Caprice and Rondo

  Diniz had brought the news of Robin’s death to her uncle’s house, and Nicholas’s wife had come with him. Adorne himself had ushered them into her room and had stayed, ever kind, ever gentle, while it was broken. Robin had died beside Nicholas, where he would have wanted to be. Nicholas was alive.

  In Gelis’s face, telling her, there had been no room for relief, only wretchedness on Kathi’s behalf. It occurred to Kathi, incongruously, that she at least was spared the task of telling her children. They had loved Robin, but were too young to understand, or remember him. But of course, she would have to send and tell Archie.

  There was no recognisable body. She knew there had been wolves. A funeral Mass would be held here, in the church.

  Nicholas was going first to Ghent, but after that, would come here directly, with Tobie. Gelis said, ‘He will tell you everything.’ Then she had paused and said, ‘Be gentle. This will be one of the worst things that has happened to him, as well.’

  So, living through the unreal days, Kathi waited.

  HE DID COME to her first, riding alone to the Hôtel Jerusalem and speaking briefly to Adorne before Kathi was warned and he went, still alone, to see her in her chamber.

  She had heard he was hurt, but had not known how much. He said, ‘I am so sorry.’ It came after a while, as if he had not really thought it necessary to speak. Anyone else might have added, defensively, ‘I did my best to protect him.’

  She sat down, so that he could. ‘Was he happy?’ she said.

  His expression altered. They talked together so seldom; sometimes she forgot, too, what it was like. He said, ‘Like Astorre. They were such fools.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. Then she said, ‘I made him happy, too.’

  His face softened. He said, ‘Very few people have the life they deserve. Robin did, from beginning to end. You must be so thankful that you let him go.’

  And no one else in the world would have said that. Until that moment, she had not wept.

  After a while, he came to her and held her closely and quietly, as if he were comforting a young brother. Then, when it was over, he moved about, awkwardly, and found them both some wine, and would not drink until she did. Then they talked.

  It was not much about Robin, or the fighting. It was about her uncle, and the fear for the future that was beginning to stalk Bruges, and Ghent. The future with an exhausted treasury, and no army, and France already inside the barriers. The future, with a girl ruling, betrothed to the son of a German Emperor, while the duchy lay disconnected, its separate parts warring against one another, its rich towns fearful for their independence and resentful of those who, like Adorne, like Gruuthuse, like Hugonet, had helped to raise armies and taxes, steadily holding a course which might pacify the Duke, and yet reserve to the towns some of the sovereignty that they craved.

  The foreign merchants were uneasy. Already, there was a move to leave Bruges. Kathi made a small noise of commiseration. ‘Poor Tommaso. He was so angry with Uncle, when all he got for the loss of the San Matteo was a soothing letter from Callimaco offering friendship, and promising to do his best to extract his ship and its cargo from Danzig. It hardly seems to matter now, except that it must have worsened his debts. He lent the Duke far too much.’

  Then Nicholas had said, ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I can’t tell yet. It depends on my uncle. Stay as long as he needs me, in the first place. And you?’

  ‘If I am allowed, find a house and wait until spring, when David de Salmeton is due to come back. After that, it depends on other people.’

  Kathi said, ‘After all that has happened? My uncle is not going to send you away. And so far, you have not been rejected, it seems to me, by the others.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But a long stay might be different.’

  She could hear the change in his voice. She said, ‘You haven’t spoken of Anna. Adelina. You saw her in Ghent?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t want to … You will hear soon enough,’ Nicholas said. ‘She was offered exile, but had the spirit to boast, in the end, of all she did, so that she would be sure to die. Then she did it in her own way, with a knife. She is dead. Julius was there. He is still there. Gruuthuse is dealing with it.’

  There was a silence. Kathi said, ‘We all played some part in discrediting her. But Gelis said you did give her an alternative. The same choice we gave you. To go east, to build her own business.’

  ‘That was not what she wanted,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘She would tell you that. I can’t be sorry,’ Kathi said. ‘Her whole object in life was to punish you for what life did to her. Was it bad? When you saw her?’

