Niccolo Rising

by Dorothy Dunnett

  The pump in the yard had been set right, and a man brought in from Alost to do nothing but look after the equipment, keep friendly with Lippin, and obey Henninc’s orders. Henninc was pleased and the man, who reported direct to the Widow and often got quite different orders, was discreet and able. What portion of Claes’ network of contacts had produced him was not yet evident. Godscalc, Marian knew, had been a brother of the chaplain to the painters’ guild: she suspected Colard Mansion had supplied him. The Hungarian, amazingly, was related to the wife of one of the seamen at Sluys. Henninc’s new deputy, who spoke native Flemish, went by the name of Bellobras, which still caused Felix extreme amusement.

  When she wasn’t worrying about loans, the Widow felt like smiling as well. She had never before experienced so buoyant an upheaval: not in her girlhood; not in Cornelis’ lifetime. She had envied Claes his disposition. All through the worst of his ’prentice excesses, he had always been lively to deal with. Employing him now, it would seem, as an equerry, she woke every morning alert and expectant, wondering what amazing battles she would have to fight, what new acquisitions, new experiences, new adventures would be packed into this day before it ended. She was never disappointed. She had never seen anyone work so prodigally in so many diverse arenas. The excesses of the past she now interpreted as mere spillage of all this vitality, and could only be thankful there had been no more of them. Speed, of course, was important because he had to get back to Milan, because of the courier service. That had been organised, too. She had asked to be kept informed about it, and was, to a fault. It seemed to be a matter of hiring riders and analysing information about horses and lodgings and tolls and other couriers. The Bruges branch of a number of banks, including the Medici, then made known their willingness to confide certain kinds of dispatches under contract to the Charetty. One of the new couriers had already gone south with a heavy guard and a satchel.

  But managers like Angelo Tani wanted personal service, and Claes was ready to oblige. He would carry the letters. He had to report to Milan in any case, and set that side of the business in order. Tani would expect Claes to go as soon as the latest word came in from London. And as soon as Tommaso received firm news of the ostrich. Had it, or had it not been shipped by the Strozzi company aboard a Catalan ship in Mallorca?

  The Flanders galleys, after lingering an inordinate length of time, had taken courage and set sail for London, to load English goods and begin the long journey home to Venice. The question was whether the English King Henry, with civil war on his hands, would commandeer the galleys for his own uses. The merchants in Bruges and London and Southampton waited anxiously.

  Bishop Coppini, on his saintly mission for peace, departed along the coast to visit English-held Calais and converse with the English rebels, the Earl of Warwick and Edward, the son of the King’s Yorkist challenger. They said a number of Scotsmen had been seen in Calais as well. They said the King of Scots, changing his mind, was now holding secret talks with both sides of the English dispute instead of just the reigning Lancastrian, and had sent to ask the Duke of Burgundy if he could spare any more guns.

  They said the Scots king was sending some envoys to Brussels in the guise of merchants, one of whom was likely to be Simon of Kilmirren. Remember Simon, who made that fuss over his dog after finding young Claes with a girl in the cellar? Who took sides with Lionetto at Sluys against Astorre and the Charetty crowd? Who nearly did for young Claes with a pair of cloth shears? Or maybe it was the other way round …

  The Widow heard that piece of gossip. She was in the mercers’ hall at the time, pursuing a contract to do with yarn dyeing – one of the few parts of the business she still kept in her own hands. There followed three different meetings, held in various quarters, to which she was escorted by Claes, and during which she had no chance to talk privately. Riding back from the third, in St Lievens, he listened to her and was not apparently troubled.

  “My lord Simon? He has no quarrel with you. I’ll be out of his sight very soon. He’s more likely to have his hands full with his father. Especially if he’s intriguing for King James, or Bishop Kennedy. I heard some good news today.”

  This morning she would have forced a thorough discussion on Simon of Kilmirren. Now she let him change the subject, saving her energy. Good news meant more work, likely as not, and she was exhausted. Nobody negotiates with an underling. Everywhere Claes went, she had to go as well, to lead the discussions. Until, Claes said, Felix was ready. And no doubt Claes was right. Felix, master of tavern-keeping, had still to find the incentive to move to less alluring parts of the business. It might take a long time. And meanwhile, she knew, Felix was still secretly practising his wonderful jousting. So she finally answered Claes with some flatness. “Oh? What good news?”

