Niccolo Rising

by Dorothy Dunnett

  The vicomte de Ribérac’s lips moved in a smile. “A feud between a nobleman and an apprentice! It would hardly happen in France. A youth is impertinent: he is beaten, not fought.”

  “Oh, Claes was beaten,” said Katelina. “He replaced my lord Simon in the bed of a serving-girl and was responsible for the death of his dog. For both these things he was thoroughly beaten. And imprisoned.”

  “As is, surely, natural?” said the fat man. “Then the apprentice in turn, I deduce, tried to kill monsieur Simon? Messer Orlando?”

  The Venetian in black damask put a finger to his beard, striving to understand. He said, “The fight? But it was the labourer, I am told, who wounded Messer the Scotsman with his shears. Messer the Scotsman, instead of having him killed, chose to fight him with staves, a weapon of the people. I consider this a mistake. A nobleman does not meddle with peasants. In the event, the youth received what he deserved.”

  “He was killed?” said the fat man.

  “Nearly,” said Katelina. “Because your noble Scotsman stabbed him with the same shears after beating him nearly to death.”

  The fat man smiled, and then turned to Vasquez, Arnolfini and Florence van Borselen. “The customs of Burgundy! Well,” he said. “Is this rumour or fact? Monsieur Simon, who could have told us, has unfortunately left. But perhaps he is merely being modest. To best a brutish child of the people with his own chosen weapon is something, surely?”

  “And to stab him is something else,” said Katelina coldly.

  Her father said, “Katelina. You know that isn’t true. The shears became entangled between them. And the apprentice stabbed Simon in the first place.”

  “Did he?” said Katelina. “The rumour I heard said that it was an accident.”

  The cold eyes remained on her face. “You sound, madame,” said the vicomte de Ribérac, “as if you were no friend to our noble young Scotsman.”

  She stared him back. “Then you are right,” said Katelina. “I happen to think him – to know him – to be a self-indulgent, vindictive rake.”

  “So I thought. What a pity it all is,” said the fat French nobleman, and heaved a deep sigh. “When you, my dear madame, comprise in all your magnificent parts my perfect ideal of a daughter-in-law.”

  Somewhere, trumpets sounded. The conversation in the great hall began to lessen. People moved, to make way for the Controller, for the Dauphin, for the brother of the King of Scots. People began to take their places to walk, two by two to the banquet. Only around one small group did complete silence fall; did no one move.

  As if alone, Katelina van Borselen and the gross man called Jordan de Ribérac gazed at one another.

  “What a pity,” repeated the fat man, with no emphasis. “For – perhaps I should have told you? Forgive me if I did not think to tell you – your self-indulgent, vindictive rake … really? How very sad! – is my son.”

  It was Katelina’s father, she realised afterwards, who, apologising with chilly courtesy, extracted her and led her to take her place in the movement to table. It was her father who, after conversing as duty demanded with his dinner partners, turned to her during the elaborate meal and said, “You were at fault, as you well know, in expressing immoderate opinions of absent persons in such company. But the greater fault lay with the Frenchman, in allowing such a discussion to take place without revealing his interest.”

  Then Katelina, who had thought of nothing else, said, “How could he be his father?”

  Florence van Borselen said, “I have enquired. I, too, feel I have been misled. I was informed quite clearly that Simon of Kilmirren was nephew and heir of Alan, lord of that property, and that his own father, Alan’s younger brother long living in France, was either dead or incompetent.”

  Katelina shivered. “Incompetent,” she said, “is not the word I would have chosen.”

  Her father moved angrily. “I can certainly think of a better,” he said. “There is a man over there, Andro Wodman, a Scot living in France who is here in Jordan de Ribérac’s retinue. The vicomte, he tells me, was landless and of small fortune as a young man. He made his way then to France, fought for the King, gained a favoured place in the Scots Guard and, with advancing years, was given the estate of Ribérac by his grateful monarch. There he has invested his newly made fortune in trade and shipping and other such interests.

