Which was this? The one who stole? They all did. The one who claimed my wife raped him? No, that was you, Master Julius, was it not? The one with the unusual rapport with the farmyard? Yes, that was Claes. I sent him, as I remember, where pissing might serve a purpose. To the Charetty dyeshop. How well I see he has turned out.”

  The notary had said Claes would smile, and Tobias saw that he was right. The smile was perfectly open, with neither guilt nor confusion behind it. Claes said, “All your training, grand-uncle. I told them.”

  “Grand-uncle?” said the merchant. He drew back and then yielded smoothly to laughter. “An intended insult, I suppose. An instruction from the Widow to embarrass me. Well it might, if you were my bastard and not my late niece’s. But as it is, I forgive you. A light beating, Agostino; and lock the boy in the barn. Come. I am cold.”

  “Monseigneur, so are we all,” said the voice of Astorre, hoarsely bland. He raised his short arms. With no apparent effort, the slave Loppe was disengaged from the steward’s grasp with one hand, and the shoulder of Claes claimed with the other. “Don’t concern yourself with this rubbish. It belongs to us, and will serve us indoors. There is a singer for Cosimo de’ Medici dying of cold. Do we stand here all day?”

  The fine eyes of Jaak de Fleury stared at the captain. He said, “You would loose these brutes in my house? For what harm they do, I expect compensation.”

  “You will have it,” said Astorre. “Now, can we enter? There is business.”

  “Ah yes, there is business,” said Jaak de Fleury. “Women’s business at that. How charming they are in their innocence. God asks us to protect them, and we will. But who will repay us the cost of it? Not the heir. Not the delightful young gentleman Felix, with his beardless pranks. And so, dear Julius, they can no longer pay you your wages? You have to fight for a living like the brutes you professed to despise. How sad. And who is that man?”

  Tobie said, “A physician. Tobias Beventini, Monsieur de Fleury.”

  The eyes trained themselves directly upon him. “A relative?” said Jaak de Fleury. “A relative of Jean-Mathieu Ferrari?”

  No one else had as
ked him that. “A nephew,” said Tobie. He could feel Julius looking at him.

  “Trained in Pavia?”

  “Yes, monsieur,” said the doctor. “I am under contract to captain Astorre. I wish battle experience.”

  “Your uncle would not agree,” said the merchant.

  “Fortunately,” said Tobie, “it is my affair and not his. My present concern is the monk here. The cold air could damage his throat. Messer Cosimo would be disappointed.”

  “It is of no matter to me,” said Jaak de Fleury. “The Medici are my debtors. Signor Nori is responsible for the Geneva branch of the Medici. Signor Sassetti, once the manager, sometimes visits him. One or other of them will call soon, for their documents. Nori, plenty of money and always ailing. There’s a gold mine for you. Sell him a cure. He’ll pay. Sell him a cure for anything: he’s convinced he has every disease there’s a name for. Go that way. My wife will take care of you.”

  He walked off, with Astorre and the notary following. No Madame de Fleury appeared. After a moment, catching the eye of the Englishman Thomas, Tobie entered the house, his hand on Brother Gilles’ elbow. Thomas followed, with the big African and Claes walking slowly behind, looking about them. A staircase offered, and Tobie was making towards it when a quick movement arrested him. From behind a door, drawn by the youth Claes, came the frightened figure of a middle-aged woman, one reddened hand clutching her apron.

  “She doesn’t recognise me,” said Claes, grinning down at her. “Claikine, Tasse. Remember Claikine, aged ten? The boiled eggs under the broody hen?”