Niccolo Rising

by Dorothy Dunnett

  The three children were brought before Anselm Adorne in his handsome house next to the church of Jerusalem the following morning. His remit was to make an enquiry, and to give them a fright.

  Children? Two were youths, and one was a highly trained notary only seven years younger than Anselm himself. But they were still children in terms of diplomacy. The family Adorne had had nearly two hundred years of regional power in Flanders since they came from Italy to settle in Flanders with the Count of the day, who had married a daughter to the King of Scotland. A long, long sequence of Adornes, with their well-bred faces and quizzical eyebrows and fair, curling hair, had served the town of Bruges and the Dukes of Flanders, in that order. They never forgot, either, the other branch of their wandering family, which had served the republic of Genoa in Italy for even longer, as men of business and men of money and, very often in the highest post of all, as Genoa’s rulers, her Doges.

  To a man of family and of property like Anselm Adorne, trained in knightly skills and in letters, Latinist, fluent in Flemish and French, German and English and in the dialects of the country of Scotland, the three foolish young men who had overturned the Bishop’s new cannon were simply children. He did not rise when they were brought into the great room of his house, nor did his wife of sixteen years move from the far end of the hall, where she had placed herself with her visitors, her serving-woman and the older of their many children.

  The gothic chair in which Anselm sat, like the beams over his head, bore the entwined crests of his mother and father, Bradericx and Adorne, and the blazon appeared again, in coloured glass, in the tall Gothic windows. The notary had been here before. On the quayside at Damme, Adorne had recognised the slanting eyes and taking, blunt features at once. Meester Julius was a good deal more subdued now, in his proper collared black gown, with his hat-scarf over his shoulder, and the tools of his profession slung at his belt. But his soft-shod feet had a firm enough grip of the ground, and the inkhorn and pencase hung steady and still. The young man had the pride of the convent-bred clerk and the scholar. But escapades were for students.

  The others were common material. The boy Felix had bid fair to run wild after Cornelis de Charetty died, but he had a sensible mother. Whether he had the shrewdness of his father was another matter. It had been Cornelis who had kept his head in the panic two years ago when the Lombard pawnshops all failed, and had rescued his wife Marian’s father by taking over his trade.

  It was recognised as being good business, mixing pawning with dyestuffs. The Lou vain shop had flourished, and de Charetty had several houses there, it was said, as well as his Blauw verweij, his woad-dyeing workshop and house here in Bruges, and his excellent bodyguard. He must have had small enough time for his children. But a man like Cornelis should have been wiser: should have looked to the future; should have considered who was to follow if he died before his time. Now there was only his wife Marian, and the managers who were as reliable as managers usually were, and that maniac of a mercenary and the boy. This boy Felix, who enjoyed pranking with his apprentice friend Claes, and had no thought of the business at all.

  Anselm Adorne looked at the apprentice then, last of all, and made an observation. He said, turning, “I will not ask you to sit down, Meester Julius, for you are here to be sentenced. But tell me first. Has this fellow been chastised?” He spoke in Flemish.

  The youth Felix opened his mouth and, receiving a look from the notary, shut it again. The notary said in the same language, “Minen heere, Claes was beaten for the injury to the Bishop’s friend. He was also beaten for what was taken to be an impertinence. Both were unintentional.”

  “He was impertinent,” said Anselm calmly. “And he did cause harm to Messer de’ Acciajuoli. He was beaten for no reason concerned with the cannon? No proof or confession of guilt has attached to him?”

  “No, minen heere,” said the notary. He spoke with firmness. “Claes had no designs on the cannon. It was an accident. Nor was he steering when the mishap occurred. If minen heere will allow, there are many who could confirm.”

  “There are, by now, many who might think it in their interest to confirm,” Adorne said. “I see no purpose in widening this enquiry, which to my mind has become too public already. Whether or not I accept that the affair was an accident, it is a fact that an ally of the Duke and the Duke himself have been much offended against. Meester Julius, as notary to the family de Charetty, you were responsible for these two youths yesterday afternoon?”

