Niccolo Rising

by Dorothy Dunnett

  Even as he began persuasively to answer her, she knew that he had it planned already. Another contingency. He had cancelled the bodyguard. He had found another, and an escort for herself from the former master-at-arms who ran the metal foundry. Her personal servants were willing to come, and the cook from Spangnaerts Street: Gregorio would find a replacement. The packing could all be done tomorrow.

  She watched him, and at the end said, “And when does Simon arrive?”

  He grinned. He said, “Tomorrow. But I can’t get us away quite so early. And the roads would be packed.”

  She said, “He’ll still be here when I come back. And perhaps de Ribérac.”

  The benign smile was still there. “They may have threatened you, but I’m the object of their real esteem, remember. Anyway, they won’t come together. They dislike each other. And even if they do, I’ve told Gregorio what to do about it. While I’m away, he’ll move back to Julius’ office. In the evenings, you let no one in.”

  “Really?” she said.

  “Except by invitation, of course. There are primrose paths everywhere, or should be.”

  His large smile defied her to take him seriously. She wondered, with humour, who was supposed to travel the aforesaid paths with her. Gregorio had his mistress. Metteneye was suited. All her clients had wives already. That left Oudenin, she supposed. Or possibly even Henninc. She reproved herself. He had taken thought for her safety, returning. Concern for what she did, once returned, was too much to expect.

  Side by side with an extremely handsome young woman and followed by a double line of attendants, Simon of Kilmirren rode through the clamorous highways of Bruges on Saturday. Behind him, page, squire, grooms carried his shield and his weapons and led his fine horses. Liveried riders conducted the sumpter mules and bore the gold-tasselled pennants which had surged and flapped all the way from Calais.

  Simon himself wore his jousting-armour and carried his helm, the green plumes trailing over his arm. His face, with its fair skin and pure, finicking bones, expressed well-bred boredom. People turned to look. The gold of his uncovered hair and the silver dazzle of engraved plate beneath it were not what you saw every day, even among the great cavaliers. Especially among the great cavaliers, who often had gifted an eye or a set of good teeth to the god of mock battle.

  When he had gone, the tumble of business resumed. Competitors, servants and horses, ladies and escorts, spectators from miles around Bruges – all that, every year, meant hard work, flourishing trade and, of course, money. Acclaim, too, for the influential city of Bruges, host to the flower of chivalry. Pride as well as self-interest inspired the carpenters hammering day and night to erect the lists and the tribunals in the market place, the painters completing the blazons and banners, the city officials hurrying everywhere with the officers of the White Bear itself, seeing to the dressing and clearing of the streets, the preparations for the feasts, the protocol for processions and ceremonies and presentations, the entertaining and ruling of the scattered company of elite challengers.

  Tomorrow the jousters, each with his train, would wind in procession from the Abbey of Eckhout there, behind the house of Louis de Gruuthuse, to the lists in the market place. Tonight, Simon of Kilmirren was lodging, as usual, at the house of Jehan Metteneye, with his banner and hatchment and crest dressing the windowsill of his chamber, as was the custom.

  He had got rid of Muriella and her ladies first, at the house of her hostess. He was quite pleased with her. She was rich: her brother was a Scotsman turned Englishman trading in the Staple at Calais. She was dark, in contrast to his fairness, and striking, in crimson and that extraordinary headdress like some sort of butterfly. Although none of that could compete, he was aware, with golden hair and green plumes and silver armour.

  The brother, John Reid, had not been unattracted by the idea of a marriage contract, although it was clear that he would prefer to hand over the girl to a title. But, as Simon had happened to mention, his titled uncle in Scotland was old, and his titled father in France, although unfortunately set apart by affairs from his only son and heir, had a well-cultivated seigneurie. That, of course, was a double-edged weapon. His father’s fortune had probably been signed away already to some parcel of monks or a mistress, to deny it to his unpopular son. And although his father could not, probably, alienate his heir from his land, the French king certainly could, if he heard what Simon had been up to in Calais. Nevertheless, John Reid had been interested. Simon had been allowed to bring Muriella, properly chaperoned, as his lady of honour on the strength of it.

