Dorothy Dunnett - [House of Niccolo 01]

by Niccolo Rising

  A kind young man, Sersanders had no fault to find with small cousins, although there were times when he felt he had heard enough of their brother Jan’s exploits in Paris. But being percipient as well as kind, he made no demur and went, leaving Claes.

  Claes, led by the steward, walked through the Lucchese consulate to a small yard, up a stair and into the presence of three men seated at a long table draped in rich cloth. One of the men was his host, Giovanni Arnolfini. One was Anselm Adorne. The third he knew by sight as William, the Governor of the English merchants in Bruges. He stood still, controlling with ease an automatic impulse to smile.

  Messer Arnolfini said, “My dear Claes! What have you done to your face?”

  It was becoming, there was no doubt, a tiresome question. One might ask the same, if one were unkind, of Messer Arnolfini. It was twenty-five years since Jan van Eyck had painted that pale, cleft-chinned face with its hairless lids and drainpipe nose ribbed at the tip like a gooseberry. Giovanni Arnolfini hand-in-hand with his future bride.

  Well, Monna Giovanna, to be sure, still sported horns of red hair of a sort, but Meester van Eyck was dead, and Messer Arnolfini half dead by the look of him. All that was the same was the convex mirror, though one of the enamels was recent, and the silver-gilt chandelier overhead with its six candles burning politely.

  Everything tended to be well-mannered about Messer Arnolfini and his kinsmen in Bruges and London and Lucca. From silk-merchant, he had become Duke Philip’s money agent. He had the franchise, for 15,000 francs every year, of the Duke’s wily tax on all goods (such as English wool) passing to and from Calais through Gravelines. He bought cloth for the wardrobe of the Dauphin of France. And he lent the Dauphin money.

  Claes said, “Monseigneur, it was an accident. You wanted news of Milan?”

  The pallid, clever face smiled. “I have that already, from the letters you left for me. No. I wished Messer Edward, the English Governor here, to meet you. And I have instructions for you. The letters you carry from Italy for Monseigneur the Dauphin are to be delivered to me.”

  Contained in that were four pieces of information, which one might as well follow. The first move was obvious. Claes said, “Willingly, monseigneur. Monseigneur has the instructions in writing?”

  He had.

  “And the armour, monseigneur?” said Claes.

  “The armour?” The merchant leaned over and flicked a finger at the stool on the other side of the table. Claes sat.

  Claes said, “The armour of my lord prince the Dauphin. Last year’s gift from my noble lord the Duke of Milan. My lord Dauphin’s envoy began to bring it north, I understand in the autumn, but had to lodge it at Geneva. At a pawnbroker’s. To pay for his own transport home?”

  “Well?” said Messer Arnolfini. His two guests were studying the handsome roof-timbers.

  “Having gold with me,” said Claes, “I redeemed it. I have it safe in the Hôtel de Charetty with my lord Duke’s letters for my lord prince the Dauphin. I shall deliver them to you forthwith.”

  “You redeemed it with your own money?” said Arnolfini.

  “Of course,” said Claes. “On the advice of M. Gaston du Lyon. Who is in Milan for the jousting.”

  There was a pause. Messer Arnolfini said, “And, my good Niccolò, you have the pawn ticket? In writing?”

  He had, in his purse.

  “Then,” said Messer Arnolfini, “allow me, when you bring the armour, to reimburse you on behalf of el mio Monsignore el Delphino. Now tell us, if you will, what news you have of those whom you met on your journey. For example, the Bishop of Terni, my lord Francesco Coppini?”

  “An illustrious churchman,” said Claes. “Entrusted with collecting pounds groat for the crusade of His Holiness. From Flanders, that is. His Holiness has already said that he despairs of aid from England, racked by civil war, or from Scotland, remote as it is at Ocean’s farthest bounds. Nevertheless he has sent Bishop Coppini to go there if he can, although he is very small.”

  “To go where?” said the English Governor in excellent Flemish, which was to be expected of a son of Flemish-occupied Norfolk who had worked for fifteen years now in Bruges. Claes knew, as everyone did, of the friendship between the Governor and Adorne that went back to their teens. And of the friendship between the Governor and the bookseller Colard.

