Niccolo Rising

  He left the door at once and came to the bed and knelt, so that their eyes were level. She could see the glint of stubble above the swell and curl of his lips and over the frame of his jaw. His eyes, even unsmiling, still had a crescent pad of laughter tailored to each lower lid and beyond, ready for when he felt happy again.

  Her hand lay on the coverlet. She saw him begin to move his own, in simple concern, to cover it, and knew that she couldn’t prevent herself from shaking. He touched her, and she shuddered from head to foot.

  Taught by one night, she could read his response in his softening face. She watched him try to master it. But when he began to draw away, she snatched at his hand. The sheet dropped to her hips. If he moved to the door he would have to pull her naked with him. And out into the street. Her inner body was springing apart, was beginning of its own accord to scale the peak she had wanted him to drive her towards. She cried, “Oh, comfort me!”, but thought, even as he let himself respond, that it was too late.

  He was experienced. She was brought from the bed to the floor, and in seconds he was with her, and this time with insistent violence. It hammered her, already come to her pinnacle, and kept her there, agonised, dying with pleasure. In the last moments, with a sort of crazy wildness that plunged beyond practised timing, he sealed it by joining her.

  She lay, stunned into a sort of oblivion that might have been sleep. When she woke, she was again in bed, the sheet folded over her. Her limbs had melted. Where the ache of longing had been, there was a host of dim, unwonted pangs, quite unlike the small, sharp rending of her initiation. It came to her, an odd thought, that last time she had become merely a ravished virgin. This time, somehow, she had been made a woman.

  By Claes, again. Had he gone? No, that would be too discourteous. Then, fully dressed still, waiting for her to awake?

  She moved, and found his bare shoulder by hers, and his head deep in the pillow beside her. To comfort and receive her confidences, he had done what was considerate. And for other reasons, surely, too. Even Claes could never have reached that point so quickly, unless he had wanted her.

  He moved, feeling her move, and lifting himself on one elbow, stretched not towards her but to the bedside. When, half-sitting, he turned, he held a pewter cup of water, already drawn from her drinking-stand. Instead of offering it to her, he rested the cup on the sheet, and said, “Lie still for a little. Sometimes, when it’s like that, the first movements can make your head ache.”

  She lay, and felt her body settle, and the weight lift from her brow. He made no bones about his experience, even now. After a bit she moved too, and pulling herself up a little, took and emptied the cup. He leaned free of the sheet to place it on the floor, and she watched the muscles play on his body, from shoulder to rib, rib to hip and hip to thigh, and when he turned back, let him see her examining him.

  She said, “I saw a young bull once, working a field. I couldn’t believe what I saw. How many others have you mounted today?”

  He paused, but didn’t draw up the sheet, although his expression quietened. “None, demoiselle,” he said.

  Katelina stared at him. “I see. Hence, no doubt, the – brilliance – of your performance. If I hadn’t been here, what would you have done? Gone to a brothel?”

  He didn’t avoid her gaze. “Single men do,” he said. “It’s something society allows us. I’ve just left Felix in one.”

  “You mean,” she said, “I’ve saved you some money?”

  He let another interval pass, one elbow pushed into his pillow, his eyes on his hands clasped before him. Then he said, “You said you were in trouble.”

  “Yes, I did,” said Katelina. She was breathless with anger, and panic. She said, “You enjoy my body.”

  He smiled a little, at his hands. He said, “I failed to hide it, then.”

  She said, “If I were your wife, you could do that all night, and all day. Would you marry me for it? Or can you do better with other women?”

  He looked up. Then, unclasping his hands, he reached for one of hers and held it to him, folded lightly. He said, “You are without peer. But, demoiselle, there are things to discuss. You didn’t tell your parents of Jordan de Ribérac?”

  “No,” she said. “I told them my escort was the Gruuthuse boy.”

  “Then they’ll expect you to marry him,” said Claes.

  She gazed at him.

  He said, “Didn’t that strike you? And if he wants to marry you badly enough, he might happily claim to be your lover. You see, you needn’t be tied to me.”

  He made a pause, not quite smiling. When she said nothing, he resumed painstakingly.

