Claes said, “You said you were tired of the feather. It’s time for the beer, Meester Julius.”
Claes had been with the Charetty since he was ten, and being a family by-blow, he got to speak that way to Felix. Through the years Claes had become not only an apprentice but a kind of servant-companion to the Charetty heir. Felix tried to batter Claes regularly but mostly put up with him. Felix’s mother, thankful for peace, let Claes off his dyeshop duties whenever Felix demanded it. Julius, equally thankful, hoped that Claes’ spasmodic apprenticeship would last long enough to see Felix into maturity, if not old age and burial.
Julius, an easy-going sort of man, had nothing much against jonkheere Felix. He could control him. Claes, of course, had no writ to control anyone, which was why he got beaten so freely. It made him very helpful. Julius watched Claes give a last shove with his oar, put it down, and then walk round the end of the boat and hand Felix his hat. All anyone remembered of Claes were his size and the dents in his cheeks and his helpfulness. And that nothing female under twenty was safe from his endeavours.
Julius could see his mouth opening and shutting outside the bath, and hear Felix booming back from within. Julius didn’t join the discussion, which was on the usual subject. Of course, he liked watching a good-looking woman. He had his share of vanity. He knew his sort of looks drew attention. He had had to extract himself more than once from some developing situation with a client’s young wife. It was not, either, that he contemplated taking Holy Orders, or not up to the present. But if a good chance came along, a man ought to be ready. He was moderate. He didn’t raven, like Claes; or yearn like poor Felix when brought to sail the canalised river between Sluys and Damme, passing three miles of ankles and a handful of knees, if you were lucky.
Accessible ankles, what’s more. You didn’t find grand ladies with steeple headdresses and shaved brows and pearls on their slippers among the quays and sheds and warehouses and pens and tie-posts of the two ports of Bruges. You got pertly laundered white caps and slyly hitched work-gowns: enough of them to please even Claes, Julius thought. The liveliest girls called down to one youth or the other. Men sang out too, and boys ran alongside, keeping up with the rowers. One tossed a pebble into the bath, and it chimed like the tongue of a church bell. The tongue of the thrower soon drowned it, as his father hurriedly thrashed him. Even from Brussels, or Dijon, or Lille, Duke Philip could hear things.
Claes stayed on his feet beside Felix. Felix was signalling masterfully with his hat, from which Claes had adopted the feather. Three feet long, it waved from his thatch like a fishing line. On the other side of the boat, Julius helped throw up the ropes at the sealock, and heaved up the statutory can of Bruges beer to the lock-keeper.
The man looked at him twice before naming him. Without the gown he wasn’t Meester Julius the notary; he was just another young pest in his twenties. In his more sober moments, Julius was aware that exploits such as these were unseemly. In his less sober moments, he refused to be bothered. The lock-keeper had no trouble recognising Felix or Claes. Everyone in Bruges and Louvain knew the Charetty heir and his slavish attendant.
There were no other craft in the lock: another mark of the power of the Duke. The lighter entered, and behind it the tidal gates waded creaking together. The lock-keeper, stowing his beer, walked off to open the sluices. Perched high on the water, Julius looked ahead, beyond the shut wooden gates, to where the canal ran straight over the marshlands which led to the far spires of Bruges. Immediately outside the sluice another barge, seaward bound, lay double-moored to the bank, waiting for them to emerge.
It, too, lay low in the water. It, too, bore only one item of cargo: a single thickly wrapped object some fifteen feet long which did not, like the Princenhof bath, project beyond either gunwale, but lay snugly within the barge well, hardly moved by the swell of the water.
Above it, in a cleared and cordoned space on the bank, stood a group of undoubtedly very grand persons with an authentic steeple headdress drifting among them. From the superior height of the lock, Julius gazed upon them. So did Felix and Claes and the lightermen.
There were banners. There were soldiers. There was a group of well-turned-out local churchmen escorting the figure of a medium-sized, broad-shouldered bishop with precious stones winking all over him. Julius knew who he was. He owned the Scots ship St Salvator, the largest vessel they had seen back at Sluys. It had already unloaded and had been taking on cargo for Scotland.
Felix said, “That’s Bishop Kennedy, the King’s cousin, come to winter in Bruges. That’s the party he brought with him from Scotland: they must have been staying in Damme since they landed. What are they waiting for?”