  The presence of the chaperone didn’t disturb him at the moment. Tonight was the great formal feast at the Sign of the Moon in the market place. Already the Forestier, last year’s champion, would be parading the town with his heralds, his pipes and his drummers, and calling on the grand ladies and well-born maidens whom the Brotherhood wished to come to the banquet.

  Muriella would be his partner at the feast, which would finish prudently early, so that he could escort her prudently home. After that, he had a well-tried welcome already awaiting him somewhere else, as he always did before a contest. Something easy, expert and quick. That way, you didn’t waste time before you began, or in trying to get away when you’d finished. He wished to do well tomorrow, after all, for his lady’s sake.

  Then when the lady had watched him win in the lists, and had danced with him, and had shared his cup at the banquets before returning each night to her cold bed, she might begin to think of that short journey home in his company. She would admire his chivalry. She would dream, as ladies do, of perhaps testing it. And in some inn on the way she would find the means, he felt sure, to relieve him in some sweet, thoughtful way, of the minor impediment of the chaperone.

  And then, if he still felt like it, he would ask the brother for her hand, and the dowry he had been three-quarters promised.

  Meanwhile in Metteneye’s house, arranging for his servants, his horses, his gear, Simon was chastely polite to Jehan Metteneye’s wife, as arch and as pendulous as he remembered. The girl Mabelie had, of course, gone. The woman didn’t mention that, or the affair with the knave Claes. After he had left Bruges on the last occasion, travellers to Scotland had sought him out for quite a while, regaling him with the heartening news of his youthful friend’s promising recovery. And later, of how he had been encouraged to depart from Bruges, and had gone off to soldier in Italy. The end, he supposed, of a trouble-maker.

  It was John of Kinloch, the Scots chaplain, who disillusioned him. Master John, in stained black, met him on the stairs and, instead of stepping aside, took occasion to compliment him on the splendid armour he had heard so much about, and the exquisite doublet he had now assumed with, he saw, a left sleeve fit for a king. He then remarked, without stirring, how interested Simon must be in the latest news of young Nicholas.

  If the fellow was trying to find common ground, he was failing. Simon said, “Forgive me. I can’t think whom you mean.” He glanced down the stairs. Metteneye was approaching. Rescue.

  “Oh,” said John of Kinloch. “You’d remember him as young Claes. Who would have thought, when his life was despaired of, that all this would happen?”

  The quality of Kinloch’s smile was explained. Simon smiled in return, at the chaplain and at Jehan Metteneye, now starting up the stairs. He said, his tone one of civil amusement, “I heard he was in Italy. Then he’s made his fortune, has he? A commander?”

  Both men laughed. Kinloch moved to one side and Metteneye took his place on the same step. Metteneye flicked Simon’s chest with a finger. “Now we’ve got you,” he said. “You’d never guess. No. Here in Bruges, the young rascal. He’s married the widow Charetty, and he’s managing the whole of her business!”

  “Married!” said Simon. “Surely not.”

  “Oh, quite legally,” said the chaplain. He was smiling more widely, God damn him. He’d got what he wanted. Simon stopped even attempting to disguise what he felt. The chaplain said, “Of course, t
hey’re related, but there’s to be a dispensation. I wonder Bishop Coppini didn’t mention it when you were both in Calais. He took the wedding Mass. With Anselm Adorne’s chaplain.”

  Coppini, the bastard. No, of course: he would know nothing about Mabelie, or the gun, or the dog. Or the shears. But Anselm Adorne did, and had supported the marriage. Marriage! And who else now found Claes entertaining, of the men he would meet during the tournament? Metteneye had spoken with tolerant amusement. Metteneye, who had tried to thrash Claes with the best of them.

  They were both still gazing at him. Simon said, “In view of all the trouble he’s caused, you do surprise me. There must be twenty years between Claes and the poor woman. He’s running all the business, you say?”