  Claes gazed at the Governor and said, “I suppose Bishop Coppini is to go to England, Meester Willem. To reconcile King Henry with his kinsmen of York. Or perhaps to go to Calais, to reconcile the Duke of York’s son with King Henry. I wouldn’t know, not being on terms with my lord Bishop. Although, of course, we all saw a lot of his chaplain in Vigévano.”

  “Ah,” said Messer Arnolfini. “And did the Bishop’s chaplain despair, too, of seeing the English war settled, and a brave English army set forth against the heathen hordes?”

  It still hurt to smile, so he didn’t. “I took it, monseigneur,” said Claes, “that the Bishop’s chaplain had great confidence in the Bishop’s powers to resolve the English dispute. And resolve it in time, perhaps, to allow an English army to set forth to battle with confidence. But against whom …”

  “Yes?” said the English Governor.

  “Against whom,” said Claes with sorrow, “I was unable, monseigneur, quite to make out.”

  It told them, for he meant it to tell them, all they wanted to know; for these were three men who were not on the side of the Lancastrian English king Henry, but on the side of the pretender of York, and therefore of the Dauphin of France and of the Duke of Milan and of King Ferrante of Naples. For whom Astorre and his new-gathered company were about to sally forth and do battle.

  It was a matter of some ingenuity to lead the conversation from that point to his own interest in arms, but in time Claes succeeded. He received, humbly, what advice the company had to give. Then the conversation moved to the city lottery, in which not so long ago Meester van Eyck’s widow and a friend of the Governor had both been winners. “So I hope, my friend, that you have not delayed buying your ticket,” said Adorne. “Who knows what you might win?”

  He had not bought a ticket, but now he would do so. “Come. Walk with me to collect my energetic children first,” said Sersanders’ uncle. “You will not forget, however, to bring the letters and armour to Messer Arnolfini?”

  He would not forget. The three seated men rose. Farewells were taken. Not altogether to his surprise, he found himself walking through the afternoon streets to the inner harbour with the great man Adorne at his side, his ascetic face sunk in furs. Adorne said, “You brought me letters from my kinsmen of Genoa. Is there any more news?”

  A pile of sacks made them separate. When conjoined: “Monseigneur, what can I tell you?” said Claes. “Your kinsman Prosper Adorno will be Doge when the French king loses control of Genoa. But who can tell when that will be? Messer Prosper has many friends, but they don’t wish to be named.”

  “So long as they are friends,” said Adorne. “You know, my family supplied many Doges to Genoa. Because of the Levantine trading posts, they never wanted for wealth. But the Turks’ arrival changed that.”

  “The loss of Phocoea,” said Claes. “I heard about it in Milan. A lot of people in Milan are talking about it. It seems a shame, Meester Anselm, that Venice has the franchise now. Of course, the Acciajuoli don’t think so. But there’s a fine man like Messer Prosper de Camulio, only waiting to be given some chance. And of course, Bruges suffers as well. The Charetty business as much as anyone.”

  “Yes,” said Adorne. “I hear you are taking some care for your mistress’s business. I commend you for it.”

  Claes dispensed, without smiling, as forceful an impression of pleasure as he could contrive. He said, “The demoiselle is the best of employers, but I have no experience. Monseigneur, I should like, some time, to have your advice? The demoiselle of Charetty is anxious to extend her business, and I think I may see a way.”

  “You wish to invest?” said Adorne. “I am no longer, as yo
u may know, an officer of the city. But I have some knowledge of what property there is, and what may come on the market. Perhaps we should have a meeting about it.”

  “Monseigneur, how can I thank you?” said Claes. “A meeting would bring us both profit. I’m sure of it. And look. There are your children and Anselm your nephew.”

  They had arrived at the inner basin, which was a pity. There on the white sheet of the frozen Minnewater were the screaming figures of two of Adorne’s older daughters, and the morose face of his oldest son Jan. With them were not only his nephew but a party from Zeeland. His lordship’s secretary and chaplain had brought the de Veere princeling Charles, and with them were his father’s cousins Katelina and Gelis van Borselen.