  He had no trouble now on a horse. Riding easily, he turned his blue-capped head and grinned. “Four more meetings. No. Seriously. Captain Lionetto, presently with the condottiere Piccinino, is now officially banking with Depositors Thibault and Jaak de Fleury, our own very good friends of Geneva. Don’t they deserve one another?”

  “I feel less charitable,” said his employer. “You say Lionetto was hired by Piccinino? So he’s fighting for King Ferrante, as we are. So he, too, is collecting gold hand over fist from the Duke of Milan and the Pope. When the war is over, whoever wins, Jaak de Fleury will be a rich man and Lionetto will make a fortune. That’s the principle, isn’t it? No matter who wins, the mercenaries make their money. That’s why you’ve persuaded me to send all those extra men to Astorre.”

  “Yes, you’ll make a fortune too,” said Claes happily. “But it is good news, all the same. What do you want to do tomorrow?”

  “Nothing,” said Marian de Charetty with feeling.

  “Well, that’s all right,” said Claes. “I thought I’d take that trip to Louvain we were speaking about. Felix could come with me, with authority to dismiss your new manager. And then we’d go on to Genappe.”

  She reined in her horse without meaning to, and then kicked it on before her grooms overtook her. She rode better than he did. Her cloak was perfectly pressed and her hood securely pinned over her rolled cap and coif, so that no hair escaped. Her saddlecloth was in the Charetty blue, edged with scarlet, and her bit and bridle were trimmed with silver. She said, “Felix won’t go to Genappe if you’re with him. And who said anything about dismissing Olivier? You’ve never even met him.”

  “Me?” said Claes. “I’ve no feelings one way or the other. But Felix can hear the case and judge for himself. A taste of pit and gallows. Seigneurial power.”

  “And Genappe?” said Felix’s mother.

  Claes smiled. “I’m going,” he said. “And Felix daren’t let me go without him.”

  Four days later Olivier, the manager of the Charetty business at Louvain, found himself dismissed. The enquiry which preceded it took up most of a day, and the dismissal was effected, with aplomb, by the jonkheere Felix de Charetty. Master Olivier, who had heard certain rumours from Bruges, had already completed some of his packing and was allowed to finish the rest, after signing a number of documents. By evening he had gone.

  The young broker’s partner whom Claes happened to have brought along to check the accounting, agreed readily to stay temporarily in the manager’s place, which made everything simple. Felix left Claes to show him the ropes and went off to enlighten his university friends about life in the business world. When he came home under a paling sky, the candles were still lit in the managerial office, which was a waste of wax if you like. But he was too sleepy to open the door and complain about it.

  When he got up next day, he found an empty house with some cold food on the table. Looking out, however, he saw the courtyard, looking remarkably clean, with a group of people in the middle standing listening to Claes, who seemed to be sitting on a wheelbarrow, talking to them. The broker, a man with ginger hair he had sometimes played skittles against, was standing beside him, looking attentive. As he watched, the talking came to an end.
Men began to disperse, and Claes and the broker walked together across to the pawn booth and stockrooms. Felix went down.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Claes. “If you’ve eaten, we ought to get on our way. People who stay in castles don’t like to be kept waiting. Old Persian proverb. Do we need anyone with us? We could ride to Genappe on our own. You prop me on my horse and I’ll find dinner for you.”

  The battle over Genappe had reopened. The initial salvo, in Bruges, had been delivered by Felix’s mother. Felix was to go with a party to Louvain and examine, with Claes, the way the new manager was running the business. He was to remain with Claes, who wished to call at Genappe. He was then to come home. Felix had refused point blank and had been sent from the room by his mother.

  Second salvo from Henninc. Which men was Felix taking to Louvain and Genappe? He wasn’t going.

  Surprise of Henninc. Then he supposed he’d have to ask that young busybody Claes which men he wanted. He’d thought the widow would have more sense, begging jonkheere Felix’s pardon, than to send a servant on those sort of errands. Claes at Genappe! My lord the Dauphin’d wonder what Bruges folk were coming to.

