Jaak de Fleury turned from where, instead of his wife, he was preparing wine for his guest. He said, “But that is merely rumour, Esota. We will not speak of it.”
“It’s true,” said Felix.
They stared at him. After a moment he realised it, and pulled himself together. He drew a deep breath. He said, “Not rape. If that’s the rumour, I’d be obliged if you would deny it. Nicholas and my mother recently drew up an instrument of marriage purely as a business arrangement. Despite his base beginnings he has, my mother thinks, great business acumen and can help her manage the company. This contract gives him proper authority.”
The woman released his hands. “Nicholas!” she said, amused.
“I suppose it is his given name,” said the merchant thoughtfully. “We, of course, think of him as he was known in the kitchens. Such a change of fortune can happen to few boys. A turn for business, you say? And so he owns it jointly now with your mother?”
“No. He gets nothing but a salary. Got. There won’t be much in it for him now,” Felix said. “There’s nothing to own.”
“Except debts,” said Jaak de Fleury. He sat down, glass in hand, and gazed at it thoughtfully. “Unless there is money we know nothing of? Business acumen, you were saying.”
“There’s property,” Felix said. “There’s Louvain. There are other investments. Something could be done. We’ll put our heads together.”
“You don’t think there is money somewhere? No cash? No investments? I only asked,” said Jaak de Fleury, “because in cases of arson, it is usual for someone to benefit, and here apparently no one does.”
“Arson?” said Felix. His stomach, which had begun to settle, started to disturb him again. His hair, which had been rolled up tightly that morning, had begun to come down in the heat. He said, “Someone started the fire?”
“So they say,” said the merchant. “Not your mother or yourself, it goes without saying. Someone with a grievance against their new young master, perhaps. What else could it be? Although I must say I have been wondering … Ah. I hear voices below. That will be your stepfather now.”
Felix didn’t even repeat the word. He merely gazed at his tormentor.
Jaak de Fleury smiled. “Nicholas. He is your stepfather, you say? You didn’t know then that he was in Geneva, calling on Francesco Neri of the Medici? I wondered if my poor house was to receive his next call. And after you arrived, dear boy, I sent to Francesco’s to make quite sure Nicholas made his way here. You wouldn’t want to miss him. And I must admit. I must admit,” the merchant repeated, rising and setting his glass on a table, “I am full of curiosity. Why, after such a disaster, is he not in Bruges, helping his wife in her hour of need with this great business acumen we have heard of? What can bring him to Geneva? And where, I wonder, does he plan to go when he leaves? However generous his managerial wages, there is a limit, I imagine, to what they will fund. How interesting it all is.”
He remained standing as the door opened and Felix, too, got to his feet. Jaak de Fleury smiled down at his wife. “Esota, my dear,” he said. “You remember Claes, who is now Felix’s stepfather? For the sake of Felix, I want you to receive him in your parlour. He will not presume. I’m sure of it.”
The tall man in the doorway moved inside and it was, Felix saw, Nicholas and not Claes. Nicholas with the brown of the open air on his skin and not the pale sweat of the dyeshops. Nicholas dressed not in Charetty blue but stout brown and green, with a sleeveless jacket over his doublet and serviceable riding boots and a leather cross-belt with a sword in a plain scabbard. Nicholas, with a brimmed beretta pulled over the damply crimped edges of his dust-coloured hair, and whose open eyes scanned the room, observed the woman and stopped at Felix. In them, Felix read a number of expressions. The last one, plain to see, was concern.
Felix said, “You’re not surprised?”
Nicholas said, “Not if you came straight here from Genappe. Your mother is still in Bruges.”
“So I hear,” Felix said. “The house burned down. So what are you doing here?”
“Collecting debts. And selling cloth,” Nicholas said. He didn’t imitate anyone, or pull a face, or make a joke or even grin. He spoke, now, the way he’d spoken ever since his mother had started taking him into the business. He spoke like all the dreary merchants he and Felix and Julius (sometimes) used to poke fun at.
“Collecting debts? Who from?” Felix said. He had forgotten Jaak de Fleury and his wife, one standing, one seated behind him.