  “If you don’t want him, of course, then you must tell your parents what really happened. They’ll help you if you choose a different husband, or if you decide not to marry till afterwards. Well-born girls are often sent abroad for their accouchement, and the child put out to foster.”

  It had suddenly got quite out of hand. She picked on one thing. “Tell my parents! They would flay you alive!”

  He shrugged a little. “If I were to stay in Flanders, of course. But there are other countries. And unless you want to marry the Gruuthuse boy, they must know the child’s parentage to safeguard you. Jordan de Ribérac was alone in your house before I was. The slightest hint of all this, and he might try to claim fatherhood and force marriage on you.”

  “He couldn’t!” said Katelina sharply.

  “He probably could, unless I can show him he’d lose by it. Do you know Andro Wodman?”

  A banquet for last year’s commander of the Flanders galleys at which she had met Jordan de Ribérac. And her father, quoting a Scot called Andro Wodman in de Ribérac’s retinue. She remembered, but said nothing. Claes said, “No? Well, he’s an archer of the French king’s bodyguard. I’ve seen him both with the vicomte de Ribérac and in the … associated with the Dauphin. He tried to hide from me. Also,” said Claes, retrieving his hands and linking them together again, “M. de Ribérac knows more than he should do about Gaston du Lyon, the Dauphin’s secret envoy.”

  Claes, in the vicinity of the Dauphin? She said, “What are you saying? That the great Jordan de Ribérac has been bought by the Dauphin, and the King of France doesn’t know?”

  “I think so. The vicomte knows far, far more than he should.”

  How did Claes know? Rumour, picked up in offices, taverns, brothels? Hints and fantasies, built into some vindictive falsehood? He had said nothing of this before. He might not have known. And before, of course, she had had a reputation to protect. The scar of de Ribérac’s blow stood, a glimmering stripe on his cheek. Katelina looked at it, and then at his eyes, which had no venom in them. She believed him. She said, “You have evidence, then.”

  “Only a few facts,” he said. “I haven’t looked for anything more. But I’ll find all the proof that you need if M. le vicomte frightens you, or tries to make you do anything you don’t want. You’ve only to tell me. You’ve only to tell me if there is anything else I can do.” He paused. He said briefly, “I thought you would loathe me.”

  She didn’t loathe him. You don’t hate a servant. She had only been angry with him because she was ashamed and angry with herself. She said, “After all you’ve said, it’s your turn, surely, to abhor me. I invited you to do what you did. I told you there was no danger. A child born of that bedding could ruin your life more than mine. Unless, of course, you were to marry me.”

  It was said for the second time, and for the second time she awaited his answer. She didn’t know what gave her away. Her insistence. The shrewish form of her anger, instead of an outburst of accusation and anguish. He dropped his hands and looked at her. His eyes saw to the back of her skull. She looked away.

  “You aren’t pregnant, and there is no trouble,” he said flatly.

  She was Katelina van Borselen, who had not hung her head, ashamed, since she was a child. She looked down, and was silent, through the swift movement by which he left her. He said, “Why?”
r />   From his voice, he was standing still on the floor by the bed. He had not fumbled to dress, or to cover himself. When she looked at him he was standing straight-backed and selflessly natural, like the men she claimed to be familiar with: a whole man, waiting for an explanation which was due to him. He knew the reason, but this time, he meant her to tell him. She said, “You would not have come otherwise.”

  He said, “And has it become any easier, now that I’ve come?”

  She shook her head.

  He said, “And what, then, is to happen? I am your servant, of course, in every way. But not in this.”

  She sought for some defence. She said, “It was marriage I was speaking of.”

  “Seriously?” he said. “No, demoiselle. Only to discover how you ranked in a new field of conquest. You have no peer. I’ve told you that. I have no wish to marry. I’ve told you that, too. And marriage with me is the last thing you want.” He brought the volley of words to a halt. His expression, which had been less than patient, switched to one of exasperated amusement. He let out a sigh like a puncture. “Katelina, what you want is what you have just had, and any husband will give it to you.”

  She lay becomingly disposed along the length of the bed, and the ache overwhelmed her. “You don’t want it from me ever again, even though I’ve no peer?”

  “Of course I want it. Of course I want you,” he said. “But not again. Never again. We’re using each other like whores. Can you see that?”