  Back to his mother. Of course, if Felix didn’t care to represent the family, Claes would have to go to Louvain on his own. She couldn’t leave Bruges. The matter of Olivier was urgent. As for Genappe, Claes knew more about that than she did.

  Out to find Claes. He found Claes. Felix observed to Claes that he understood, of course, that a visit had to be paid to Louvain, to see what this new man was up to. But what was all this about going to visit the Dauphin?

  The Dauphin? Genappe. It was a word you could snap, and Felix snapped it.

  Ah, Genappe. Yes, quite right. Claes wanted to visit a friend at Genappe, but of course it wasn’t the Dauphin, just a man-at-arms in the Dauphin’s household. Raymond du Lyon, his name was. It wouldn’t take long. An afternoon’s ride from Louvain, and he mightn’t get another chance to see Raymond. If Felix wasn’t eager, he needn’t come with him.

  Felix (said Felix) was far from being eager to go to Louvain, never mind underwrite some servant’s trip to Genappe. But Louvain, he saw, was important. He could hardly let a base-born apprentice represent the Charetty family. He would go.

  Felix dropped plans, broke appointments and left Bruges with Claes and his compact retinue in a foul temper which lasted through two of the three days of the journey. Then Claes found him a good brothel in Brussels and an inn where the cooking was wonderful and the owner’s wife wanted to know what it was like to run the best tavern in Bruges. By the time they got to Louvain, Felix was quite in the mood for business.

  But now, Genappe had appeared in the programme again. Felix said, “You never think of your employer, do you? Using her time and her horses on some private visit, when her whole business in Louvain has collapsed and she doesn’t know it. I’m going straight back to Bruges to report, and you’re coming with me. And that’s an order.”

  “All right,” said Claes peacefully. April sunshine was browning his skin and reflecting into his dimples the inexorable blue of his livery. He added, “I’ll have to send to the Dauphin though, and explain. He’s expecting us this evening.”

  “What?” said Felix.

  “You were sleeping,” said Claes. “My friend Raymond sent a message this morning. My lord the Dauphin would like to see us both. That’s a great honour for someone like me.”

  “It would be if you were going,” said Felix shortly. “I’ll go. I’ll tell them you’re sick.”

  Claes didn’t argue. Felix didn’t like that. Claes said, “Well, of course, you could explain that to them now,” in the same propitiatory tone. “That’s the escort over there, waiting to take us to Genappe. I’m afraid I’ve spoken to them already, but they might believe I’ve taken ill. I could fall down.” He gave the yard a calculating look and moved backwards, his hands smoothing his hip-bones in readiness.

  The whole thing, Felix suddenly saw, was pretty stupid. And funny. He began to emerge from his sulks. He groaned, and Claes looked up at once, grinning. Claes said, “Did you think you would get away with claiming that stupid helmet had been loaned by Guildolf de Gruuthuse? If it had been his, you’d have broken out in boils by now anyway. Come on. There’s no escape. You always were a hopeless liar.”

  Felix said, “Does Mother …?”

  “Of course your mother knows you’ve been up to something,” said Claes. “So does half Bruges. The theory is that the Dauphin came here hunting and you met him, and talked hounds, and he took to you. You’ve been to Genappe, and he asked one of his masters at arms to teach you a little jousting. Then someone lent you some arms that didn’t fit them. Why should you have to keep quiet about that?”

  “They gave me the armour,” said Felix. “As a little present. I knew she wouldn’t let me keep it. Bad for business. The clients would think the Charetty were plotting with the Dauphin. That’s what they say, you know. Every country that hates France has agents at Genappe plotting with the Dauphin. So that he can get all his lands back from his father. So that he’ll give them favours when he’s king of France after his father dies.”

  “You mean you’re not plotting with the Dauphin?” said Claes. “That’s disappointing. I thought I could join you and get a jousting set too.”

  Felix burst into laughter. “I don’t think you’ve quite the style,” he said. “But you know, I’ve thought of something.”

  “What?” said Claes.

  “The next deal you do, give me the profit instead of Mother, and I’ll buy the armour. Then I won’t owe anyone anything.”

  “That’s perfectly true,” said Claes. “And then your mother can sell your armour and she’ll get her profit.”

  “Well, hardly,” said Felix.

  “Then we’ll think of something else,” said Claes cheerfully. “Later. Come on. Let’s go to Genappe, if we’re going.”