  For a moment, she thought he would tell her. Then he simply shook his head, and she left it alone.

  Before he went, he walked with her to the nursery, where Margaret was battering Rankin, and Rankin was indignantly complaining. ‘Pure Adorne as to looks,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I am afraid that the character is irredeemably Scots.’

  Leaving, he was joined at the door by Anselm Adorne. ‘Are you going to Spangnaerts Street? Come with me. We shall care for your horse. My barge will take you more comfortably.’ His face, though grave, was not unfriendly. ‘Diniz told us all you did for young Robin. Poor lad, to die at nineteen. As for yourself … We don’t know what the future will hold, but I think you should now be free to choose. I shall not stop you from staying in Flanders.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Nicholas said. He had promised Adorne a report. He would deliver it. He waited, and added deliberately, ‘Berecrofts was a brave man; and a credit to his house and yours.’

  Then he went home, to the Hof Charetty-Niccolò; to Marian’s. house.

  ONCE, ON A DARK winter’s night, Tilde and Catherine de Charetty had fortified the big merchant’s house in Spangnaerts Street against Claes, their late mother’s husband. This time, fifteen years later, the porter was primed to allow the same person inside, provided of course he could identify him. It was asking a lot, for the working day was still in full swing, although it was dusk, and the yard and the house were thronged with anxious, short-tempered people, as they had been since the dreadful news of Captain Astorre and the army. The lamps in the house and the yard were all lit, which was some help at least: they made the Bank look welcoming, as it should, and the yard sparkled with frost.

  The officers of the Bank had held a short policy meeting that day, after Tobie had left Nicholas with Adorne. In a separate meeting, it had been put to their womenfolk that Nicholas de Fleury might be allowed to join his wife for one night. Tilde and Catherine had agreed. Gelis, wordless, took no part in the decision, nor did the doctor’s wife Clémence, still wild-coloured from Tobie’s embrace.

  They had all required to be told, of course, of the fate of Adelina in Ghent. The report was not quite complete: Tobie had not mentioned the tale concerning Marian’s child to her daughters. He did tell the others in private. He suspected that Gelis and his own wife both knew, but it was as well for Diniz and Moriz to be told. No doubt the time would come soon when Nicholas, too, would feel he could discuss it all with them. It affected the Bank.

  Then the early darkness had arrived, and the lanterns were lit, and the uneasiness concealed by the glittering lights communicated itself to the children of the Hof Charetty-Niccolò, so that Tilde’s baby screamed, and her five-year-old banged a plate until it broke, and Jodi, Who had been excruciatingly active all day, threw a fit of temper more to be expected from Lucia than from a trainee swordsman of eight. Mistress Clémence, with his mother’s leave, took the boy out to the back yard, which gave access to the stables, and Catherine’s optimistic herb garden, and eventually to the canal gate, for which she had providently brought the key. It seemed to Clémence that a courteous host might lend his barge to a convalescent who had paid him a visit. Doctors seldom gave thought to such things.

  So it was with no surprise that, after the ice-breakers had gone, and a vicious competition with snowballs had palled, and close acquaintance with an an
gry swan had been discouraged, Jodi’s attention had been attracted to the sound of a boat crackling up to the bank, to the accompaniment of pleasant men’s voices. Then the boat, a private one, drew away, and uneven footsteps began to approach. Jodi said, ‘Who is it? Is it the dog-catcher?’ His voice was strong now, and not at all shrill. The steps slackened.

  Mistress Clémence said, ‘It might very well be the dog-catcher. Are you catching dogs, sir?’

  It was a clear night. Light from the handsome houses that lined the canal pooled on the towpath and wharves, and bridge lanterns created uncertain scallops in the dark water. The disembarked man was tall, cloaked, and wore a fur hat which shadowed his face. He said, ‘If I caught one I’d eat it, I’m so hungry. No, demoiselle. I’m a soldier.’

  ‘From the Lorraine wars?’ said Clémence with interest. ‘You weren’t at Nancy?’

  Jodi had become very still. He said, ‘My father fought at Nancy. The other boys say he didn’t.’