  The young people caught sight of Adorne. With varying success, they skated towards him. First to arrive was Katelina van Borselen, whom Claes had seen three times before. Tittering with the lord Simon at Damme. Resenting the Greek’s Greek in Adorne’s home. Apologising … however badly, apologising … at the demoiselle’s house for occasioning Simon’s bad temper.

  It was she, of course, who had warned him first of Jordan de Ribérac.

  She looked today in better temper, and also in looks: her vigorous face with the well-marked brows and rounded chin was blooming with colour, and strands of dark brown hair had escaped from her hood and hung, like Katelijne’s, in front of her ears. She wound them back, halting expertly before Anselm Adorne, and smiling, gave him a greeting. Then she transferred her gaze to Claes, and frowned, and then lifted her brows. “And our newest envoy. They tell me you have been rechristened Niccolò. With a knife, it seems.”

  Her voice was not abrasive, but Adorne, who set store by good manners, frowned in his turn and moved away to speak to his children, leaving Claes standing on the bank of the pond. Claes said with caution, “My face, demoiselle? I lay down and let someone skate over me.”

  Her expression was the one Julius wore, when he regretted unbending. Since he felt not at all unfriendly, Claes added, “It was a small accident only. The name was accidental as well. The Milanese prefer it to the Flemish version. It hasn’t stopped anyone from calling me Claes.”

  “Or anything else,” said Anselm Sersanders, arriving with a hiss of ill-fitting skates. “Look, I borrowed these. Want to try?”

  He staggered. A small, stout girl of thirteen or fourteen withdrew her fist and said, “You were skating with me.”

  “Well, skate with Claes instead,” said Sersanders. “He’s very good.”

  “He’s a servant!” said the fat girl.

  Claes smiled at her. He said, “But that’s what servants are for. I skate beside you, and you tell me how I may serve you. Look. I am going to skate like Controller Bladelin. He is very grand, but he’s just the Duke’s servant, after all. He skates like this.”

  He finished binding on the borrowed skates, and stepped on to the ice, facing the child and drawing his face into the shape of Controller Bladelin, when about to address a grand lady. It hurt, but was worth it. He made an elaborate bow, achieved a dangerous wobble, and offered his arm to the child, uttering a genteel invitation in a laboured French accent. It was one of the easier voices to imitate. The child’s face, mesmerised, looked up at him and then back at Katelina van Borselen. He realised, a little too late, that this must be the younger sister. Ah, well. He repeated, “Distinguished lady: grant me the privilege?” and taking the child’s unresisting hand in his own, skated off with her.

  She said, “Do more of that.”

  He did more of Pierre Bladelin. He did both the burgomasters. He skated, daringly, like the Duke’s libertine nephew, flamboyant and self-assured until the devastating fall at the end. He skated, with serious concentration, like the Duke’s far from libertine son the Count of Charolais, which convulsed small Charles van Borselen, whose godchild he was. He skated like Jehan Metteneye trying out a bale of cloth and making an offer for it; and like the Provost of St Donatien trying to keep up with the rest in the Holy Blood Procession and like the men working the wheels of the crane after too many ale-jars.

  His friends kept calling for one of his specialities, which was Olympe, the lady who ran the town brothel, but he resisted. This was for the children, who were in a circle by now, holding on to one another and shrieking. He imitated anyone they wanted, excluding present company and their mothers and fathers. He had been beaten up before. He kept Gelis, too, in the circle with him, and made her his partner. Her poor, doughy face blazed with excitement.

  It was Adorne who brought it to a close, calling his family and waiting, too, to catch the entertainer’s eye. He said, “You won’t forget, my friend Claes, that you have letters to take to Messer Arnolfini.”

  He waited while the youth skated over, his arm round the child, and a crowd of disappointed youngsters trailing after. The young van Borselen woman, who had stood beside him in silence awaiting her sister, said nothing. The youth arrived. The child Gelis, her brows drawn together, said, “I want to go on.”

  Katelina van Borselen said, “I’m sure you do, but you mustn’t exhaust your escort. He has to keep his energy for the Carnival tomorrow, when he has older ladies to entertain.”

  The wound, made pliant by the heat in his skin, had opened again, and Claes stopped it with his kerchief while, sitting, he began to take off his skates with one hand. Sersanders came to help him, talking over his shoulder.