  “I am answerable to the demoiselle de Charetty,” Julius said.

  “I shall then leave it to the demoiselle de Charetty to deal with you as she thinks such an employee deserves. You, my good youth, are heir to your father’s business?”

  The boy Felix said, “Minen heere, Meester Julius wasn’t at fault. We made him take us shooting. We all decided to climb on the – in the –”

  “You had all drunk rather much, and decided you would enjoy a ride in the Duke of Burgundy’s bath. It is understandable, in very young children. You are no longer very young children. You are servants, as I am, of my lord Duke, and must respect his property and the dignity of his rank and that of all his friends. Would your father have disregarded such things? Does your mother? What have you done to her name and her pocket, you her son, you her notary, and you her apprentice?”

  The boy Felix had gone red. The notary said, “We will have care in the future. We did nothing with malice, nor ever will.”

  A barb? No, he thought not. Meester Julius had sense, and was making the best of it. The boy Felix saw only the injustice: there were tears in his eyes. It was time he learned about injustice. The apprentice Claes stood with perfect stoicism; the stuff of which good workmen and good soldiers were made.

  Adorne spoke to the notary. “You have been told of the fine, and of its conditions. My judgment is that the payment laid upon your employer and your guild is punishment enough for what you have done. You are excused further detention. To mark it, I offer you wine in my house. Meester Julius, there is a stool for you, and one for your scholar. Margriet!” He had left the boy Claes where he was, standing before him.

  There had been no real need to call. His wife knew his ways, and had caught his eye long before, and sent for his steward. Now she rose smiling. Adorne rose too, as she came forward, though she pressed the boy and the notary back to their stools. “My lady,” said Anselm Adorne. “We have a young fellow here who performed a service yesterday for our friend Florence’s daughter, and who has not yet been rewarded. Have her come over.” He watched the three men as he spoke. None of them, he was well aware, had noticed Katelina van Borselen at the end of the room. Two of them turned, reddening. The apprentice just stood where he was, waiting patiently.

  Anselm Adorne was amused by people, but never acted from mischief alone. He was not satisfied that he had plumbed the apprentice. He also wanted to find out the mood of the girl, first cousin to Wolfaert van Borselen, at the end of these three (unmarried) years abroad as maid of honour to the Scots Queen.

  It didn’t take long. Today, instead of a hennin, she had bundled her hair into one of those nets, with a screw of curled hair at each ear. It made the best of her neck, which was long, and she wore her gowns narrow and plain, in the Scottish court fashion. She had the Borselen eyebrows, at present drawn closely together. The apprentice turned, and the eyebrows separated.

  “Ah,” said Katelina van Borselen. “The bath attendants. I don’t know when I was last so amused. And this is the retriever. He looks different, dry.”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Claes. He smiled, with perfect and transparent good will. “So do you, my lady. I think Meester Adorne means you to apologise to me.”

  Adorne saw his wife’s face twitch and straighten. He was sorry, but not very sorry that he had failed to take the boy’s entire measure. He said, “Claes – that is your name?”

  The boy had the open smile of the child, of the idiot, of the aged, of the cloister. He said, “Claes vander
Poele, minen heere.”

  The surname had been given him. He had none of his own. Anselm’s steward, who could nose out anything, had known all about Claes. The youth had come as a boy of ten to serve in the Charetty dyehouse. Before that, he had lived at Geneva, in the merchant household of Thibault and Jaak de Fleury, being Jaak’s niece’s bastard. He had never gone back to the de Fleury family, who seemed to have discharged their duty towards him when they paid his apprenticeship fees to the dyers. It was a common story. A servant of one household or the daughter of another made a mistake, and the mistake was reared thriftily, and appeared with blue nails in Flanders.

  Minor gossip didn’t interest Adorne, but Bruges and its business life did. One day Felix de Charetty would belong to that community, and it was the duty of the community to see that he came to it without prejudice or unworthy companions. Anselm’s steward said this apprentice was sweet-natured and simple. Such things were easy to test. Anselm said, “You should understand then, Claes vander Poele, that a lady does not apologise to an apprentice.”