“Us,” said Claes happily. His feather waved slowly.
“The lighter,” said Felix. Occasionally, the future burgess surfaced in Felix. “What’s that thing in the lighter? Cargo for the St Salvator maybe?”
Occasionally, Felix was right. “Important cargo,” said Julius. “Look. It’s got Duke Philip’s own seals all over it.”
Hence, of course, the escorting soldiers and the other overdressed dignitaries. There was the ducal flag, with the Duke’s deputy controller in its shadow. There was the banner of Bruges, with the Communal Burgomaster and a couple of échevins under it. Also the cleverest agent in Bruges and one of the wealthiest: Anselm Adorne in a furred robe, his long poet’s face wreathed by the scarves of his hat. His wife was with him, her wired headdress sensibly hooded, apparently brought in to shepherd the only female in the Bishop’s small party. The female, turning, proved to be a fine-looking girl in a temper.
Felix said, “That’s Katelina van Borselen. You know. She’s nineteen. They sent her to Scotland to marry. She must have come back with the Bishop. And I may be blind, but I don’t see a husband.”
Married or unmarried, the girl called Katelina was wearing the steeple headdress. The hennin had caught the wind and was furling and unfurling its veil like a flagpole so that she had to hold it with both tight-cuffed hands. She wore no ring, but there were two possible suitors beside her, presumably off the same ship. One was an elegant older man with a beard, wearing a draped hat and gown Julius would swear came from Florence. The other was some silly gallant.
A good astrologer would, at that moment, have taken Julius by the arm. A good astrologer would have said, Do not look at the Bishop. Do not speak to the lady. Keep away from Anselm Adorne and the Florentine with the beard. And above all, my friend, leave the boat now, before you make the acquaintance of the man you call some silly gallant.
No one took Julius by the arm. Fate, which had a better idea, let him conquer his pang of jealousy and recognise that before him on the quay was a fair-skinned man of quite striking good looks, wearing a silken tunic as brief as a shirt-tail. Between cap and ear, the fellow’s hair was bright as church gold. Between high brow and cleft chin, his expression was one of impatience, mixed with ineffable scorn.
From the badge of his henchman he was of consequence. The henchman held, with some care, the leash of a muscular hound with an identical crest on its back-cloth. Hand on sword-hilt, his master was posed like a painting, one shapely limb flexed in its blue hose, the other stalwartly straight in its white. His gaze, idly scanning the onlookers, discovered the stare of a serving-girl. The nobleman lifted his brows and the girl, hugging her pail, coloured brightly.
Claes, transfixed beside Julius, allowed his feather to wander. Julius sneezed without ceasing to gaze at the paragon who, in turn, had caught sight of the bathing basin. It seemed to amuse him. Snapping his fingers, he acquired the leash of his hound and began to stroll up to the lock, throwing a remark, as he went, to the lady. He looked as if he might snap his fingers for her as well, Julius thought, but he didn’t. And although she looked after him, she didn’t follow.
The well-dressed magnifico came closer. He was not as young as you might think, at a distance. Thirty-three, thirty-four. His blue taffeta was French cut, and so was the one-shouldered cloak and
the tilted plate of a hat with its ruby. In his two years at Bruges, Julius had never seen him before. Felix had. Felix, his fingers plucking his own atrocious pinked velvet, spoke in a voice of unwilling awe. “That’s Simon,” said Felix. “Heir to an uncle in Kilmirren, Scotland. They say he’s never had a refusal. The rich ones think he’ll marry them, and the poor ones don’t care.”
“What?” said Julius. Claes said nothing. His feather had come to a halt.
Felix said, “The rich …”
“Never mind,” Julius said. Simon of Kilmirren came to rest on the bank just beside them. The underwater sluice gates had opened. The water they were floating on began to crease a little and swirl, and a line of wet appeared on the lock wall. The lock-keeper came up.
The man called Simon said, “My poor man, you take your time, you Flemish clods, don’t you? I saw some beer.”
His Flemish was very good. The lock-keeper had no trouble accepting insults from gentlemen, especially if he saw a profit in it. He said, “It’s a custom, my lord. Beer during the passage to Bruges, and the dues paid on the way back. My lord is going to Bruges?”
