Niccolo Rising

  “Your son?” said Claes. “How would I kill him better with money?”

  The fat man’s eyes never ceased watching. “You fought him,” he said.

  “He fought me,” said Claes. “You’ve paid no attention to him before, that I’ve heard of. Why suddenly champion him now? You won’t change what’s wrong with him; it’s too late. You won’t change what’s wrong with me: you don’t even know what it is.”

  “You underrate me,” said Jordan de Ribérac. “I could begin with your name.”

  Marian de Charetty said, “He hasn’t harmed the Medici by anything that he’s done.”

  The fat man looked at her. “Misreporting market rates to his advantage? Demoiselle, that is theft, and we all know how theft is punished. Does he know whose bastard he is?”

  She flushed.

  Claes said, “I know.”

  “Yes,” said the fat man. “Whatever I think of my son, when someone lays a finger on a member of my family, I like to find out all I can about them. As I think I have shown you. So let us talk about bastardy. You know, you say. So you know about your poor, silly mother, who fornicated with servants?”

  The crash from the table was the demoiselle’s fist. Claes looked at it, and her face. She was scarlet. She said, “M. le vicomte, you may leave.”

  The fat man’s bright eyes surveyed her. “Why? The story is old news. None dispute it. You have no need to be disturbed, demoiselle. The boy is no blood of yours. His grandfather took your sister in second marriage. You are his great-aunt only by marriage, as the Geneva merchant Jaak de Fleury is his great-uncle. Did you enjoy visiting him, Claes?” said M. de Ribérac. “You did pass through Geneva?”

  “I didn’t kill him either,” said Claes. “I disappointed his wife, but that’s another matter. I think you are disturbing the demoiselle.”

  She didn’t look as if she thanked him for that. She was breathing quickly. She said, “The demoiselle is quite capable of having a gentleman escorted from her premises, if his language warrants it. Is that all your business, M. de Ribérac? To warn Claes not to injure your son? I have told you before, monseigneur, your son is a vindictive man.”

  “You don’t like him,” said the fat man. He examined her.

  She said, “He is handsome, and has many friends, I am sure. No, I don’t like him.”

  “Neither does the lady Katelina van Borselen,” said the fat man. “You are right. He has been wrongly reared. And who is to put matters right but his father?” His mouth smiled and then, compressing its chins, became vertical. He gave a parody of a pout. “But I live in France, and whom can I trust to help me over here? Who will watch over Simon’s movements, report to me what he does, warn me if he becomes engaged in unseemly designs, or makes inappropriate attachments, or seems about to forget the family honour?”

  He paused. He made a large gesture. “Who but a young informer already under threat of exposure? You, my dear Claes, will become, unknown to him, my son’s shadow. For the best of reasons, my personal spy. That is why I have come. To offer you an appointment.”

  Claes took his time over answering. No one was going to interrupt him. He analysed the suggestion, like a puzzle. Half the pieces were missing. He said, “Because, monseigneur, you want me to kill him?”

  The fat man smiled, but said nothing. Claes said, more slowly, “Or because, after this talk, it ensures that I shan’t kill him in case it would please you?”

  The fat man’s smile broadened. He said, “So subtle! You will have me thinking of you as Nicholas. You will do it then?”

  Behind the table, the demoiselle made a slight movement, and stopped herself. Claes ignored it. Claes stood in front of the fat man, and heard his heart beat through the soles of his boots. He said deliberately, “You forget your own manhood. Even an artisan is excused from dealing with animals.”

  Palms on his chair, the man slowly rose. As tall as Claes and twice as broad, he levered upright his bulk, steady as the town crane, until he stood face to face with the youth. He went on, with a relic of grace, to lift one thick arm until it stretched, like a dancer’s, high over his head. The hand, heavily ringed, lay curled in the air, as if about to curvet in a greeting. Then M. de Ribérac swept it downwards. His palm remained cupped towards him. His outer hand, with its heavy quartz ring, burst its way carefully down Claes’ cheek, from his eye to his chin, holding its blood-infilled course till the end. Then he drew his wrist back and let it dangle. Below the ring, blood appeared on the floor.