  “Yes, I can see it,” she said. “And I agree. And anyway, we will never be private together again. But we are here now, for the last time, and we can bring relief to each other. Please come. Please come here. Please comeback.”

  He couldn’t deny her, she thought, any more than he could deny his present want of her.

  Instead, bending abruptly, he extinguished the light which betrayed it. Then, as if hunger didn’t exist, he dressed in the dark and went to the door. From there, he said only, “Goodbye. Goodbye, demoiselle.”

  Chapter 25

  THE FOLLOWING day, for the first time in his life, Claes lost his temper in public. Riding from Ghent to Bruges, it was necessary to prime Felix with the report he, Felix, had to make to his mother. Claes reminded him why he had dismissed his Louvain manager and all the changes the new man was going to make, aided by Felix. Felix, languid after the night’s excesses, was irritated; a thing Claes normally found easy to deal with.

  This time he failed to beguile, perhaps because he himself was not entirely in the mood for inventive raillery. Felix rounded on him, pointing out that he knew perfectly well what his mother wanted to know; that he was tired of the subject, and that it had nothing to do with Claes anyway. From long experience, Claes dropped the whole thing and proceeded to work both Felix and himself into a better mood. They were nearly at Bruges when Felix, now entirely cheerful, mentioned Mabelie.

  Everyone, everywhere, teased Claes about his conquests. He accepted it philosophically. What his real feelings were in regard to one girl or another, there was no requirement for him to tell anybody. During the three months of his absence, anyway, his private affairs, if any, had been his own; and since he came back, he had been too busy to pursue personal matters. Apart from those he could not avoid. But on his first day back in Bruges, of course, Felix had told him that John Bonkle had won the affections of Mabelie. Which, since John was a nice lad, Claes had resigned himself to, and had taken trouble, indeed, to make things easy between himself and John, and to make it clear to the girl, who was a sweet thing, that he had no possible claims on her.

  He didn’t expect, at any time, to discuss Mabelie with Felix, far less on the road home from Ghent. Indeed, it began with what appeared to be a much more dangerous subject. Felix said, as they rode, “I don’t see why I shouldn’t bring my armour out now. You know all about it anyway. You can say the Dauphin’s men lent it to me. You can clean it for me, and I’ll put it into the show for the White Bear joust.”

  “You’ve put your name down then?” Claes said.

  “They accepted it. Before we left. It’s only two weeks away. I mean to practise every day. It’s the greatest joust in Flanders. In France. In Europe, really now. And they’ll all be there. The lord of Ghistelle. The seigneur de Gruuthuse. The Count of Charolais, maybe. As many of the Knights of the Golden Fleece as can get away. You know. The man who wins the lance is made Forestier for the year, and goes from house to house with his party …”

  “It costs a lot of money,” said Claes. He blinked. “Did you get money too?” He kept it low, so that the grooms riding behind shouldn’t hear.

  Felix grinned. “You didn’t guess? Well, it went into things you wouldn’t know about. Like Mabelie.”

  “Mabelie?”

  Felix’s grin, under the borrowed straw hat, became wider. “I bought Mabelie from John Bonkle.”

  “You what!” said Claes. He stopped his horse dead. The grooms swerved behind him. Felix rode on grinning for a pace or two, and then finding himself alone, turned broadside and came back, grinning even more widely. The grooms faltered, looking at Claes who glanced round, saw some trees and said shortly, “We’ll eat there. Go there and wait.”

  The grooms rode on, not looking at each other until they were out of reach. Felix stayed where he was, his eyes sparkling. “Aha!” he said. “Don’t you wish you had thought of it?”

  Claes put his fists on the saddle and leaned on them. He said, “Money changed hands for Mabelie’s favours? John Bonkle sold her to you?”

  “He didn’t want to,” said Felix. “But he’d bought a fur hat without telling his father, and couldn’t pay for it.”

  “Poor John Bonkle,” said Claes. “How did he break it to Mabelie?”

  Felix’s face was losing its grin. He said, “How should I know? Told her it was the last time, and she was to report to me in future, I suppose. She’s to be ready when I come back from Louvain. Tonight.” His face began to brighten again as he thought of it. He grinned again, appealingly. “Cheaper than last night, yes?”

