“Julius,” said Tobie aloud. His voice sounded odd. “And there. Behind him. Astorre. Holy Mother of God, you should have hit him. I should have killed him. I will kill him. Lionetto knew they were safe.”
The words followed Nicholas but he paid no attention to them, being already deep into the crowd with his head down, making his way to the battered file of men still stumbling in. He touched them all as he reached them and passed – Manfred, Godscalc, Abrami – the shoulder, suddenly come on, of Thomas, whose grey face turned, full of surprise. Astorre, who dismounted heavily, chin in air, eyes half-closed on each side of his nose-piece. Lukin. And black Loppe, his face empty. And then Julius, standing still and looking at him.
Beyond was Felix.
Felix said, “Oh, there you are. I said he’d be here. We’ve had quite a battle. You really should have been there. How many men did I kill? I forget.”
“Eight, you said,” said Julius. He hadn’t moved.
Nicholas stayed where he was.
Tobie’s voice said, “That’s my tent over there. They’re putting up another one beside it. I’ll help Nicholas see to the men and your horses. There’s plenty of food. Ask for what you want. Have you seen the Count?”
Astorre said, “We’ve just come from his tent.” His voice creaked.
Tobie said “Go on, then.” Nicholas saw a glance passed between him and Julius. The knot of men began to dissolve. Tobie’s voice said, “Pull yourself together. Wait for me. I’ll see to all this.”
It was dark by the carts. Nicholas sat on the baked dirt and failed to pull himself together. The voice of Julius said, from above him, “Well, idiot, what’s wrong? Were you hoping we wouldn’t come back?”
It was no use trying to answer. He could feel Julius bending over him. With broken bones, that was probably painful. Footsteps, and another voice. Tobie said, “We’re all sorry you’re back. We were going to get rich on your dead-pay. Don’t you know marsh fever when you see it? Tell Godscalc to come out.”
Nicholas opened his eyes. Tobie was kneeling beside him alone. Tobie said, “Amazing. You’re human. It is marsh fever, as a matter of fact; saw it coming. You’ll throw it off.”
Nicholas tilted his head back against the cart and, as well as his chattering teeth would allow, returned a shaky, unfocused smile.
“Although,” said Tobie, “we’ll never know, will we, what brought it on? Relief or disappointment?”
Chapter 36
WHEN YOU HAD good enough health, but had spent your whole life inviting beatings of one sort or another, it was nothing new to feel alternately hot and cold, to run a small fever, to feel sick until the pain passed. It didn’t matter, because it always passed. It was the same now, in Tobie’s tent, after a blurred interval where Nicholas saw very little, but sometimes heard voices. Sometimes when he woke it was dark, and sometimes it was light. He was not greatly troubled about whether he woke or not.
The voice that finally reached him and kept him awake was that of Felix, arguing. The voice answering him appeared to be that of Julius, but he couldn’t make out what the dispute was about. He was still dreamily listening when a shadow fell over his bed and he saw it was Tobie, with a cloth in his hand.
Tobie said, “Ah. Don’t speak, or you’ll have them both over.”
His lips didn’t want to smile and his tongue didn’t want to move, but central authority at length prevailed. “Why not?” Nicholas said.
The pale eyes, ringed and pin-pupilled, studied him. “Why not, indeed?” said Tobie. “Piccinino is getting bored. Urbino is getting bored. The brilliant young noblemen leading the skirmishes on both sides have taken to throwing out personal challenges. There’s to be a joust in two days, and Felix wants to take part.”
“A joust?” said Nicholas hazily.
“On the battlefield. On the plain between the two armies. All properly supervised, with the appropriate truce declared on both sides. Chivalry. Lunacy,” Tobie said.
Felix’s voice said, “He’s talking. He’s better. Nicholas? Tell them to let me go.”
Felix came up to the bed. He had under his arm the amazing helmet the Dauphin had given him, with the red plumes and the face of a sour-looking eagle with carbuncles for eyes. He must have brought it in his luggage from Genappe.
Felix’s face was different: the neck thicker, the nose and cheekbones firmed and broadened. The wavering curl had gone, too, from the ends of his hair. His hair, cropped below the ears, had reverted to its natural straightness, except where bent by the weight of a helmet.