  Marian de Charetty, on her feet, had seized her handbell to ring it. Claes moved, his hand on her arm, and prevented her. The fat man, smiling at Claes, spoke to him as if nothing had happened.

  “If we are trading insults,” said the fat man, “try that for another. I made you an offer. To refuse it with crudity was an error. You will observe, in the weeks ahead, other tokens of my interest in your affairs, and the affairs of your employer. You will notice, too, when I have groomed my son to my taste.”

  “If he survives it,” said Claes. He let the demoiselle’s arm go. Blood, dripping from his jaw, was reddening his shirt and he lifted his fingers in a vague gesture to stem it.

  The fat man looked at him, and then at the widow. He sighed. “Who knows what lies ahead of him, or of you?” he said. “You will remember today. Especially, of course, when you look in the mirror. It is not, my dear knave, the face of a Nicholas, is it?”

  Marian de Charetty was standing, her hand still on the bell.

  Jordan de Ribérac smiled. He said gently, “Demoiselle, you have not been wise. God give you good day.”

  The door closed behind him. There followed the sound of his ponderous tread, moving away. Without asking leave, Claes sat down suddenly and bowed his head. Between his knees, his hands gripped each other, and blood splashed on them.

  He was not often out of control. His body and brain had a good partnership and the difficult moments, if any, were always in private. This one was not. His skin pricked and crawled and the frame of his bones held a wasps’ nest. He became aware that Marian de Charetty was beside him, and saying things in an abrupt voice.

  “That was assault. Why did you stop me? I’ll call in the magistrates.”

  When he paid no attention, her voice died away, but she was still there. Something touched his torn cheek. He put a warding hand up and found a cloth there. She relinquished it into his fingers and took a light grip of his shoulder. Then her other hand moved to the nape of his neck and spreading, blanketed it.

  She held her palm there, warm and firm, as he had seen her do for her children. When he stirred, she moved it away. He saw her face bent over him. She looked half-smiling, half-agonised. She said, “My dear. What a homecoming.” Below the wired headdress, her brow had puckered, like roughened water.

  My dear. He tried to think about that, but it escaped him. The cloth was sodden but he kept it to his face. His other hand, palmed on his knee, wanted to massage and work like a fuller. He fell into speech. “Why should he do a thing like that?”

  There was another stool in front of him. The grip left his shoulders and the demoiselle de Charetty went and sat on that, and looked at him. “Because he is an evil man,” she said. “We couldn’t warn you. He threatened us with what he could do to you.” She paused, and then said again, “If we could only have warned you.”

  “I think I guessed,” he said. “He wanted to lie in wait. He hoped to learn something.” His brain began, sluggishly, to work again. He said, “The threats were nothing. But you shouldn’t have heard them, or the insults. I’m sorry. And you defended me.”

  Before he finished, his mind had begun to stray back. She must have realised then that her first reply answered the wrong question. She said, “It was a trial. He expected you to refuse. Claes?”

  She had begun to start from her chair. She stopped and, changing direction, took time to find a fresh napkin. She held it out. “In a moment, I’ll get you some water.”

  There was blood all ov
er his clothes. The fresh cloth to his face, he blotted idly here and there with the old one. He said, “If it was a trial, there doesn’t seem much doubt of the verdict.” The lightest touch of the dressing was painful. It wasn’t the same as the back lash he was used to. Scarred for life by a ring. By a man’s ring, at that. No one would believe it. Not Julius, anyway. Tobie, maybe.

  He began, at last, to be able to handle the matter. He turned fully towards the demoiselle. He said, “Oh, no magistrates. There’s nothing very much that would help matters. Nothing even worth talking about. He forced his way in. You couldn’t stop him. It would have been silly to call in half the yard over that. I’m only sorry you had to put up with it.”

  “There is the matter of your face,” said Marian de Charetty.