“From Thibault and Jaak de Fleury, I hope,” Nicholas said.
Behind, Jaak de Fleury spoke. “My dear Claes! I can see the necessity. But I fear we owe your mistress nothing.”
Nicholas looked past Felix. He said, “I had a word with your steward, M. de Fleury, on my way in. He is asking your clerk to prepare a list of what is owing. For what you cannot settle immediately, I shall require a notarised document establishing the debt. I have also brought, monsieur, the cloth you ordered. Payment for this, too, would be appreciated by the demoiselle. You will, I am sure, be anxious to help her in everyway.”
Jaak de Fleury smiled. The bosses of his cheekbones shone: towards his wife, his wine-pouring servant, and to the two young men before him. “Come,” he said. “Let us be seated. These are not matters to be dealt with hastily. For one thing, money is tight in Geneva just now. Indeed, I am surprised that you brought your cloth so far south. I should have thought the Bruges Fair would have brought you a better price. It depends, of course, what use you have for the money. Or indeed, the promissory notes.”
Nicholas said, “I should have thought that was obvious. The business has to be rebuilt.”
Jaak de Fleury said, “Of course. So you are returning to Bruges with whatever money you have collected – from me and, no doubt, the Medici. And the debts still outstanding? Do you return for these too?”
Nicholas said, “Monsieur, you will be told where and how to fulfil your obligations.”
“I hear,” said Jaak de Fleury, “that you favour Venice. Is that where the cloth money will go?”
Felix said, “It will go to Bruges. If there is money owing us now, I will take it.”
“Without a guard?” said Jaak de Fleury. “Your skilful Nicholas and his men at arms won’t be with you. You talked of returning to Bruges, but he has said nothing of it. I am told by the Medici that, on the contrary, he is on his way south to Milan. After that, who is to say where he, and the money, will find themselves?”
Nicholas stirred, but made no effort to sit. He suddenly did pull a face, of the kind Felix remembered when he was making up his mind, against his will, about something. Nicholas said, “Did he tell you I started that fire?”
“Did you?” said Felix. It seemed likely that the merchant was right. Nicholas had married his mother, cashed what he could of their assets and lodged it somewhere, and then destroyed both the business and the evidence. He would hardly admit as much if he meant to come back to Bruges. But, confident of escape, he might just confess it. In which case Felix would kill him.
Nicholas said, “No. There are other candidates. Your mother knows of them. Since I can’t prove it, you’d better go straight back to Bruges with the money. Take my escort: they’re Bruges men. I’ll hire others.”
“You won’t,” said Felix. “You’re coming back to Bruges as well. Now. Tied into your saddle if need be. M. de Fleury will help me, I’m sure.”
Jaak de Fleury got up, and with deliberation strolled to the door, where he turned, blocking the exit. “Why, gladly,” he said.
Nicholas looked sadly at him. “That’s awkward,” he said.
“That’s stopped your tricks, you mean,” said Felix angrily.
“No,” said Nicholas. “Of course, it would be quite easy to leave, but you can’t really collect the debts and the documents without me. That is, I am sure M. de Fleury’s officers are beyond suspicion, but I do know what is due, and how to check it. Perhaps I could be taken, under heavy chains, to
where the ledgers are kept? Or could the clerk bring them?”
He sounded solemn, as he had before, but there was something about his face Felix distrusted. Felix hesitated. If Nicholas was here to collect money, then no one, it was true, could extract it better than he could. After that, all he had to do was take it into his, Felix’s, care and march Nicholas back, under guard, to his mother. Then they’d see about these mysterious caches in Venice. Venice!
In the end, clerks and ledgers were brought to the parlour, and a table carried in at which Nicholas seated himself, opposite an amused Jaak de Fleury, with his officers standing about him. During the half hour that followed the merchant continued to show amusement, although at times clearly bored as polite question followed polite question, and page after page was consulted so that the finger of Nicholas could trace, with gentle clarity, the proofs of his argument. Or rather, his discourse. Nicholas entered into no arguments. The objections, such as they were, came from de Fleury’s officials, looking from time to time at their master when a point appeared to be lost.