Nicholas said, “Someone said you killed eight men. A lie. You talked them to death.”
Julius had come over too. The sling was still there, and the strong face was paler than usual. He spoke straight to Nicholas, notary to apprentice, as if they’d been at home in Bruges. “He’s right. He fought very well for a brat who never listens to what he’s told. Did he train in Milan?”
“Yes. Who are the challengers?” Nicholas said. He didn’t look at Tobie, but felt the heat of his glare.
Felix said, “I was going to fight in the White Bear. You know I was. If I could fight in the White Bear, I can manage a few jumped-up mercenaries.”
“Who?” repeated Nicholas. He kept his eyes, with difficulty, open.
“Well, no one great,” Felix said. “Nardo da Marsciano. He’s fighting Francesco della Carda. And Serafino da Montefalcone issued a challenge to someone called Fantaguzzo da San Arcangelo. So I issued a challenge too. The Count said I could.”
“The Count,” said Tobie through his teeth, “said that any of the survivors of Sarno was welcome to break a lance, and he would double the prize. Felix could draw anybody. Piccinino himself.”
“The Count? The Count’d be scared,” Nicholas said, his eyes on Julius. Julius obliged with the faintest shrug and a nod. Nicholas said, “The Count’d probably get one of those Braccian crossbowmen and they’ll pick Felix off on the way to the lists, and good riddance. What’s the problem? If Felix has killed eight men already, I don’t see how mortal man can prevent him.”
“I said you’d say that,” said Felix. “And you’ve to come and help me arm and write down the names of all the jousters. I haven’t finished.”
“For posterity. You haven’t, but I have,” said Nicholas, his eyes finally shut. He thought he was in control of the matter and would open them after Felix had gone, but his central authority proved to be of a different opinion.
It was, however, his last involuntary withdrawal. The next time he wakened, it was for several hours: long enough to manage some solid food and to hear at last the tale of Sarno. Sarno, which should have been a long, bloodless siege but because of desertions turned into an ill-advised attack on one tower. And the ill-advised attack having succeeded, further spread into a major assault, unplanned, disconnected and leader less. The attacking troops, as Lionetto had said, had been shot down from the walls by their own handguns.
Astorre had got out with almost all his force, alone of all the army. The handgunners who deserted were not his. King Ferrante had escaped with twenty horsemen to Naples. The Milanese ambassador had lost all his papers but got away safely to Nocera. So had the Strozzi (said Julius), who had already exported everything of value from Naples, including his savings. And now Duke John of Calabria was left victorious in the field. He had only to regroup his army, obtain some reinforcements, and march on Naples and take it. This army, stuck in the Abruzzi playing at jousting, was not going to stop him. Julius was scornful, but Astorre the veteran made them listen to common sense. The puckered eye had regained its gleam and the bow legs their spring.
“What can we do? Can’t dodge Piccinino. Can’t beat him. But if he’s blocking us, we’re stopping him rushing off to Duke John. The longer we keep him here, the more chance of reinforcements from Milan. Keep him jousting, I say. Sing to him. Do anything except fight, till we’re ready.”
Watching Astorre from the depths of his pillows, Nicholas was aware that none of this was
being addressed to him directly. Since he came back, Astorre had been avoiding him. He was the demoiselle’s new husband, liable to jump up and give Astorre orders, whereas yesterday he’d been Astorre’s much-beaten pupil. Astorre hadn’t yet decided how to handle it. Nicholas could see the difficulty. He hoped Astorre would have the sense to take the problem to Julius, who had been remarkably incurious about his marriage so far, perhaps because of the regime imposed by his snarling doctor. A talk with Julius was indicated, as soon as might be.
The chance came on the day of the tournament, which was no barnyard contest. It was the Count’s contenders against the cavaliers of the Duke, and the honour of both sides demanded nothing less than magnificence.