  Better than the windswept flats of Bruges, the sweet rolling country round Louvain was known to both Felix and his servant. Now, in early spring, every turn in the path was a delight and, for Felix, a promise. The awkwardness of Claes’ presence was forgotten. Felix was a man of stature, invited by princes.

  Claes, well accustomed to Felix’s ways, watched him engage in conversation one by one the members of the Dauphin’s escort who replied politely. None of them quite matched the heir to the Charetty dyeshop in the costliness or high fashion of his apparel. Claes, who had been trying not to look at it in detail, had an impression of furred hems and violet flouncing. Felix certainly had on a very tall hat.

  Claes hoped Felix would enjoy the journey, for he was not at all sure what awaited them both at Genappe. Until now, the Dauphin had used Arnolfini as his intermediary. A meeting like this – if it took place – would forge a direct link between Genappe and Milan. If it took place, what would it be like? Princes were not within Claes’ experience. The Count of Urbino, last winter, was the greatest noble he had ever met, and their encounters had been brief, and on the exercise field: not a meeting of minds. The minds he was used to, apart from his fellow workers and Felix and his friends, were people like Julius and the Widow. Speaking with Anselm Adorne demanded a little more caution. And also the Greeks: Acciajuoli and the woman, Laudomia. The professor had been something new, but only briefly: his mind fell into patterns. That of Tobie, less so.

  Noblemen … That was only troublesome because of the difference in custom, which could disguise, at the beginning, how they were going to tackle you. It was certainly true of Jordan de Ribérac who was, one supposed, with proper irony, the highest ranking of the men he had had to do with, apart from Urbino.

  Now a king’s son. A king’s son who made a point, Marian de Charetty had said, of appearing shabby, comradely, even vulgar, and who was ostentatiously religious. But who had led armies at twenty-one; reigned in Dauphiné; plotted to capture lordships in Italy; and had defied his father the King to marry a plain twelve-year-old from the house of Savoy, for the b
attle-base her father’s lands would give him. Defied his father in so many ways that the King of France had terrorised the Duke of Savoy into renouncing Louis his son-in-law, and conceding the King of France as his overlord. Then the flight of Louis the Dauphin to Burgundy. To Genappe, where he was plotting with Milan and the Earl of Warwick against the King his father, and did not, naturally, wish the matter broadcast by dim-witted couriers.

  Claes had picked up a lot about the Dauphin from his many sources, but it was the Widow, in the end, who had helped him most. That was when, finally, she had pinned him down and asked him why he was going, and he had told her.

  “Messengers are always a danger. We all know too much. And suddenly, not only the Dauphin’s own man Gaston du Lyon but the Medici and Sforza are using me. It’s only commonsense to try to make out why. And whom I see. And what I know.”

  It had been a shock to her. He had realised why, after a moment, and added quickly, “But Felix, of course, doesn’t know he’s giving away more than he should. I’m sure of it. But if we warn him, and make him stop going to Genappe, they’ll think there’s something to hide.’

  “So why are you going then?” she had said.

  “Not because he’s in danger. Only to display that I know what is happening. I haven’t asked to see the Dauphin. Just to take Felix to visit Raymond, the chamberlain’s brother. It will make the point. If the Dauphin wants to see us, he’ll say so.”

  “And if he wants to see you, Nicholas?” had said the Widow. “Once before, I asked you about him. You said, I think, that he was far too astute, and you’d never expect to deceive him.”

  When she called him Nicholas, it was because she was either angry or frightened. He remembered the occasion of his previous answer. She had been both, and so had he. He forgot to answer, remembering.

  “So,” she had said. “You will have to decide, won’t you? Claes or Nicholas? Which will you show to the Dauphin?”

  Being only one person and not a carnival freak, he had started to laugh. In any case, there was no doubt that, whatever happened, he was going to be thoroughly tested, and at a new level. He had felt gratified, until he realised that this was primary proof of his inexperience. Now the visit to Genappe was upon him. Now he listened to Felix saying to him, yet again, as they rode: “And you kneel three times. Going in, going out. For God’s sake remember, and don’t make a fool of me.” And he began to laugh again, because he probably wouldn’t remember. Poor Felix. Poor Claes. Good luck, Nicholas.