  “He is a wealthy man now. King Charles leans on him as his adviser. When the Flanders galleys come in from Venice, or the Florentine, or the carracks from Cyprus, M. le vicomte sends his factor to Flanders, but rarely comes himself. He and his son, Wodman says, have not met for many years, but de Ribérac keeps himself informed of all Simon does. His good name, as you see, is of importance to him.”

  “And Simon resents him,” said Katelina.

  “He would do well to hide it,” said her father dryly. “From what I can see, he has in his father a powerful and unquestioning ally whom he may one day come to need. For instance, you had the vicomte’s favour, it seems.”

  “And have forfeited it, it seems,” said Katelina. “Are you as grateful as I am? Or would you have enjoyed including Jordan de Ribérac in the family circle?”

  As it sometimes did, honesty overcame expediency in Florence van Borselen. “No,” he said at length. “No. I cannot see myself or your mother, in truth, entertaining that man under my roof now or at any time in the future. There is something unnatural there.”

  “Then –” said Katelina; and did not need to finish, for her father put his hand over hers.

  “Then,” he said, “if you dislike Simon so much, I shall not force you. There is time. We shall find you a better husband, and one suitable yet.”

  The exodus to Sluys came later, by decorated barges and skiffs, making their way by glittering torchlight along the river, through the Damme gate of Bruges and out by the canal to where the two Flanders ships lay outlined in light.

  Moving along the canopied deck of the flagship, winecup in hand, the chosen guests would watch from the rail as sailors performed high on the rigging of the sister-ship, and tumblers somersaulted, and tightrope walkers moved dancing from mast to mast, and from mast to quay. And the walls and wharves of Sluys itself would be packed with all those who had not been invited, but who flocked every year to the extravagant theatre brought them every year by the generous, the hospitable, the inestimable Republic of Venice.

  Only Katelina did not go. Pleading indisposition, she received no reproaches from her father, who understood perfectly, and who was content to have her taken back to his house by two stout men at arms and her own sensible maidservant. He did not know, therefore, when she changed her mind, and instead of making directly home, had them take her to the dyeing establishment of Marian de Charetty.

  The iron lantern over the courtyard doorway was lit, but knocking at first brought no response. She had turned to leave when light footsteps approached on the other side of the door, and a woman’s voice made itself heard in civil apology, overlaid by the sound of withdrawing bolts.

  The door, when it opened, revealed the short, neat person of Marian de Charetty herself, lamp in hand and, after the first flash of surprise, pleasantly collected. The Widow said, “Madame Katelina! Forgive me – all my household are off to gape at the galleys at Sluys. Please come in. What can I do to serve you?”

  Katelina paused in the courtyard, her maid standing beside her. “It’s late. I’m sorry. I wonder if your apprentice is here?” she said directly.

  “This way. Please,” said the widow Charetty. Holding open the door of her house, she ushered her visitor through a passage and up a few steps to a low-ceiling room where a fire burned and a single, high-backed chair littered with papers showed where she had been sitting. Clearing these with one hand, she gestured to Katelina to sit, and directed her maid to a stool in the background. Then, still standing herself, she said, “I have several apprentices, madame, and all but Claes are at Sluys. Which did you wish to see?”

  Things done on impulse are n
ot always easy to carry through. Her head in its elaborate veiling held high, Katelina said, “I have just heard in a little more detail what befell your apprentice Claes at Sluys. I feel some responsibility … The disagreement which led to his injury began with another incident in which I was involved. I wished to ask how he was.”

  The round high-coloured face opposite her broke into an open smile. “Don’t blame yourself,” said the widow Charetty. “There are few people as exasperating as Claes in the midst of some prank. He brings most of it on himself. And he is much better. Well enough indeed to have gone to Sluys, but the physician thought it best to harbour his strength for the journey. Wait. I shall call him. You will see for yourself.”

  “Journey?” said Katelina. But the Widow had gone, and when she came back, it was to usher the large figure of Claes himself to stand before Katelina.

  Because, she supposed, he was not working in the yard, he was better-smelling than usual, in worn doublet and hose which were clean, and showed no change that she could see in the physique beneath them, which was broadly powerful. Lifting her eyes to his face she thought at first, on her little acquaintance with it, that nothing had altered. Then, as a log shifted, she saw by the flame that his eyes were set deeper than she remembered. Then the dimples appeared, like two thumb-prints, and he said, “But how kind of the lady to trouble! Or was it by wish of my lord Simon? I heard Controller Bladelin had invited him.”