Julius wondered how anyone, even a lock-keeper, could imagine he saw a promise of beer in that smiling face. The Scots noble called Simon continued to smile. “My lord has a thirst,” he said. “Waiting for this rubbish to pass down the lock. If you have beer, I’ll take it.”
“Excuse me,” said Julius.
It could have been that his voice was not loud enough. Certainly the water, by now, was swirling outside the lock as it emptied, causing the waiting vessel to joggle. The lighter on which Julius stood was now sinking steadily, so that his eyes were level with Simon’s trim waist. Simon did not turn his head. Only his dog, attracted by something below, straightened its forelegs, steadied, and leaped lightly down beside Julius, dragging its lead from Simon’s grasp. Felix said, “Oh no, you don’t!” and grabbed its collar, separating it from the rabbit-bag. The Scotsman turned then, with surprise, and looked down at them.
Julius said, “I’m sorry, my lord, but the beer represented part of our dues. To be fair to the man, you would have to pay him for it.”
The charming face stared at him. It inspected, in turn, the faces of Felix, Claes and the lightermen. Its gaze returned and settled on Julius. Simon said, “Stealing a gentleman’s hound. The penalties are, as I remember, quite serious.”
“And what about stealing beer?” Felix said. “And eating other men’s rabbits? If you want your dog, come down and get him.”
Felix had a great deal to learn. Julius let him go on complaining. Above, the Scotsman turned, ignoring them, and stared at the lock-keeper who went off in a hurry and came back with the beer. He put it down in front of Simon. The girl in the steeple headdress, Katelina, had walked up beside him. She said, “I thought only workmen drank beer.”
There was a glint in the handsome eyes, quickly concealed. She had surprised him by coming. Simon said, “When stuck in a stye, do what the pigs do. I offer you beer, or another half hour of the Bishop.”
“Beer,” she said calmly. She was speaking in Scots, which was not easy to follow. “Pay the man. Or the children.”
The lock-keeper had revised his opinion of Simon. He also understood Scots. He said, “Thank you, demoiselle. Meester Julius will tell you its worth. Meester Julius is a Bologna-trained lawyer.”
The Scotsman failed to blench. The Scotsman let his considering gaze drift again over the crew of the lighter, and fixed on the most miserable member, a lighterman with three days’ growth of beard and a rash. “Meester Julius?” he said.
“Meester Julius?” said Claes in the same moment.
“Never mind,” Julius said. He knew he was being baited. He also knew he was going to get his money, if he had to ransom the dog for it.
“Give him a coin,” the girl said. “Look.” She tilted her head, so that the hennin wagged like the mast of a ship, and began to unclasp the purse at her waist. She had dark, well-marked brows and a fine skin, its colour a little heightened by amusement or annoyance. Julius gazed at her.
“Meester Julius,” said Claes.
The Scotsman, smiling, laid a finger over her hand and instead delved into his own handsome wallet, drawing from it a handful of small foreign coins. He cast them with deliberate abandon into the barge, and watched smiling as they span and hopped in the bath and sank among the bottom-planks and the ropes of the barge. Then he stopped smiling and said, “Take your hands off my dog!”
He was speaking to Claes. Julius looked round. Now they were sinking more rapidly. The mooring-rope slid through the lightermen’s hands. The group of dignitaries on the lower bank vanished from view, every head turned in their direction. The wall of the lock towered above them, green with weed.
As always, there were leaks in the wall. Gorged with water, it spewed carefully into the barge, splattering Felix’s smartly stuffed lap. It found and spiralled down the favourite toque Julius was wearing. It hit the Scotsman’s hound, which skipped aside, growling. The hound had been standing, Julius saw, astride the Kilmirren crest of its own unstrapped back-cloth, now spread like a bathmat beneath it. It was glaring at Claes. The crest was not what it had been. Claes said, “I’m sorry, Meester Julius, but I had to do something. The Duke of Burgundy wouldn’t like it.”
Julius began to laugh, just as a jet of real virulence suddenly sprang from the wall and cascaded over the barge. It increased in power. It began to fill, with dynamic effect, a corner of the Duke of Burgundy’s bath, which proceeded to urge its barge sideways. The lightermen, already mesmerised, allowed the slack in the rope to run upwards. A further discharge, more violent than any so far, hit the opposite side of the bath. It started to spin just as the lock gates on the inland side proceeded to open, and the mooring ropes fell.