  ‘Maybe I saw him,’ said the man. He had come to rest, his face still in shadow, his head a little inclined. ‘My troops were in the centre, in the battle-corps of the Duke. We did our best, but we were beaten.’

  ‘The other side had twice as many,’ said the boy. ‘So I heard.’

  ‘But we should have done better. Do you live near here?’

  ‘Up that lane. It leads to the back. Don’t you know?’ Jodi said. Clémence smiled, saying nothing.

  ‘I haven’t been here for a long time,’ the man said. ‘You get to know other places well, even though you’d rather stay at home. Then you forget.’

  ‘Shall I take you?’ said Jodi. Clémence’s smile broadened.

  The man said, ‘If you want.’ He paused, and added, ‘I haven’t forgotten you.’ They were moving slowly into the lane. Clémence walked ahead.

  Jodi said, ‘You were away a long time.’

  ‘I know. I won’t do it again. Do you think they’ll want me back?’

  ‘I can hunt,’ Jodi said.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ the man said. ‘I’m not bad, myself. I do remember this gate. Jodi, I’m afraid to go in.’

  ‘Why?’ said the boy. He turned, and the light from the house fell on the faces of the boy and the man. The eyes of both, which were of the same colour, were shining.

  Jodi said, ‘I’ll take you. They won’t be angry. They’ll be glad to have you back.’ He caught the man by the arm, and started to run, exhorting breathlessly still. He ran to the house, passing Mistress Clémence and bursting through the back door, dragging the man stumbling with him.

  ‘Maman! Maman!’ bellowed Jodi. ‘Papa’s back!’

  PAPA WAS ALLOWED to be back, it transpired, for one night. How much longer depended on the discussion — the examination — the trial — his former partners wished to hold forthwith, it appeared.

  Nicholas had agreed to it. After his precipitate entrance, he had managed some social exchanges: a few words with Clémence; a few more with Catherine and Tilde, who had greeted him with a solicitude which might have been genuine, and a caution which certainly was. Gelis was allowed a little longer.

  He always knew where she was in a room: it was like surf reforming into a wave. Her face had turned the moment he entered, and she was still looking at him as he was pitched before her by Jodi. When, suddenly smitten by doubts, Jodi had made to retreat, Nicholas had capped him with his fur hat and drawn him into a hug with his mother, during which Nicholas had pressed a kiss into Gelis’s neck. He could feel her trembling, but for the moment had himself under control. Jodi, peering upwards, had looked astonished, then thrilled. For the short time that was left, he had shuttled between Gelis and Nicholas in a drunken glaze of satisfaction, his father’s fur hat on his ears.

  Then the frivolities ended, and Nicholas was alone at a table in what had been Marian de Charetty’s room, being interviewed like an apprentice by Father Moriz and Diniz and Tobie. He was not resentful. He understood what was happening. The original cause had been his own fault.

  Gelis, who had a right to be there, had absented herself until later. She was one of the great strengths of the Bank. She had also stated, in public, that her investment would remain with the Bank, no matter what happened. In other words, she did not propose to buy her husband out of his banishment. She had made no bargain about her own work.

  Father Moriz said, ‘Diniz has asked me to speak. We planned some such meeting as soon as we heard you were travelling from Russia. Then, you were coming simply to protect your family from the lady who has now sadly died, and from the man David de Salmeton. We were willing to support you in that, and have, I think, done so. Now the situation has changed. De Salmeton will be absent until spring. You may wish to wait for him. You may wish to take your family and leave, and that decision must be between you and Gelis. We have had to consider what should be done if you stay, and we are prepared to make you an offer.’ His short neck was flushed, but his thick German voice remained equable. They had once spent a hilarious, difficult season together in the Tyrol, Nicholas and Moriz and John le Grant. Moriz had never liked his divining. Moriz was right.

  You will always be bought, because you will always be worth something to others. It might be true, but Nicholas was not being insulted. He had certain knowledge, certain experience. Adorne had recognised it as well. Nicholas sat and let Moriz detail the limited ways in which, for a negotiable fee, he could make himself useful if he stayed on in Flanders. This, they would make clear, concerned only the immediate period. Anything beyond that must be approved by all the original partners. And, of course, by Anselm Adorne.