When that happened, the merchant allowed the concession without interfering. The final list of money, as a result, owed by Thibault and Jaak de Fleury to the Charetty family was double the steward’s first estimate, and there was even some silver in earnest of settlement. It was put in a box with the documents, which had been signed and witnessed by public notary. Felix, biting his nails, watched the box being locked. Then Nicholas turned to him. “Felix. You wanted to take the box back to Bruges. I’ll come with you. There is the box, and there are the keys. The sooner we get back, the better.”
The clown’s eyes were holding his. Felix hesitated. He longed to get away from the fat, scented hands of the woman and the dark, amused gaze of her husband. They said Nicholas had meant to cross into Italy. Perhaps he still did. Once on the road, there was nothing to prevent him from wresting the money from Felix and turning back south. He had men at arms.
Apparently Nicholas thought all that was behind him. That, somehow, he had induced Felix to trust him. Smiling, Nicholas said, “You wanted to tie me into my saddle, I seem to remember. M. de Fleury would certainly help. He might even send some men with you, if you don’t want to trust mine. But perhaps you feel that isn’t quite necessary.”
Like all servants, he’d got over-confident. Felix, as it happened, thought that all these precautions might quite suitably be put into effect, and he turned to M. de Fleury and said so. Nicholas looked very surprised. He still looked surprised when M. de Fleury not only agreed, but took immediate action. A jerk of M. Jaak’s head, and his steward was standing in friendly fashion close beside Nicholas. M. Jaak left the room with his clerks to summon men and arrange for provisions and weapons and horses. The box was still on the table, so Felix remained. He endured, with abnormal patience, the patting hand of Esota de Fleury.
Nicholas stood still, with his guardian beside him. After an interval the clerk came back for the steward and the lady of Fleury. He carried with him a key for the parlour. The steward scowled at Nicholas and went out, but the lady was in no hurry. She waved the clerk off, and again, more angrily, when he hesitated. Felix was sorry for him. He was even slightly alarmed when, with his mistress’s leave, the clerk went out without her and, shutting the door, turned the key in it from the outside. He left the box, so Felix stayed, in the uncomfortable company of Esota de Fleury and the servant his stepfather.
Felix waited for Jaak de Fleury to come back. He seemed to be away a long time. Nicholas walked backwards and forwards and Felix watched him. He even saw Nicholas stroll to the window and nod to someone he knew in the courtyard as if there was nothing to worry about. Indeed, it was not until Nicholas walked back, kerchief in hand, to bend courteously over the demoiselle that something struck Felix as odd, and he turned.
But by then the kerchief was, he saw, bound tightly over the demoiselle’s full, tinted lips and Nicholas’ arm was already swinging towards his, Felix’s, head with a thick wicker flask at the end of it. Felix tried to shout, too, but his mouth was blocked by a large and familiar hand, smelling of new ink like Collinet Mansion.
The blow presented him with one ridiculous thought, before every thought left him. If Collinet Mansion was there, Claes must be somewhere about.
Claes would help him.
Chapter 32
FELIX DE CHARETTY, who had left his home in the middle of April to go hunting at Genappe with the Comte de Charolais and the Dauphin of Vienne, did not return. In Bruges, it was generally known that the boy had ridden south, thinking to overtake his mother and the young fellow he used to go about with. Nicholas, who married the demoiselle.
There were those who thought it a bit funny that Nicholas went off like that after the fire. Although, of course, the Widow had very good help, what with that busy new notary Gregorio, and Cristoffels, who had a reputation with the brokers who used to deal with him. Indeed, it was amazing what they had all done to pull the business together in a few weeks.
But all the same, you saw the difference in Marian de Charetty. Whatever you thought about the marriage, that young man had a head on him, and was useful to her. And now he was gone, and her son as well. And there was a mystery. For one way or another, surely the boy Felix had caught up with Nicholas. And learned of the fire. And had been desperate, as any boy would, to get back and comfort his mother, and help set things to rights. But May ended, and the first week of June arrived, and Felix didn’t come.