Far above them the Scotsman was saying something, his face pink and white with annoyance. Beside him, the girl Katelina bit her lip, the beer standing forgotten between them. In the lighter, equally, no one was thinking of picking up money. It was Felix who said, “We’re going backwards.”
“Sideways,” said Claes. He said it thoughtfully.
“Forward,” said Julius.
The lock gates continued to open and the Duke of Burgundy’s bath prepared, giddily, to emerge into the canal. The lightermen jabbed with their paddles. The leaden rim of the bath rose, sank and rose. The slop in the bath flowed backwards and forwards, soaking their sandy boots and their hose and the rabbit-bag and cleansing the Kilmirren crest as it rippled. The bath-rim struck the wall with a clank and drove itself and its barge swirling out of the lock where it bounced off one gate and bucked off to visit the other. The dog, staggering, barked.
From the corner of his eye, Julius saw the Scotsman make his way quickly down to the group on the bank. There, every startled face was turned to the lighter. The dog redoubled its barking, and on the shore men began to shout very loudly.
Julius could see what they were shouting about. He could see – everyone could – what was going to happen. He had time to wonder what was in the ducal parcel so handsomely stowed in the long barge at the side of the waterway. He had time, even, to examine it as the Duke of Burgundy’s bath leaped towards the shuddering outward-bound lighter containing the Duke of Burgundy’s personal cargo. The two boats collided. The lighter, held by its ropes, had no way to escape as the boat containing Julius, Felix and Claes pitched into its planks and sheared its side off.
The bath tilted, ejecting Claes and Julius briskly into the waterway. It sluiced Felix down to its deep end where he wallowed, his submerged hand firmly clutching its coping. Then it righted itself.
The crippled outward-bound lighter tugged its mooring ropes, burst them, and shed its cargo with languor into the watery gloom, capping it with its own weedy bottom.
As it went, Julius rose to the surface. His eyes opened on horrified faces, Burgundian and Flemish. His ears, streaming water, caught the first ejaculation of moment which did not come from
the Flemings at all, but from the Scottish Bishop. “Martha!” exclaimed that figure in a voice of bronchial protest. “What have you done? What have you done? You have sent Martha, you fools, to the bottom!”
No one laughed. Especially Julius didn’t laugh. For now he knew what had been in the barge, and what they had ruined.
There was no one to warn. Claes, his feather lost, was floundering over there and Felix, swimming briskly, had nearly got to the bank, neck and neck with the dog, which scrambled up past him. The boat with the bath was tied up, and the lightermen already stood, a sheepish group, on the towpath. Dripping, Felix got out and, commendably, went off and joined them, shadowed by Claes. Feeling old, Julius climbed up and squelched after them. The dog shook itself, and its master’s man, scowling, got it warily by the collar.
From the circle of eminent persons, severe voices had continued to rise. The Bishop’s demands could be heard: “Will you take some action, my lords! Get your engineers, your dredgers, your seamen!” And later: “Unless, of course, the insult is deliberate. My cousin of Scotland is promised a gift, and the gift is lost by the Duke’s own officers in the Duke’s own waterway. What am I to think?”
The commandant hurriedly spoke, and the Burgomaster. Then at last came the calm voice of Anselm Adorne, who had held, in his time, the highest office in Bruges and whom Julius would trust to smoothe anyone’s feathers. “My lord, you have lost only a wind and a tide. The Burgomaster will escort you to Bruges. The commandant will take these men into custody. The canal will be dredged and the object retrieved or replaced. It was, I believe, purely an accident, but the city will pursue its enquiries and make you their report. Meanwhile, we can only offer our humble apologies.”
The Burgomaster said, “That is so. That is so. The lightermen will answer to the dean of their guild, and if negligent, they shall be punished.”
“They were not all lightermen,” someone said. “Those three. Those three wear no badges.” The voice of Simon of Kilmirren, newly arrived from the lock, negligent in blue taffeta, his fair face perfectly bland. Someone gripped Julius hard, from behind, by the arms. “And,” continued the same amused voice, “they owe the lock-keeper money.”
Niccolo Rising Page 2
