Niccolo Rising

  Like Anselm Adorne, Louis de Gruuthuse was a master of awkward situations. He smiled at the commander and made a little move, so that Zorzi was no longer quite in the circle, and Marian de Charetty, moving with him, was able to distract him. Vasquez stayed.

  Gruuthuse said, “Well now, you might as well blame the good men who made that cannon in Mons as pounce upon Nicholas here. And the name of Gruuthuse is guarantee enough, I should have thought, of good faith. I should never shame any guest. Come. There are others who want to meet you.”

  Simon made no move, nor did he look at anyone but the youth he had last seen in tatters outside the burning wreck of his dyeshop. Simon said, “How dare you appear in this company? How dare you dress as a burgess, as if your stinking clothes and your clogs were forgotten? I’d like to teach you a lesson.”

  “You already have,” said the boy Claes. He had changed colour. He began to back away, with the encouragement of that meddler Gruuthuse.

  Simon followed him, lounging. “You think I would fight you again? Hardly. But when you tempt Providence as you do, you should look out for acts of God. They do happen. Another fire. The sad expiry of a business deal. A lack of confidence, shall we say, in the house of Charetty? It might be awkward, you know. How would you live, after all, if there was no business? You would have to go back to the dyevats, wouldn’t you? And take your elderly lady along with you?”

  Louis de Gruuthuse said, “Kilmirren. That’s enough. Senor João, I’d be obliged if you would see to your friend.”

  Simon paid no attention. Simon said, “What are you going to do, Nicholas, when you’re tired of her and she can’t support you any more? You got rid of her son quickly enough, they tell me. You may be sorry. A young man can support his elders if he works hard enough, and is well beaten.”

  He was getting home to the boy. The boy looked stupid. He said, “Ser Louis, forgive me,” and tried to turn on his heel, but Simon caught him hard by the elbow, willing the fellow to try and hit him. The youth wrenched, and then stood still. Simon’s hands were used to a sword. He could grip to draw blood, when he wanted to. People were looking round. Simon saw Katelina turn as well. He hoped she would come over.

  The boy said, “Let me go.”

  “You didn’t hear me,” Simon said.

  “Yes, I heard you,” he said. Bleated, perhaps. Their host, giving up, had moved away, his face rather grim. After a moment, Vasquez left too, leaving them isolated.

  Simon said, “And you have nothing to say?”

  The boy said, “I have nothing to say here. If you use your imagination, you must know what I think.”

  “I don’t know why I think it worth the trouble,” said Simon. He released his grip. He said, “Ah. There you are. Come and look at this turd who has married his employer and can do nothing in front of gentlemen except stand and quake.”

  “You mean Claes?” said Katelina van Borselen. “But no one expects Claes to be brave, unless someone pays him.”

  The boy and she stared at one another. Simon, pleased, thought he had never seen her look more handsome than she did now, in her scorn. The emeralds he had given her jumped and flashed round her throat, and gold shone around the edge of her hennin, whose veils framed her face.

  After what seemed a long time the boy said, “You’re back from Brittany.”

  She said, “I hope you received the ostrich. I did my best for poor Lorenzo, you know.”

  It seemed a pointless remark. Simon had expected her to join in the baiting. The boy looked as if he didn’t know what to say. Eventually he said, “It came. I have to go and look at it today. Thank you.”

  “And,” said Katelina, “I hear you are married now? That is your wife?”

  He didn’t turn round. He said, “Yes. You are with …”

  “I am with my lord and husband, of course,” said Katelina. “My lord Simon. Tell me, is your wife bearing yet? But no. I suppose those days are behind her. Indeed, you will be marrying off your stepdaughters soon. Tell me if I may help find them husbands.”

  Simon stared at Katelina. He said, “What have you to do with scullion marriages? Are you playing some game?”

  “I suppose I am,” said Katelina. “And I’m tired of it. Shall we go home? You know how you like me to rest.” She looked at the fellow Claes. She said, “My husband, you see, cannot care enough for my health.”