  Beside Katelina, Marian de Charetty’s lips tightened. It was enough to set the thing in proportion. Amused, Katelina said, “That’s the second time this evening I have been put in my place. The first time it was my lord Simon, as you call him.”

  “One must call him something,” said the apprentice.

  Marian de Charetty, sitting, said, “We hoped the matter was over. It created more gossip than it was worth.”

  “It will die when Simon has gone,” Katelina said. “And Claes is leaving also?”

  “Very shortly,” said the widow de Charetty. “He is forsaking the dye vats for Italy.” She glanced, smiling at her apprentice. “He is joining my captain, Astorre, on a journey to Milan. If it falls out as we hope, he may make his career in the field for a season. He is, you will agree, built for it?”

  That, at least, was true. Gazing at the pleasant, firelit face of the apprentice, Katelina wondered what therefore seemed odd about the arrangement. Claes had never fought, rumour said. He had hardly known what to do against Simon. An apprentice such as this had no training. She said, “You will have a lot to learn. Do you ride?”

  The dimples deepened. He shook his head. He said, “They’re planning to put the horse on my back.”

  Katelina removed her eyes. She said to the Widow, “You think it better for him to leave Bruges. I think you are probably right. He has an enemy, I’m afraid, in my lord Simon, and another in the vicomte his father.”

  Chafed by her own recent ignorance she was soothed to note that here, too, there had fallen the silence of bafflement. The widow of Charetty said, “My lord Simon’s father?”

  “Jordan de Ribérac. He was at the banquet tonight. I’m told he lives in France.”

  “And he shares his son’s … attitude towards Claes?” said the Widow.

  “Yes. As I have cause to know,” said Katelina abruptly. She turned to the apprentice, who appeared to have left the discussion. “There is something I have to apologise for. I quoted an expression of yours – an uncomplimentary expression – to my lord Simon. I did not tell him its source, but he seems to have discovered. Part of his anger against you is because of that. I am sorry.”

  He stirred, and then smiled fleetingly at her. “But there’s no need. If it’s the expression I think, I called him that myself on another occasion. An occasion which by itself angered him a good deal more, I think, than the names he was hearing. Don’t concern yourself. And especially, don’t fall out with my lord Simon or his father on my account.”

  Katelina stared back at him. Forgetting her training she said, “I don’t need your account to bear the brunt of any falling-out between me and that precious pair. If I were an official of Bruges, I’d expel them.”

  He did not answer or smile. The Widow said gently, “I think, Claes, you should thank the lady and return to your room, unless she has more to say to you. Madame Katelina? You would allow him?”

  He had been standing. She should have remembered his sickness. But one does not ask an artisan to sit, except among children. She said, “I’m sorry. I hope your health is restored in full, quickly. And that you prosper in your new occupation.”

  He thanked her briefly, and left. After he had gone, Katelina sat gazing at the wine the widow had poured for her and said, “You will miss him, I imagine. Despite all the trouble, he is an amusing fellow.”

  There was a little silence. Then the Widow said, “Yes. He is an unusual being. The trouble is … The trouble really is that he cannot protect himself.”

  Katelina smiled. “Well, he will be able to do that very soon,” she said. “He will make a good soldier.”

  “No,” said the Widow, and her chestnut brows drew together, as she tried to make her meaning plain. “It is not that he can’t protect himself, but that he won’t. He is like a dog. He thinks every man is his friend.”

  But one did not devote thought, like that, to an apprentice. Or if one did, one did not discuss it with an acquaintance. “And every woman too, by all accounts!” said Katelina, smiling. “Indeed, it is time that boy left Bruges and learned common sense. Now tell me your plans for this son of yours. What about Felix?”

  She did not know, after she left, how long Marian de Charetty stood in her doorway, looking across the deserted courtyard, before she came in at length and, shutting the door, made her way back to her room.