  “Ah, the Carnival. You’ll never guess which fine ladies Claes is going to spend the Carnival with. Shall I tell them?”

  “Come, Gelis,” said the van Borselen girl.

  “Who?” said Gelis.

  Anselm Sersanders looked up. “Why, Mathilde and Catherine, Felix de Charetty’s young sisters. Felix has just decreed it. Won’t they all enjoy themselves?”

  Gelis said, “I want to go, too.”

  Her sister Katelina said, “You are going. You’re going with Charles.”

  “I’m going with this man,” said Gelis.

  Claes, who was having extreme trouble with one skate, covered his face with his kerchief.

  Katelina said, “But he’s –” and stopped. She said, “But what will happen to Charles, if he has no friends to go with? That would be unkind.”

  “He’ll have Father Dieric and Meester Lievin,” said her sister. “And, you know very well, many other children. I wish to go with someone older.”

  It was impossible to spend any longer over his skate. Claes looked up and, fatally, met the frowning gaze of Katelina van Borselen. He turned to the fat child and said, “Well, demoiselle: why not go with your charming sister?”

  The charming sister flushed, and he rather regretted it. Of course, she would already have an assignment. Or, if not, her parents would have made sure that a number of suitable gentlemen would cross her path tomorrow evening. She was nineteen, and unmarried.

  An older, wiser head resolved the situation. Anselm Adorne said, “Perhaps it would meet the case if the demoiselle de Charetty were to allow her two daughters to join my family party tomorrow evening. Our friend Claes would be welcome as additional escort.”

  “– But –” said the fat child.

  “– And of course, so would the young demoiselle, if she cared to leave her cousin’s son Charles for a spell.”

  Gelis said, “I’m going with him.”

  Claes rocked obligingly to the prodding figure and came upright on his haunches, and then to his feet. He said to Anselm Adorne, “It is kind of you. The demoiselle de Charetty will be most grateful, and indeed so shall I. What time …?”

  “Come this way,” said the lord of the Hôtel Jerusalem. “Jan will take the children home. Demoiselle, you will forgive me …?”

  Katelina van Borselen forgave him, staring in a vexed way at Claes.

  “I wished,” said Anselm Adorne, walking away, “to mention, since you were speaking of arms, the store kept by the Knights in the Hospital of St John. Here. My father was Guardian. He used to say the Hospital would be as well to re
duce their collection and replace it with sickbeds.”

  “Perhaps,” said Claes. He knew the tower the armour was kept in. He looked up at it, consideringly, as they passed. “Unless, of course, the arms are old, or in bad repair.”

  “On the contrary,” Adorne said. “I have no key, or I would show you. Brigantines, helms, leg armour. Coats of mail from Hannequin’s time, in good condition. Pikes and lances. Even some swords.”

  “Well, I can tell you, monseigneur,” said Claes, “there are many who would be glad of them. There’s little money for armour, once new guns have been bought. Captain Astorre is purchasing from Piacenza at this moment. From Messer Agostino, who is casting cannon for the Holy Father himself. One to be called Silvia after his own name, one Vittoria after the Pope’s mother, and the third Enea after the Pope’s name in the days of his … Before he had need of cannon. It can throw a stone ball through a twenty-foot wall, can Enea.”

  “Better than the cannon from Mons? You would hear,” said Adorne, “that it found its way safely to Scotland, as it was bound to do in the end. Here we part. Or at least, here we must part, if you are to make sure of your lottery ticket. And tomorrow, you will bring your mistress’s children to the Hôtel Jerusalem, prepared for the Carnival. Say at sundown?”

  “At sundown,” repeated Claes; and ducked his head, and watched Adorne walk away. He was happy.

  He had the Dauphin’s letters to fetch for Messer Arnolfini, and the bale containing the Dauphin’s redeemed armour. He had to walk back to the Burgh and acquire (another) lottery ticket. He had to get hold of Felix, and sober him, and start finding out what was wrong with Meester Olivier, the disturbing manager at Louvain. He had to begin, cautiously, to sound out various tradesmen whose names had been mentioned as having property they might wish to part with.