  Simon hadn’t finished with the boy. He had planned to say a lot more, in spite of Gruuthuse. But when Katelina leaned her weight like that on his arm, he always grew a little alarmed, just in case. Just in case, after all these years, he might be robbed of his heir.

  So he smiled at the imbecile Claes instead, conscious of the picture he and Katelina must make standing close, romantic as lovers in some superb Book of Hours. Then, taking time, Simon let his eyes travel to the dumpy figure of the boy’s wife, still standing behind, anxiety plain in her eyes. Simon laughed. Then, bowing with mockery, he led his lady away. As she moved, Katelina threw down the heavy folds of her train. It fell behind her as she walked, dragging against her swollen stomach. The stomach of a woman some five months gone with child.

  It destroyed the graceful illusion he had created. At first Simon felt annoyed at her carelessness. Then he realised that it was not carelessness. It was contempt. It was there, on her face as she walked. And the boy, standing behind with his wife, looked as if she had stunned him.

  Simon turned to his Katelina and, lifting a beautiful hand, traced her size caressingly with his palm. Then he looked over his shoulder. He conveyed disdain, he hoped, and certainly triumph. And the look on the fool’s face behind him was better than anything else that had happened that day.

  Usually, he didn’t much enjoy leaving company because Katelina felt unwell. But this time, what with the conspicuous frowns of Gruuthuse and a few other people, he knew he had better depart, and work out in a day or two how he should apologise. He had a short temper, and he didn’t suffer fools gladly, especially when he’d had a little to drink. People were always claiming to be upset, or insulted, but his steward usually made it all right, or he could arrange an invitation for someone and flatter them, or if it were someone like Gruuthuse, he would send round a charming gift with a grovelling note. Keeping one’s temper was for women.

  Usually the fresh air cured Katelina’s upsets, but this time they got back to the house of Veere and she was still trembling. He was going to get her maid when she stopped his leaving the bedchamber. She said, “What did you mean about the Charetty business? Another fire?”

  Simon thought back, and smiled. He hadn’t known she was listening. He said, “Did you see his face? I thought that would frighten him.”

  She was sitting where he had placed her, not yet in bed, but in the tall wooden chair, with cushions behind her. She said, “You didn’t mean it, then?”

  He couldn’t understand what she was talking about. He got a flask of wine out, and gave himself some. He said, “Well, I’m not likely to put any bargains their way, am I? It depends. It depends how he behaves. Why? What does it matter?”

  Katelina said, “It doesn’t, of course. But she’s a good little woman, Marian de Charetty. It isn’t her fault.”

  “Of course it is,” said Simon. “She shouldn’t have married him. Do you know what I heard? He’s not such a fool as you’d think.” His glass was empty. He filled it.

  “Who?” said Katelina.

  He got irritated when she was obtuse. “Claes, of course,” said Simon. “The Charetty servants have some great tale of what he’d been up to in Milan. Did you hear about Jaak de Fleury, the great-uncle that tried to take over the business?”

  She had heard. It was surprising sometimes what she heard about the Charetty business while she remained regrettably ignorant about his.

  “Well,” said Simon, “the story runs that it was Claes who bankrupted M. Jaak. He not only bankrupted him, but he ruined that captain, Lionetto, and got Lionetto to blame Jaak de Fleury. So Jaak de Fleury not only
lost all his business, but Lionetto came to Bruges and killed him. I don’t believe it,” said Simon. “But they do. They think Claes – they call him Nicholas, now – was behind the cannon that killed the King and my uncle. They talk about his being a Yorkist agent and carrying messages for the Dauphin and inventing a magic that means that the Medici can talk to each other without words any more. Infantile rubbish. I tried to shame him today and you saw him.”

  “I saw he wouldn’t fight,” said Katelina. “But maybe …” She broke off.

  Simon frowned. He said, “It did strike me. He got Lionetto to kill his great-uncle. He didn’t do it himself. I don’t much like the idea of someone saying nothing to my face and then creeping about planning disasters.”

  Katelina said, in a rather odd voice, “Your father. His whole life came to an end in the same way.”