  “Aye,” said Metteneye. “And you wouldn’t believe what he’s done for it. Bought arms and artillery and formed a big company and sent it off to the Naples wars. Started a private courier service between Flanders and the Italian states. Expanded the dyeing and pawnbroking business. Bought property and added new management …”

  “All with the widow’s money? I didn’t know she was worth as much,” said Simon.

  “Oh, she had a fair bit,” said Metteneye. “But most of it’s being done on loans and promises. That’s the beauty of getting old Astorre’s company and the courier service started early. The Medici are backing him, and the others he’s contracted to. It’s in their interests to make him loans, you see.”

  The chaplain stood, grinning. Other people were coming into the passage below. Simon said, “It seems he must have entranced the poor lady. I hope she doesn’t wake up one morning and find her husband and her business and her money all gone together.”

  Jehan Metteneye nodded. “That’s what my Griete says,” he said. “And maybe there’s truth in it. But they’ve done wonders to that place of theirs. You should walk past it before they go off tomorrow.”

  Simon said, “Go off? You mean the bridegroom is abandoning Bruges before the jousting! I thought to find him in cloth of gold at the best window. Or even breaking a lance for his elderly wife. They seem to have admitted her son to the lists, so there should be no trouble about a landless by-blow.”

  It had not been a very wise pronouncement. The Metteneye, like the Charetty, were of bourgeois stock, and landless, however long their line. Metteneye said, “I’ve nothing against the jousting. The Metteneyes have always taken part, and young Pieter will be there tomorrow. But sometimes affairs have got to come first. The young man is taking his wife, I understand, to call on the Fleury hotels in Dijon and Geneva. Kinsfolk, and no doubt important clients. And as for young Felix –”

  The chaplain, smiling, nodded and pushed past. Metteneye, his face slightly flushed, continued to impart information.

  “Young Felix did better, some might say, than take part in a joust. He had a personal invitation to hunt with the Comte de Charolais. Delivered by the Count’s Receiver. Unfortunately for the same Sunday, so what could he do? But I dare say,” said Jehan Metteneye, “that you’ll find someone worthy to break a lance against come tomorrow. Now we’re blocking your way, and you’ll be in a hurry.”

  He was in a moderate hurry, but he still took time to walk, as recommended, past the large, well-maintained and orderly premises of the Charetty behind its long wall. He made a few calls. And then he went, thoughtfully, to call on the dark and stately Muriella.

  His evening passed agreeably. The banquet was lavish, and his immediate company suited him. He entertained it with ease, and continued his bantering courtship of the young lady his partner, whose jewels certainly did nothing to reduce his standing with the nobles of Bruges. He had brought Muriella a rose, from someone who stored such things for him, and she had allowed him to caress her fingers when he kissed them. Then he avoided any growing complacency by paying particular attention to the lady who partnered his neighbour. She responded warmly.

  As he had hoped, the banquet was not a long one. He escorted his lady home, well-attended, and took leave of her with gentle courtesy. She turned as she entered her lodging, the rose crushed in her fingers. He was, of course, still in the roadway. He bowed. That done, he dismissed his attendants and walked through the less busy streets in the anonymity of his hooded cloak. Idle, his thoughts turned to the white skin and dark hair of the Reid girl, and the explicit comforts that the rest of her might have to offer. He reached Betkine’s house hot with an awkward energy which, put to use, gave a few moments of extreme pleasure, but refused repeatedly to disperse.

  He couldn’t stay all night. He stayed twice as long as he meant to, and left well after dark. By then, the lamplit hammering and the voices of straining workers had come to an end. The market place was brightly lit, and you could trace, by the occasional murmurs, the places where the town had posted its guards to watch over the confections of wood and lath and canvas until the jousting day dawned. There were other noises. The snuffling of the ubiquitous pigs. The squeal of cats. The muted wailing, behind a lit window, of a demanding infant. A batch of snores, from between open shutters. The lap of canal water. The shifting, in wind, of some litter. The hollow sound of lonely footsteps, crossing a bridge. From several places, the subdued barking of dogs.

  He had lost a fine dog here, once. And a pretty, plump girl.