The Brotherhood of the White Bear at Bruges couldn’t have bettered it. Spurred by rivalry, the carpenters of both armies had set up the stands and the banners, the workmen erected the painted pavilions hung with shields. Sun gleamed on trumpets and tabards and blazed and glittered on the rippling shells of plate armour. Horses paced, their embroidered cloths sweeping the grass in brilliant primary colours, and their manes plumed and tasselled. Birds and animals, grotesquely decked, sprang from the helms of the competitors and, taking the pace of their wearers, trotted the length of the lists like some bestiary distressingly animated. Behind the tents on both sides of the lists the opposing armies sprawled at ease. Nicholas was there, helped by the one good arm of Julius.
The captain himself was arming Felix. They could see the Charetty blue in the distance, from the seats Julius had found them. Julius said, “He’ll be all right. He’s quick. Even Astorre was surprised.”
Nicholas said, “I spoiled the White Bear joust for him. He doesn’t know.”
Julius looked at him down the bone of his nose. “You sent Felix to Naples. Don’t tell me you couldn’t have stopped him. If he swallowed your marriage, he’d swallow anything.”
“Has Astorre swallowed my marriage?” said Nicholas.
Julius grinned. “Shall I tell you what he said when he heard about it?”
“No,” said Nicholas.
“He thought Meester Tobias had gone back to Lionetto as well. The other ear nearly flew off. So in a way, when Felix told him you were just manager, and Tobias hadn’t gone back on his word, he felt better.”
“I could see him feeling better,” said Nicholas. “The back of his head nearly scorched me. Tell him the Widow is happy to leave everything to him and Thomas. How should I know what to tell him to do?”
“I’ll tell him,” said Julius doubtfully. “But what happens when you want him to do something?”
Nicholas said, “Felix will tell him.”
The tilted, narrow eyes looked at him.
Nicholas said, “Felix is heir to the Charetty company. Never forget it. He and his mother are the owners. I’m only someone who owes them a debt.”
“Like you owe Jaak de Fleury a debt?” Julius said. “He brought you up as well. And there’s Simon of Kilmirren. He taught you to swim. You’ve been nice to him, too. And I expect you’re planning to thank the person (who was it? A strong-minded lute-player with a daughter?) who gave you the elegant mark on your cheek. I gather you owe Lionetto, even, a debt. According to the way you let him do what he likes to you.”
It was six months since Nicholas had parted company with Julius in Milan, and Astorre had taken the army to Naples. He had grown out of the habit of understanding Julius. And Julius had never understood him at all. Nicholas said, “I was saving him for Astorre. Have they met?”
Diverted, Julius gave his irresistible, reminiscent smile. He said, “On the first morning. Honours were even. No, in Astorre’s favour. He had more to defend than Lionetto. But so far, the battle is verbal.”
Nicholas said vaguely, “After all, they’re on the same side. Will Astorre want to stay with the Charetty, then?”
“Handle him tactfully,” Julius said. “And yes, he’ll stay.”
“And you?” said Nicholas. He waited.
Julius was not watching him. His eyes were on the lists, where a pattern had formed; the familiar pattern of the formal joust. Between the barriers the grass was smooth and empty and green. At either end the competitors, armed and helmed, waited in readiness. The sun flashed on lifted trumpets and the air carried, ominously, the tuck of the drums.
Julius turned. “I’ll stay,” he said. “Until I’ve worked out how you do it.”
“Do what?” said Nicholas.
“Make money. What else did you think? There’s Felix,” said Julius.
And they both fell silent, and watched.
The honours of the day fell to Count Federigo’s contestants, and no harm befell Felix. His face, luminous under the dirt, crowned with laurel, turned dazed and beaming from side to side as he marched with the victors, led by the drums and whistles and trumpets of the joint armies. Loppe, in Charetty blue silk, carried a prize purse of gold coins behind him.
The procession wound twice round the field and divided. Slowly, like the parting of the Red Sea, the spectators withdrew, one half to the hill and the other half to the tents on the plain. The workmen, hurrying, began to bring down the lists. The suites of the commanders, briefly acknowledging each other, set off, banners flying, drums beating in opposing directions. Felix, breaking away as the ceremonial procession entered camp, gasped and bellowed beneath the thumping fists of his friends, while keeping a firm eye on Loppe and the purse.
Tobie was missing. “Well, of course,” Felix said. “Didn’t you see?”
Not being privileged as Felix was, his friends had not seen.