  “No,” said Claes. “What action could I take that would do any good? And it isn’t for you to take any. I wouldn’t let you. He won’t come back. He has a feud with his son, and he tried to involve us. He knows now where we all stand.” He paused. He made to smile, and stopped very quickly. He said, “Put it behind you. I shall. He’s just an unpleasant man with an unpleasant son and too much power. I know what went wrong. You didn’t ask him if he was thirsty.”

  But she was not prepared to be hurried. She said, “And the threats? They didn’t sound like nothing to me. What have you been doing?”

  Claes said, “You can judge for yourself. Let me get clean and come back, and I’ll tell you.”

  “Everything?” she said. She had risen and gone to her cabinet. She turned, flask in hand. She said, “You need some of this, first. What was it in Felix’s tavern? Beer?”

  “It would have been,” he said. “Except that my employer summoned me just as the rim touched my lips.” He began to say, “Your son has very bad timing,” and then did not say it.

  She said, “This is the strongest wine I have. Don’t tell Henninc I have begun to drink it. It has been that kind of winter.” She paused and added, “For everybody, I think. And Felix has done very well.”

  He emptied the full cup she gave him in a single long swallow, and let her refill it. He took it with him to the sleeping room that he shared, which was empty, and stood in silence for a moment before the piece of mirror, before he went to find water. The demoiselle had offered to help, but he was used to all this. More or less.

  He was quick. He cleaned the deep ragged cut and changed his shirt and scrubbed the marks on his doublet and hose, holding fresh cloths to his face as the bleeding stopped and started. He had put ointment on the wound, and alum. It was the correct styptic, of course. It was also a small, personal gesture of defiance.

  After all that, he went back to the demoiselle’s office, and found that there was a tray of assorted meats on the table, and more wine. She was dressed from chin to floor in one of her usual gowns, but not the same one, and of a softer material. She was rather pale, and extremely efficient. He was not very hungry, but was glad to drink again. She said, “You deserve to be speechless, but perhaps after your report, rather than before it. Is it painful to talk?”

  “Not about this,” said Claes with confidence.

  It wasn’t true. His face ached and bled and he kept dabbing at it. But the need to talk kept his mind occupied. He had already laid on her desk the reports from Astorre; the details of the Milanese contract and the Naples posting, the lists of men and horses, supplies and equipment copied neatly for her by Julius. Now he sat in the high settle and spoke to it.

  The demoiselle took her platter to her own table. While she ate, she held her pen in the other hand and used it, noting and checking his figures.

  He still drank intermittently, but not enough to make him careless. The items went by one by one. The negro Loppe had been safely delivered to the Duke, and there was a letter about him. The Medici goods, including the horses, had arrived in good order. Julius was with Astorre. The doctor had remained in Milan to deal with an accident to Brother Gilles. A very slight accident.

  She queried that, and received a brief account which said nothing of avalanches or Gaston du Lyon. She did not query the equally brief account of the business transactions, such as they were, which had taken place at the house of Jaak de Fleury. He mentioned having bought some cheap armour on the way north in case Astorre needed to refit or add men to the company. She asked questions, and he gave her answers, but went no further than that. Not just yet.

  Then he turned to his own work, and spoke carefully. He had delivered the bills and the letters, and had found a sure market for a good courier service. They would require relays of men, and extra horses, but he had orders already to cover the outlay. He named clients in Milan. They included Pigello Portinari and the Florentine friends of Pierfrancesco Medici. He had promises from the Strozzi and the Genoese and the Venetians and even the Curia. And the Duke’s secretary had been impressed, and said that he might well place dispatches with him from time to time. It would require someone in Bruges to train the couriers and to supervise the relays. Perhaps someone in Milan also. It was for the demoiselle to say who. These were the receipts so far, and these the draft contracts.

  She laid her pen down and began to look at the receipts, slowing down as she proceeded. She laid the last one on the table and looked up at Claes. She said, “These are very large sums.”

  “Yes, demoiselle,” said Claes. He sustained her blue stare.