  “Why, minen heere?” said the apprentice. “If I offended her, I should apologise to the lady.”

  “Then apologise. You have offended me,” said the Borselen girl.

  “Because my lady’s hair came down in the wind in front of my lord Simon. I know it. I am sorry, my lady,” said the apprentice.

  Anselm Adorne was conscious of his wife’s twinkling face in the background, and of the sharp stare of the girl he was talking to. “And you brought me under your roof to suffer an encounter with him?” said Katelina van Borselen. “Scotland was more civilised.”

  “Perhaps it will be better in Zeeland, my lady,” said the apprentice. “The winds may moderate. Or if my lady would like, I could bend her a framework that wouldn’t blow off. I make them for Felix’s mother.”

  “Claes,” said Julius the notary. “With the permission of Meester Anselm, I am sure you could retire.”

  The sunny smile turned on Adorne. “May I retire? May I first, minen heere, speak to your children? We know each other.”

  Adorne knew that, from his wife. He had not finished yet with this particular rascal, but to allow matters to take this course might be interesting. He inclined his head.

  It was not his oldest son Jan and his cousin the youth made for, he saw, but the little ones: Katelijne and Antoon and Lewijse. The lady Katelina watched him pass her with well-bred amazement, and then turned to talk politely to her host and hostess, waiting patiently from time to time if Meester Julius were invited to speak. Little bursts of laughter came from the children at the end of the room. They seemed to be playing a board game. Later, he saw the boy Claes displaying his hands, with some sort of pattern of thread held between them. Later still, he heard voices he could have sworn belonged to people he knew, such as Tommaso Portinari, and the Scottish Bishop and Meester Bladelin the Controller and the guild-dean of the fruiterers, who had two upper lips, may God give him comfort.

  Then all the voices stopped, and he knew that Nicholai Giorgio de’ Acciajuoli had, as if on cue, entered the hall. He was dressed as he had been yesterday on the quayside at Damme, with the draped hat and the silk brocade robe, created in Florence. He dominated the room. His combed black beard was Italianate, but the quality of his skin and the close-set dark eyes were Levantine. His lips, edged with red, revealed fine teeth. A Greek of Florentine origins: the guest from the Scots ship whom the apprentice Claes yesterday had sent flying. Whose leg Claes had audibly broken.

  Beside him, Adorne saw the notary stiffen. The boy Felix, nostrils wide and mouth open, lost some colour. At the end of the hall Claes rose to his feet with painful slowness. Then he smiled. He said, “I wondered, monsignore, why I could get no news of your injuries. I have to make my apologies. I had no thought of harming you.”

  He spoke in Geneva Italian, and was answered in Florentine.

  “A bruised elbow,” said the bearded man dryly. “You were intent on other things. I hope you thought it worth it.”

  What blood he could spare rose for a moment into the boy’s face and hesitated there, with his dimples. He said, “So long as monsignore forgives me.”

  “Oh, I forgive you,” said the lord Nicholai Giorgio de’ Acciajuoli. “So long as you do not repeat it. I had one replacement. My other limbs are in Boudonitza. Your friends look amazed. You had better explain to them.”

  But the notary had it by now. He also had Italian, Adorne remembered, and possibly even some Greek. He had trained in Bologna. The notary said, “You have – it was wooden, monsignore?” Relief and embarrassment mottled his face.

  “I have a wooden leg,” agreed the other. “Which makes it difficult to rise up when deprived of it. Which makes it agreeable also to sit, if my host will permit? Beside, perhaps, the lady Katelina whose presence alone made our late voyage supportable.” He sat. “And now, introduce me to your three youths.”

  Anselm Adorne made the introductions. Then with equal solemnity, he introduced his one-legged guest, using Flemish.