  The wind had risen. It brought an odd noise which, standing still in the market place, Simon considered. You would think that tomorrow’s joust was being rehearsed at the edge of the city. A replica, in miniature, of the screams, the roar of the crowd, faint as the sea in the breath of a mollusc.

  The wind brought it again. He listened intently, every sense fine-tuned to magnify the one sense of hearing. The blow of the bell overhead, when it came, struck him deaf for the moment, and nearly out of his senses.

  Then it came again, a violent boom, shaking the bell-tower. And again. And again.

  Someone shouted. A light bloomed in a window, and another. A door banged. The bell tolled and tolled. And over it now, a magnified voice proclaiming what appeared to be an injunction of the Almighty from the top of the bell-tower. A man, gabbling through the great trumpet. The great bell for fire. And the speaking trumpet telling the place: the dyeworks and house of the Charetty family.

  Of course, at one time every building was timber and thatch, and a fire could reduce a town in an hour. Now brick and stone and tiles and slate might resist, but stairs and penthouses were of timber, and inside beams and panelling.

  The city had proper regard for its responsibilities. In every quarter you would find a deposit of buckets and brooms. On the call of the speaking trumpet, men knew what to do. For Bruges was a city which made its living from cloth; which sat day and night upon the canvas bales wedged in its cellars, with all the other stuffs a merchant needed to store.

  A pawnbroker’s stockrooms would be full of cloth, in the way of pawned clothes. And a dyeshop of course would have more than bolts of cloth and bundles of yarn. It would have the dyes themselves. The kegs of yellow crocus. The sacks of dried gall-nuts for fine, costly blacks, and the sacks of brazil wood blocks for crimson. The parcels of herbs: bunches of weld hanging from rafters. The trays of powdered woad and caking granules. The bladders of buckthorn and sap green and mulberry. The barrels of lakes and gums and resins. The sheds full of ashes, and empty wine-casks for scraping and burning. And scattered through the yards, the wooden vats and tools and stretching-frames; the teasel bats piled high for napping. And the lines of strung skeins and stretched coloured cloths joining house to dyeshop to warehouse in one endless pattern, like some magical puzzle in wool.

  Simon of Kilmirren turned and made his way to where, now, the distant noise was more distinct, despite the sharp sounds increasing all about him. And where, now, you could see by a colouring in the sky that there was indeed a fire, and a growing one.

  People began to run past him, half-dressed, with racketing buckets. He stood for a moment and then moved in their wake, without hurrying. Whatever was going to happen would have hap
pened before he could get there.

  Which was true, of course. When he got there the fire had just gained control of the house and was advancing through the yard. The street, as he turned into it, was a mass of moving, shouting, half-naked people.

  The gateway to the yard and the yard beyond were thronged with jostling men. Horses were being led out. Buckets flashed. Silver arches and cascades of water crossed the air and dissolved in white, fizzing steam. As the line of fire advanced, the bucket-line and the beaters began to fall back. Blazing stuff from the house began to spring through the air, alighting on sacks and boxes dragged into the yard. Pushing further in, Simon passed a middle-aged man in a night cap, struggling out with a sack of insect-dye, his great naked belly blotched scarlet. Simon said to someone, “What about the folk in the house?”

  The man he spoke to was collecting ledgers, tumbled over the ground as they must have fallen from an upstairs window. He said, “The dogs wakened us. I think we got everyone out.” He wore a black doublet, open over his small-clothes. His scoop-nosed face was black, too, and hollow with effort.

  Simon said, “Look. I’ll see to that. Go and see what else you can save.”

  He waited until the man had turned away, and then tossed the ledgers one by one, carefully, into the heart of the fire. After that, the heat drove everyone back and he was content to stand in the road with the rest and watch the Charetty business burn, while the shouting and thumping moved to either side, where the nearest houses were being soaked and emptied.

  Around him, the crowd had separated into small groups, silent except for muffled crying, where women clung, being comforted. In one such group he saw the man he had just spoken to, standing close to a small, comely woman with beautiful hair. Two attractive young girls, their faces swollen, were clasped to her sides. He noticed them first because of the empty space left, as if by deference, all around them. Then he realised who, of course, they must be.