  “Fat father Jordan?” He wondered what had put that into her head. He said, “Well, Claes can hardly have ruined Jordan de Ribérac, can he? Unless he’s really trading services with the Dauphin.”

  “Perhaps he is,” said Katelina.

  “Well, if he is, he’s done me a favour,” said Simon. “And if he was behind the gun that killed Uncle Alan, then he did me an even bigger one. You know, there’s something strange about that. But of course, it can’t be.”

  “What can’t be?” she said. She looked green, the way she did when she was overtired.

  Simon said, “You’ve done too much. Never mind this nonsense. I’ll get your woman.”

  She actually caught him by the wrist to stop him. “No,” she said. “I want to know. What do you think is strange about Claes?”

  He was surprised, but he dropped into the other chair and poured himself some more wine and then, as an afterthought, some for her. She didn’t take it. He said, “Well, just that if he really did all those things, you would think he was getting rid, one by one, of all his family.”

  She said, “All his family?” and he wished he had gone when he said he was going.

  He said, “Well, Jaak de Fleury. He was his great-uncle. And the woman he married was related, and he got rid of her son.”

  She said, “Did he? I didn’t hear that.” She looked even more distracted. She said, “And who else? I didn’t think Nicholas – Claes – had any family.”

  With no food and a pleasant amount of wine inside him, he thought that was funny. He said, “Well, that’s Jaak gone. And his wife Esota. And old Thibault the brother ruined, and his daughter, whatever she’s called. And old Jordan, my revered father done for. And Alan my uncle. I’m the only person he hasn’t succeeded in harming, if you don’t count Lucia, and she’s in Portugal. It’s amazing. He hasn’t been able to touch me. All he’s done is get me my title.”

  You would think she was drunk, the way she persisted. He hoped she wasn’t drunk, because it would harm the baby. He realised, hazily, that she hadn’t drunk anything. She repeated, “But I didn’t know Nicholas had any family. I thought his mother died.”

  He wondered how she knew that. He said, “Yes, of course the stupid bitch died, and good riddance. The whore produced him and dandled him for a few years and told him a few lies, and died. Don’t you see how he looks like her? Don’t you see?”

  Katelina was whispering. He wondered why. She said, “You knew her then? Nicholas’s mother?”

  They were all bitches, and all stupid. He stared at Katelina.

  “Knew her?” said Simon. “She was my wife. That’s why that stupid bastard won’t fight me. Claes. Nicholas. He thinks he’s my son.”

  He got to her as she started to slip off the chair. Her face looked terrible. He shouted for her maid and held her weight against him on the floor, patting her back to reassure her. “It’s all right,” said Simon. “It’s all right. Four months to go, and you’ll see a fine, fat, beautiful baby. Claes is brainless, you see. He never dreamed I’d marry and get a child on you. A real Kilmirren, to inherit all he thinks he’s entitled to. He may have outguessed the rest of the family, but he couldn’t best me.”

  Chapter 41

  GREGORIO, WHO never swore, said, “Oh Christ Jesus.”

  “My feelings entirely,” said Tobie. “Simon, who tried to kill Nicholas at Damme, should have been his father. And Jordan de Ribérac his grandfather. De Ribérac who, in case you don’t know, apparently scarred him for life with his ring. Now tell me Nicholas wasn’t right to lay as many trails and traps as he liked.”

  Julius said, “But Jaak and his wife were the only ones who were hurt because of Nicholas.”

  Tobie dragged his hat off and polished his scalp. “No. Evidently Jordan de Ribérac’s fall had something to do with him too. The demoiselle didn’t know what. But you’re right otherwise. Simon hasn’t been touched. Neither could you blame Nicholas for the cannon killing Simon’s uncle. Not really. And the demoiselle is adamant that the death of Jaak and his wife were unintentional. I’m inclined to believe that,” said Tobie.

  “For what it’s worth, so am I,” said Gregorio. He said again, “My God. Poor bastard.”

  Julius said, “But that’s the point, isn’t it? He is a bastard. His mother had a child – Christ, to Simon, it must have been – which was stillborn, and went off to her father, old Thibault, to recover. Her husband – Simon – never went near her again. Then Nicholas gets himself born. There was nobody to blame for it but the servants, but which one fathered him they never found out. Meanwhile he grows up … I suppose … longing to be accepted as a Kilmirren.”