“Well, didn’t you hear?” said Felix, astonished. “One of the Milanese sergeants lost control of his horse and was pounding straight across the course just as de Marsciano was galloping up to the lists. They nearly collided. They could have been killed, but Count Federigo saw it. He threw his battle-horse straight into a gallop and got between them and veered the sergeant’s horse away. But his own horse gave such a bound when he spurred it that it just about shattered his spine. He got off, but he can’t move. He’s in agony.”
“Count Federigo?” said Thomas.
Astorre, bustling past, stopped at his shoulder. “What are you standing about for? Jonkheere Felix, get yourself unstrapped and rubbed down. Count Federigo? He’s not dead. He’s only hurt his back, so it’s painful to move. Meester Tobias and Meester Godscalc will see to it. We got our prize anyway. Messer Alessandro handed it out. A good purse won by the Charetty family. Three cheers for …”
“Waste of time,” Julius said. “If I know Felix, he won’t hand over a penny. What do we do now without our good commander, the lord Federigo of Montefeltro, Count of Urbino?”
“Sforza of Pesaro will take over,” Nicholas said. “Messer Alessandro, the Duke of Milan’s brother. The lord Federigo’s good father-in-law.”
“They say,” said Julius, “that Alessandro’s spoiling for a fight. You don’t suppose he’ll create one?”
“I don’t know,” said Nicholas. “Although I’m trying to care, for Astorre’s sake. I’m planning, before anything happens, to get ready to set off for home. I hope that Tobie, once he’s cured the Count, might come with me. And I think that Felix, at long last, might be content to come back to Bruges with his laurels.”
He waited. Julius said, “Tobie?”
Nicholas said, “We’ve been doing business together. He’s almost as good as you. Better at purges.”
“Thank you,” said Julius. He paused. “What business?”
“Making money,” said Nicholas. “If you hadn’t joined Astorre, I should have asked you to join us. It’s Charetty business, but in my hands more than the demoiselle’s. I found a notary for her. Gregorio of Asti.”
“Felix told me. I’ve heard of him. Does Felix know what you’re talking about?” Julius said. He looked surprised.
Nicholas grinned. “It’s the first secret I’ve ever known him to keep. I warned him if he told a soul about it, he’d lose all the money.”<
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Julius said, “It doesn’t sound as if you need me. Whatever the deal is, you’ve already carried it through?”
“Well, you were winning wars in Naples,” said Nicholas. “Now it needs running, and I am asking you to join us. If you’re not interested, never mind, I won’t burden you with the details. If you are, tell me. But take your time. Tobie has to put Count Federigo together before we can go. At least he doesn’t sing.”
He was glad to reach the tent, for the fever had weakened him more than he liked. Julius left him. He had been rather silent and had made no commitment, but Nicholas thought on balance that he would come back to Bruges. Lying still on his bed, he began to consider Astorre and his officers, but fell asleep almost at once.
When he woke it was dark, and Tobie was in the other bed, reading by candlelight. He stirred, and Tobie said, without looking up, “Did you convert Julius? I suppose you thought it worth it.”
“I laid a trail,” Nicholas said. “Time enough to ask him how his Turkish is. What about the Count?”
“He’ll live,” said Tobie. He tossed down his papers. “One-eyed, broken-nosed, weak-backed and thirty-eight years old. He’s laddered the inside of his back like a piece of old quilting and he can’t move an inch, but he’ll live all right. He’ll be up in two weeks.”
Nicholas said, “According to Julius, Alessandro wants to fight.”
“Alessandro,” said Tobie, “wants to march out while Urbino is sick and command a successful battle. They’ve just had a council of war at the Count’s bedside. There’s nothing wrong with my lord Federigo’s brain or his mouth. He spent half an hour pointing out that we haven’t the men for an attack, and that we’re already stirring them up with constant skirmishing. We have to hang on and wait.”
“But?” said Nicholas.
“But he’s married to Alessandro’s daughter. He had to make a concession. In two days’ time, Sforza can make a limited attack on one wing of the enemy, using three squadrons only. He might reduce their supplies and their numbers. If he loses, the whole army hasn’t gone.”
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