  Claes didn’t move. “What about Grielkine?” he said.

  The smile vanished again. “Well, what about her?” said Felix. “Where’s the law that says you can’t have a different girl every night if you want one? Wherever it is, you’ve never paid any attention to it.”

  “Tell me,” said Claes. “What will you do if Mabelie doesn’t come?”

  Felix stared at him angrily. “Of course she’ll come.”

  “From John Bonkle to you. Just like that. Knowing that money has been paid for her. If she does come, what does that make her?”

  “I’m going,” said Felix, and dug in his spurs.

  Claes shot out his arm and seized his bridle. Then he transferred all the reins to one hand. Felix’s horse jerked and stamped. Felix lifted his whip and Claes chopped his free hand on his whip-wrist. Felix gave a cry and dropped the whip, his fingers hanging limp. “You bastard!” he cried. “You’ve ruined my hand. I won’t be able to …”

  “It will be as good as it was in ten minutes. When we’ve finished this conversation,” Claes said. “If Mabelie doesn’t come to you tonight, what do you do?”

  Felix was blanched with fury. His breath seething between his shut lips, he glared at Claes. Then he said, “I have bought her. If she doesn’t come, I go and fetch her.”

  “From Adorne’s house,” said Claes.

  Felix gave a nasty grin. “Not necessarily. She has to go out sometimes.”

  “Then you abduct her bodily, take her somewhere quiet, and force her. And repeat the performance every time you want her? Or do you think she’ll give in after the first time?”

  “Very likely,” said Felix. The nasty grin, which was not natural, was being kept in place by his fury.

  “Until someone else wants to buy her, and you sell her to him?”

  “You make it sound … what’s it got to do with you anyway?” said Felix, shouting.

  “I make it sound like slave-buying, because
that’s what it is,” said Claes. “You’re treating Mabelie as if she were Loppe. Worse. I don’t think anyone violated Loppe against his will. You are head of one of the best merchanting companies in Bruges, or you soon will be. And you are buying and selling a young girl like merchandise. Even the noble Simon didn’t do that. He took her virginity, maybe, but she went with him for love. Do you think she came to me for money? Or John Bonkle? Of course she ought to be married. Of course she shouldn’t move from one lover to the next, any more than – yes – I’ve had different girls on different nights. But at least there’s no deception about it. We’re not promising marriage or livelong devotion to anyone. We’re doing it, girls and men, for love only. But this! After what you have done, whether Mabelie comes to you tonight or not, she ranks as a bought whore.”

  There was a silence. Claes sat, breathing quickly, listening to the echoes of his own voice and thinking what a fool he had been. He had given Felix no exit, no compromise, no way to save his face. He knew very well, even if Felix didn’t, what had launched him into it.

  Felix said, “Very well. Buy her from me. And not with a note on the Medici bank either. In cash. By tonight.”

  There was another silence. Then, “As you say,” said Claes quietly. “In which case you’ll forgive me if I hurry. There’s a lot to be done.”

  He dropped Felix’s reins and took his own and moved his horse away. He set it at the road and urged it into a trot and then a canter. He saw, as he went by the trees, the grooms standing staring, and then turning to gaze back at Felix. But Felix, as he expected, did not follow.

  It was still daylight when Claes rode through the Ghent portals of Bruges, several hours ahead of the rest of his party. He had planned, and still planned, that Felix should present the first report on Louvain to his mother. He was glad, therefore, to find the demoiselle de Charetty and her young daughters absent, even though Henninc began barking at him as soon as he began to lead his steaming horse towards the stables.

  The litany lasted all the way over the yard. The pump had broken down again. There was a leak in one of the vats. There had been a fight between three of the men in the shed and the rest had turned sullen. The man who had sold some of that property to the Widow the other day wanted it back and said he could prove the sale was illegal. A whole sack of woad balls had mould in it. The Widow had appointed a new lawyer. The Florentines and the Lucchese and even the Papal Legate’s secretary had been to see the Widow and arrange for the head Charetty courier – that was him – to leave soon for Italy, because their dispatch boxes were filling. There was a packet waiting for him from Milan, with that bald-headed doctor’s seal on it. At whatever hour Claes arrived, Anselm Adorne wanted to see him immediately.