  “As Nicholas de St Pol,” Tobie said. “That’s the Kilmirren name.”

  “Claes vander Poele,” said Gregorio. “Of course. So there’s a stubborn streak. He wouldn’t let the name be discarded. I can see the point.”

  To Julius, there was only one point that mattered. He said, “So what did the demoiselle say?”

  Tobie was silent. When he answered, it was in his clipped, professional voice. “She said that I was to tell you who Nicholas was. That I was to ask you not to tell anyone else. That I was to say that Simon was likely to pursue this feud of his, and that we should be warned that working for the Charetty company might become dangerous. And finally, to say that she believed in Nicholas, and his character and his loyalty, but that we should have to decide whether or not we could act as his keepers, so that there would be some restraint on the way his intelligence worked. She used the word keepers,” said Tobie.

  He paused and then said, “She also said that the Venetian Piero Zorzi is holding festival on the Flanders flagship this evening, and has invited herself and her husband. She hasn’t seen Nicholas since, but she thinks this is what he’s been waiting for.”

  Julius said, “Hasn’t seen … Didn’t he come back from the church with her?”

  Tobie said, “Come back here? Knowing that we were going to be told what we’ve been told? I should think we’ll be lucky if we see him this week. And I can’t imagine how, if I were Nicholas, I could find a way to face us.”

  “That’s because you’re not Nicholas,” said Gregorio. “Tobie. You’re the doctor. He’s exposed now, to us at least. What difference will that make to the way he works in future? Do you have more faith in him, or less?”

  For a long time, Tobie said nothing. Then he said, “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s changed the way I felt before. I think I can out-guess him. I’m curious enough, at any rate, to want to try.”

  Julius said, “Here? Do you think he’ll stay here?”

  And Tobie said, “I don’t know if it will be here. Not if Venice is involved. Would you go overseas? Goro? Julius?”

  Gregorio said, “I don’t mind where I go. But the demoiselle would need someone here. And I thought you and Julius were returning to Astorre next year anyhow. You’d be safe from Simon there.”

  “But Nicholas wouldn’t,” said Tobie. “Not if he stays here in Bruges. I wonder what he wants. I wonder what he’s thinking now.”

  “I wonder where it is now,” said Julius. He wrinkled his brow. “The
ostrich.”

  “What?” said Tobie.

  “He said something about going to see the ostrich. It’s to go to the Duke of Milan, and Tommaso keeps complaining that it’s dying on him.”

  “That sounds like Nicholas,” Gregorio said in his solemn, rumbling voice. “If he can’t bear to face us, depend on it that he’s gone to look at an ostrich.”

  Nicholas had indeed gone to look at the ostrich.

  The principal problem, to begin with, was that there was nowhere to go.

  Confining the problem to Bruges and not allowing it to assume cosmic proportions, there was nowhere, that is, where he could be sure of avoiding Tobie, Gregorio and Julius, now in possession of knowledge about him that they should never have had. He couldn’t go home without meeting Marian, now aware of his … engineering, and struggling somehow to trust him.

  The rest of Bruges was occupied by people who had seen and heard what happened at the Gruuthuse palace this morning. Or who wanted to talk about Jaak de Charetty, or Lionetto, or Felix. And finally, somewhere in Bruges were Simon of Kilmirren and his fertile wife Katelina, whose mood he could guess, but whose plans he did not know.

  So Nicholas thought of the ostrich, which was supposedly in the stable compound of the house of the Florentine merchants, and set off to inspect it. It seemed fairly certain that he would find there none of the Charetty employees. And Florentines had been largely absent from the morning’s High Mass for a Scottish monarch. The Flanders galleys occupied them far more seriously.

  And since the Flanders galleys occupied them, he might not have to consider ciphers, or dispatches, or any of the alluring, dangerous strands that might lead to a new set of devices or echo old ones. Just the simple matter of an ostrich to be dispatched to Milan.