  ‘He has already decided to release me,’ Nicholas said.

  He fell silent, looking at Moriz, who must know, even better than the others, what that meticulously compiled offer had betrayed. Tell me what you are buying and I will tell you what your deficiencies are. Burgundy, to whose fortunes he had committed the Bank, lay now in ruins, and every institution dependent on wealth and stability was endangered, never mind one whose military arm had been shattered at Nancy. Once, they had been able to share the risk with their other houses; but Venice was separate now, and rocked by the Turkish triumphs in the Black Sea and even nearer. Friuli had been overrun last November, and the smoke from burning palaces, so they said, could be seen from the top of the campanile of St Mark. Gregorio and the Ca’ Niccolò might survive, but it could not help others.

  Nor could aid come from Julius’s business, as it stood, vitiated by Anna and only partly restored by what Moriz and Govaerts had done. In Poland, Muscovy, Persia were the openings Nicholas himself had contrived, in order to appeal to Julius’s ambitions, and to divert Adelina from her purpose. Trading in Trebizond and within a restored Caffa was possible, even under the Turk. Nevertheless, Nicholas did not think Julius would now go there; and even if he did, and felt generous, the business was too young to help others. There was the gold he himself had promised Anna, of course. But, increasingly, it seemed certain that David de Salmeton had that.

  They were waiting to hear him: Moriz, Tobie, Diniz. Behind them, unseen, were the shadows of the others he had offended: John and Gregorio, and the ghost of young Robin. Gelis, he had reason to know, had forgiven him. Julius had never minded what he had done, nor had Astorre and Thomas. From some houri-laden cloud, Astorre would be watching him irascibly. Get on with it. Tell them.

  Nicholas said, ‘I can’t help you. I suggest you wind down the Bank, and then close it.’

  He could feel the shock, then the anger. Tobie said, ‘You won’t help.’

  Nicholas said, ‘No one can help. Without Astorre, the army is nothing, and what is left is too small to be viable. Offer it to John, but he would be wasted. As for the Bank, only you know what your reserves are, and how much you will see of the money you have already working for you. I suspect it isn’t enough to weather what is coming.’

  He didn’t spell it out, although he could. He knew enough about business to be sure. Burgundy, the vital balance betw
een France and the German Empire, had gone. He thought of the dazzling riches and power of Duke Philip; of the burning zeal of the Vow of the Pheasant; the hopes of Pope Pius, valiantly assembling his fleet to stop the advance of the Turk; the hopes, even, of Ludovico da Bologna. All ended in a block of ice in a ditch, during a misconceived, squalid fight over boundaries.

  Diniz said, ‘Can nothing be done?’ It was a brave admission. Recently, Diniz, too, had learned to face truths.

  Nicholas said, ‘You can return to your roots. Dyes may be scarce, and expensive, but you have better sources than anyone. If a new route is found, employ Crackbene. There will always be a place for a good, small money-broker trusted by merchants. You may have to leave Bruges for Antwerp, but you have Jooris, and the goodwill of Veere and of the new Duchess’s advisers, so long as they last.’ He paused, and said, ‘You don’t need me. You don’t even need Gelis, although you may want her, and she may want to stay.’

  Tobie said, ‘You remember the business as it was. You and Julius. You could guide them.’

  ‘Them?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Tobie said.

  ‘Deal with David de Salmeton. At the moment, if you want me, I’ll do what I can. You can’t take any decision without a proper assessment. Then the old business will have to be dismantled and the new one constructed. I don’t want a fee, but perhaps I can help. After that, it depends partly on you.’

  ‘You won’t join us. Would you compete with us?’ Moriz said.

  ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t join you,’ Nicholas said. ‘Just that there would be no room for me. And yes, I have come to the point where I should want a business, perhaps, of my own. I don’t know where. I don’t know yet what is going to happen: no one does. But I do promise it will never compete with you, whatever it is. It may even be able to help you.’