In Spangnaerts Street Felix’s two nubile sisters saw no reason for worrying. As their mother pointed out, he and Nicholas might have missed one another. Felix might have ridden a very long way before he learned of the fire. Catherine rather enjoyed the May Fair and the Holy Blood Procession without Felix, now she was getting over all the nice things she had lost – her gowns and her oldest toys, and the coverlet she had made, and the box a man from Danzig had given her.
Now people gave her more things because they were sorry for her, and in return she told them all about the fire, and especially the frightening bits. As she remembered more, the story got better and better, and there were always new people to tell it to.
Tilde, too, was recovering, although rather more slowly, for there were things of her father’s that she would never see again. And sometimes, at night, she thought of Felix, and remembered the little knife Felix carried and how short-tempered he was. She hoped, when they met, that Nicholas would remember to say the right things to Felix, the way he used to. At first, she had thought Nicholas had done such a terrible thing that none of them should speak to him again. Then she began to think that it was all her mother’s fault. Now, since the fire, she felt so sad for her mother that she had forgiven them both. At least, when he came back, Nicholas would be living in the same house, and her mother would be happy.
Only neither Felix nor Nicholas had come back by the beginning of June, and Tilde hoped they wouldn’t stay away long. She had a new robe, since the old ones were burnt, and they had to put buckram into it. But of course her mother wasn’t talking of husbands at the moment, for husbands meant dowries, and the company had to be set on its feet first. And although at times she looked pale, and spoke sharply because she was working so hard, her mother had said, just the other day, how well everything was going: just as Nicholas planned. Tilde had thought then she would talk about suitors, but instead she just got up and left the room.
The Adornes also spoke about Nicholas, but not so freely, since Anselm and his wife were not in perfect agreement over the scheme which drew them and the young man together. But when outside his home, Anselm Adorne spent a good deal of time on the subject, especially when among the Doria and Spinola in the Genoese consulate.
In the Medici establishment, Angelo Tani and Tommaso his under-manager received the Widow’s representatives and proved to be actively helpful in the matter of loans, and forbearing in the face of indebtedness, as Nicholas had said they would be. They also, from time to time, requested news from Jacques and Lore
nzo Strozzi on the progress of the Milanese ostrich. For news of the ostrich, Lorenzo Strozzi had taken to relying on Katelina van Borselen’s little sister. According to the last letter from Brittany, the ostrich was still alive but impounded, and could not be set on board ship until a legal case had been settled.
Gelis van Borselen, who found it necessary to visit Bruges a great deal at this time, and who was a frequent caller at the Hôtel Jerusalem and at Spangnaerts Street, had summoned Lorenzo Strozzi to her father’s house to hear that bit of Katelina’s letter. She thought Lorenzo Strozzi moody but romantic. He had sworn never to marry, they said, until he had a business of his own. She looked forward to several more talks about ostriches.
About the rest of the letter from Katelina she said nothing, either to her parents or to Lorenzo. It was the first to come from Brittany since Nicholas married the old woman. But when Gelis burst the wax and flattened it, there was nothing about Nicholas and the wedding at all, because her letters hadn’t reached Katelina. Nor had anyone else’s. Some ship must have sunk.
She would have to write it all down again. And this time add the news about the mysterious fire at the Charetty, and how Nicholas had run off south three days later, and how the Charetty boy had disappeared. Not been killed in a joust (which, as Nicholas himself pointed out, he would be blamed for), but simply sent out of Bruges and never seen again. For which, of course, no one could blame Nicholas at all.
That was the person she and Katelina had taken all that trouble to fish out of the canal on Carnival night. Katelina should never have taken him home. It wasn’t as if Katelina was married yet. And if she wasn’t careful, her reputation would get spoilt, and even Guildolf de Gruuthuse would start looking elsewhere. From what she wrote, the court in Brittany was as bad as courts anywhere, with Duke Francis and the King of France sharing the same mistress. Antoinette somebody. Katelina spoke as if she saw her all the time. Mind you, she was probably a relief from the old Duchess, the Scottish king’s sister, who sounded bad-tempered as well as dim-witted, and wouldn’t go home to be married to anyone else now her husband was dead.
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