  On the way, she passed the foot of the stairs to the apprentices’ quarters and stopped for a moment, as if divining the quality of the silence which, upstairs and downstairs, invested all the rooms of her house.

  Then she went, alone, back to her room, and sat down in the chair, and picked up and spread open her papers.

  Chapter 10

  A BOLD LITTLE business-woman, that Marian de Charetty, the burghers of Bruges said to one another. Sending her captain and the pick of her company off over the Alps before Christmas. And her notary, who probably knew more of her business than she did. And persuading the Medici and the Doria and the Strozzi to confide their goods and their letters to the same Astorre, together with anyone else who had to travel south and wanted a safe journey. A gamble her man would never have taken, the Widow’s friends said, compressing their shaven chins inside their furry collars. But a gamble, mind you, that might make her a fair fortune if they came back.

  As the notary in question, Julius felt less alarm than they did. It was unpleasant, but nothing amazing to cross the mountains in winter, and in the short, bow-legged and violent Astorre they had the most experienced of caravan leaders. Whatever it looked like, assembling in the yard in a mess of carts and mules and sumpter horses and crates and barrels and packages, the cavalcade would be licked into shape long before it had completed the jolting three-week journey south through the lands of Burgundy to the freezing, windy and lucrative city of Geneva, where all the merchants and half the goods in the carts were to be deposited.

  After that, sure enough, they had the long lake to skirt, and then the plunge up through the snow to the pass that would take them to Italy. But by then it would be a Charetty party. Astorre and his twelve cavalry and his six mounted bowmen and his eighteen varlets with their horses and mules. And with them (because Astorre was a man with a passion for food) an energetic Swiss cook called Lukin. And Astorre’s smith, a German called Manfred. And Astorre’s deputy, a grim-faced English professional who answered to Thomas, to whom poor Claes had been presented as helper and pupil. Felix had grudged that. Felix’s face, watching Julius and Claes riding out of the yard, had been a study of anger and wistfulness.

  All the men wer
e familiar to Julius. Between contracts they came about Bruges or Louvain, and he interviewed them and paid them. He had assumed that was to be the total of the party, before he heard the Widow’s new plans. But not a bit of it. They now had a black servant. The one who had dived for the goblet. The one the pawnbroker Oudenin had given the Widow. And whom the Widow, not wishing to offend minen heere Oudenin or be indebted to him too greatly either, had sent on the expedition. A touch of luxury.

  Nor was that all. They had the offices of a monk. A musical monk called Brother Gilles who, inconveniently, was part of the Medici consignment for Florence. In addition to three suits of tapestry, a quantity of Paris goldsmithwork embedded in fleeces, a satchel of letters and four expensive hackneys with breakable legs, a gift for Cosimo’s nephew, Pierfrancesco.

  And finally, and almost as disturbing, the baldheaded physician Tobias. Who had fallen out, it seemed, with the captain Lionetto and had applied, with success, to serve his rival Astorre instead. It was Master Tobie, indeed, who was busiest on the trip to Geneva, cutting lay corns and administering purges, or powders which, it was hoped, would produce the opposite effect. Julius, observing the daily training of Claes, was reassured when the surgeon showed no alarm, even in the earliest days when the embittered Thomas showed him small mercy.

  Kill or cure it undoubtedly was, considering the sickbed Claes had left behind him; but it was amazing how weapon-play hardened him. The more punishment he got, the quicker he became to avoid it. And soon he could hang on to his horse at a gallop, even when they made his saddle fall off. You would see him jolting along, the iron brim of his round basin-hat clapping up and down on his nose like a pot-lid. It made everyone cheerful.

  Later, Thomas found the boy an old two-handed sword and showed him a few tricks with his own blade before he knocked him out with the flat of it. And the horse-soldiers, discovering Claes didn’t bear them a grudge and was a born teller of jokes into the bargain, accepted him round the fire in whatever barn they got into for the night (while Astorre and Thomas and the rest, naturally, slept five to the bed in the comfort of the inn) and were easier on him next day. Even the African seemed to take to him, and had to be beaten once or twice for sneaking off to the barn instead of staying on the floor beside Julius’ bed.