  He did not expect them to know the name of the princes of Athens. He introduced this descendant merely as Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli, now touring Christendom to raise gold to ransom his brother, captured when Constantinople fell to the Turks. He did not complicate matters by explaining further. Monsignore had done well in Scotland. The King had been touched and the Bishop had collected a good sum for monsignore’s brother. The other part of the Greek’s mission to Christendom had been less successful. Like everyone else in the East, he wanted a new Crusade to free Constantinople.

  Just so. But the rulers of Christendom had troubles enough without going into all that.

  A conversation began in Italian. At his side, Adorne was aware of Katelina van Borselen’s displeasure, and disregarded it. The boy Felix, excluded also, began to pick at his nails. The word “Greek” entered the talk.

  The noble lord from Boudonitza was gazing at Felix. He said, in extremely slow Greek, “I am told by your friend that horses interest you.”

  It had a surprising effect. The youth Felix turned crimson and he clasped his hands quickly together. Then he started to speak. Whoever taught Greek at Lou vain was not a supreme master, and the youth, it was certain, was not the world’s brightest linguist. But he was crazy, it seemed, about horses, and the stud of the Acciajuoli was famous. He stuttered and ganted and listened.

  Katelina van Borselen said, “What are they talking about now?”

  Anselm Adorne told her. From the corner of his eye he identified his wife in a state of mild discomfort. He was not behaving, today, like a host.

  “I am afraid,” said Katelina van Borselen, “that I can’t spare the time for a Greek lesson on horses. Margriet, may I trouble you? I promised to help my father receive some Scottish friends. The Bishop. My lord Simon.”

  “You’d be better getting a Greek lesson on horses,” said the boy Claes.

  Anselm looked at him. After a moment he said, “The Scots are allies of our Duke, boy. You have been brought into civil company. Don’t abuse it.”

  The tone of their voices, perhaps, had caused the Greek to break off his laboured discussion with Felix. He had also recognised a name, and an expression. He spoke in Italian, unexpectedly, straight to Claes. “You do not like the handsome Simon, young varlet? You are jealous, perhaps? He is well dressed, and talks to beautiful demoiselles such as this lady? But he cannot speak Italian, or make children laugh, or be concerned for his friend as you are. Why dislike him?”

  The youth Claes considered, his overbright gaze on the Greek. Then he said, “I don’t dislike anyone.”

  Adorne said, “But you hurt them. You mock. You mimic. You offended the lady Katelina yesterday and today.”

  The gaze turned on him. “But they offend me, and I don’t complain. People are what they are. Some are harder to pity than others. Felix would like to dress like my lord Simon, but he is seventeen, he will change. My lord Simon is not seventeen, but he acts like an oaf, and has
the talents, you would say, of a girl; which must be a mortification to his father. But I think, Meester Adorne, that he does speak Italian, because he made a joke about you in that language. The lady Katelina will remember.”

  It was Messer de’ Acciajuoli who took control before Adorne himself got his breath back.

  “I think,” said the Greek, placing a manicured hand with care on the apprentice’s arm, “that the time has come for Claes to make for his home, if his beating is not to overcome him. Perhaps his friends would see he gets there. Honesty, Messer Adorne, is not a commodity that recommends itself everywhere. I am glad to have made its acquaintance however, and I would not have it penalised.”

  “It has been penalised already,” said Adorne. “And you are right. We have been talking, these last five minutes, about the inclement weather. Meester Julius, you have leave.”

  He could not stop the children from running after Claes into the yard, or from touching him. He hoped the notary would have the sense to take this apprentice straight to the Charetty dyeshop and keep him there until things had settled. Or better still, send him back to Louvain, and the boy Felix with him. He wondered, since Margriet was bound to ask, if it were true that the lad made Marian de Charetty’s headgear; and scooping up and studying the tangle of cotton the children had dropped at his feet, decided it probably was.

  He saw to the departure of Katelina, and returned to find the Greek talking to Arnolfini, the Lucca silk merchant, whom he could not remember having invited. Messer de’ Acciajuoli had in his hands the children’s board game, and was idly settling the pieces. They both looked up as Anselm came in, and Arnolfini and he exchanged greetings.