  She said, “You know very well these are extraordinary payments for a courier service. In fact, they are not for a courier service, are they? This is what Jordan de Ribérac was talking about. These are fees for information already received, or bought in advance. Is that so?”

  He had known, uneasily, that he was going to have to explain that. He said, “Every state pays for information, and every courier opens papers. We might as well get the profit as another.”

  She said, “I would have believed you if M. de Ribérac hadn’t made a point of it. He mentioned the Acciajuoli and Gaston du Lyon. Neither name is here.”

  Claes said, “Because they’re indirect clients. I met Gaston du Lyon, and he may recommend us to the Dauphin. The Acciajuoli are the Florentine friends of Pierfrancesco Medici. The Medici are clients, and I hope they’ll direct the Bruges branch to use us. I saw Angelo Tani this morning.”

  The diversion didn’t work. She said, “I’m waiting for you to tell me why de Ribérac made a point of mentioning them. I take it the Acciajuoli are relatives of the man you hurt at Damme?”

  His cheek was beginning to thicken. He said, “The ones I saw come from Florence. The other branch of the family stayed in Greece and became dukes of Athens and princes of Corinth, until the Turks came. Since then, of course, they’ve all been captured or exiled.” He glanced at her. She raised her eyebrows, and kept them raised. “– Or trading under licence with the Turks,” he said reluctantly. “That’s what the vicomte was hinting.”

  She said, “Trading in what?”

  He said, “Anything. Silk, of course. They’re importing already from Lucca, and the Medici are within a sneeze of negotiating as well. Of course, as Christians they’re not supposed to.”

  He saw her trying to read his face, and then look away from it. She said, “Well? Why are you interested in the Greeks, and the Greeks in you? We don’t sell silk. They dye their own cloths in Constantinople.”

  Claes said, “It would be useful if the Pope launches his crusade. To have a connection, I mean.”

  She stared at him. She said, “You don’t want me to know. But if something goes wrong, I shall be ruined as well as you. You heard de Ribérac.”

  “There’s nothing to know,” he said.

  She said, “And the other things he was talking about? The letters you carry? I never knew a man more able than you to unsew a letter or copy a seal or decipher a code. Thank God, at least the Medici are safe. They change their code every month and use Hebrew into the bargain.”

  There was a silence, during which he turned over meat with his knife-point. He failed to think of s
omething to say, and paid the price for the failure.

  “Loppe!” exclaimed Marian de Charetty. “Loppe was owned by a Jew? And you are spying, of course. Probably for and against everyone. And the Medici are going to find out. And you are going to hang a rich man. Or would, if I let this go on. It is not to go on. You are to go back, cancel this contract, and join Astorre in Naples. Do you hear me?”

  He said, “How can you stop me?”

  “I can disown you,” she said.

  “Then you’ll receive your profits from me as a present. Disown me, of course, if you’re truly afraid. But you needn’t do it yet. And demoiselle,” said Claes. “You can’t really believe I could put you in danger?”

  She was sitting bolt upright, staring at him. She said, “Claes, double-dealing is mortally dangerous. Double-dealing where there is an enemy about like de Ribérac is stupid. These people your clients are jealous and powerful. He mentioned the Dauphin. If the Dauphin enrols you and has reason to doubt your loyalty, then we may as well shut the business and go into exile.”

  Claes said, “I know all that. Those kinds of risks can be avoided. As far as the Dauphin is concerned, I’d never expect to deceive him. For a prince, he’s far too astute.”

  There was a pause he didn’t understand. The demoiselle picked a piece of meat herself and toyed with it. “Felix would agree with you,” she said. “The house has rung with the Dauphin’s praises for a month. Or with praise of his hounds. It’s the same thing.”

  He waited. When she added nothing, he said, “You’ve been in Louvain a lot, then. It must have passed the time for Felix.”

  “Well, of course, he and the Dauphin met in Louvain,” said the Widow judicially. “But nothing, I can tell you, surpassed the splendour of that first summons to the court at Genappe. I thought Felix would swoon. You probably swooned, listening. I dare say he talked about it all night.”