Dorothy Dunnett - [House of Niccolo 01]

by Niccolo Rising

  It was a disaster. The boat with Tommaso in it appeared to have gone. But Felix’s head, wearing a hat like a bagpipe, was already visible as he climbed from the quay to the flagship. Behind him was Astorre, in a flat cap and a smart leather jerkin, with brocade sleeves stuffed like a goose pie. Behind trailed Claes in his felt working cap and sweaty shirt, its drooping neckline exposing his muscular chest and the upper selvedge of that silky dun-coloured thatch with which Nature, as Julius had envious cause to know, had endowed his virility.

  Felix saw his tutor, smiled in an alarmed fashion and trained his bagpipe vaguely towards the vendors who were shouting most loudly while his eyes hunted for the object of his desire. Astorre, his gaze on some distant and glorious prey, ignored Julius altogether. Claes, his albuminous eyes glowing with the simple joys of communication, said, “Felix wants a monkey. The demoiselle has gone to her meeting.”

  “I’ve sent Henninc to join her,” said Julius, frowning to keep his eyes in alignment. “You were right. The ballast was alum from Phocoea. Who told you? The Greek, Nicholai?”

  “Oh no, Meester Julius,” said Claes. “The scrivener’s list says the alum is from the Straits, at Castile prices, and I’m sure Monsignore de’ Acciajuoli would agree. That’s what the Venetians were buying. Phocoean alum would be much more expensive.”

  “So it would,” said Julius, frowning more deeply. Alum, that white, innocent powder that got dug out of the ground like rock-salt was about the most important ingredient in the world to a dyer, for it bound the colour to the cloth. Claes would know that. All the same, Julius wondered from time to time if Claes understood what he was really saying, as he carried these tales from place to place. It had been unlikely, after all, that the Greek would tell him anything. Claes simply heard things, by virtue of passing from office to office, in a city where artisans were invisible.

  Julius said, “Well, you’d better watch out. Our dog-owning Scottish friend Simon is in there with Messer Nicholai and the commander, and it would be just as well if he didn’t lay eyes on you. Also –”

  “God save us,” said Claes, with no more than a simple expression of interest. “There’s the captain Lionetto and his friends. They’ve bought a black man.”

  Anyone could see they hadn’t bought the black boy, but were merely scrubbing him to see if his colour would come off. Julius, on occasion a man of discernment, said, “Wants a monkey? She wouldn’t stand for it.”

  “I expect the price would be too high anyway,” said Claes with optimism. He had continued to gaze at the Guinea slave, who had stopped tugging his chain and was rolling about as the powerful arms of captain Lionetto jabbed at him with a deck swabber. “They’ll have to buy him if they damage him. Unless Felix would like a black boy instead of a monkey. The demoiselle might like that.”

  “Felix’s mother?” said Julius. His eyes watered with laughter. He said, “Tell Oudenin the pawnbroker over there. It’ll help his courtship.” Everyone knew that Oudenin had been throwing his daughter at Felix’s head, but really fancied an armful of the widow.

  To his surprise, Claes assumed a willing expression, laid down his apron and left him. With disbelief, Julius watched the apprentice squeeze and squirm his way over the deck until he reached the pawnbroker’s side, and there, sitting down, engage him in some sort of artless conversation, in the course of which they both rose.

  Whether or not Claes had been talking about Marian de Charetty hardly mattered. As he got to his feet, the soldier Lionetto said, “Hah!” and, gripping a friend on each side, began to force his massive way through the crowd to the apprentice. His ginger velvet and his hair were the same colour.

  “Hah!” said Lionetto. “And whose doublet are you staining today, my silly lout? And what fool gave you leave to foul the air of this ship with your stinking rags? You need a wash. Give him one.”

  Undoubtedly slowed by the cups of wine he and Henninc had shared, Julius steadied his gaze upon Lionetto’s two cronies who had gripped the apprentice and were beginning, to a general rumble of appreciation, to lift him at the proper angle for a quick dispatch over the side. No one showed any special anxiety on Claes’ behalf, nor indeed did he himself show any positive resentment as he hung, looking mildly astonished, from the soldiers’ muscular grasp. A bald man remarked, in merest commentary, “Maybe he can’t swim.”

  Claes could swim, and he needed a bath. Julius pondered the situation, and concluded, hazily, that it was not an emergency. They got Claes under the armpits and swung him back, as the crowd scattered.

  They didn’t swing him overboard, because the sinewy person of captain Astorre took three steps forward and kicked one of Claes’ captors in the kneecap, causing the man to kneel inadvertently, screaming. For a moment, Claes and his other captor stood hand in hand, and then the second man threw Claes’ fist away and advanced on Astorre.

  He was forestalled by Lionetto.

  Disregarding both his own soldiers and Claes, who continued to stand looking puzzled, Lionetto neither punched the other captain nor shouted at him. Instead, breathing heavily, he dropped one shoulder and, closing his fingers about the other man’s wrist, lifted Astorre’s unresisting right hand and held it, enclosed with his own, at waist level.

  Encircled by their joint grasp was a standing-cup of enamelled pink glass, thick with gilding.

  “That is mine,” said Lionetto gently. “I ordered it last year from the sailing-master.”

  His beard six inches away, Astorre exposed yellow teeth in a grin. “Indeed. He forgot to say so. I have paid for it.”

  “How childish you are,” said Lionetto. “It is hardly worth my while taking it from you. Give it up, and I will give you what you paid for it.”

  “Take it from me?” said Astorre. “My poor baboon. This silly boy and I between us could strip you to your small clothes. To your inedequate organs if we felt like it. But the commander is a guest in our country and gentlemen do not brawl on his deck. I will take my property.”

  “My property,” said Lionetto.

  “Paid for by me,” said Astorre.

  “Signori!” said a voice of some weight.

  They turned.

  The curtain of the commander’s cabin had been drawn back and in the entrance stood Messer Alvise Duodo, the hero of Constantinople himself. The Greek Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli was beside him, today wearing a velvet hat over his handsome cowled cloak. And behind them both, Julius saw with misgiving the arrogant clean-shaven features of the nobleman Simon, whose dog had nearly beggared the Charetty family.

  “Signori!” said the commander again, causing, as he had intended, one or two of his bowmen to look up alertly. You could see, when the capitano turned his head, that his puffed hair was razored up to the ears, and his overjacket and his buttons and the style of his flat cap and marbled silk doublet were marvellous. Only members of rich families like the Contarini or the Zeno or the Duodo were picked by the Senate and Republic of Venice to lead the Flanders fleet, and some of them were good sailors into the bargain, although that was not what they were there for. They were there because of the skill which allowed the seigneur commander to recognise, from a few murmured words of the Athenian’s, that the makers of the disturbance were mercenary captains of some value as well as some potential danger. The lord commander, walking forward, said, “Ah. Il signore di Astariis and il signore Lionetto. I was seeking you. Pray to settle your difference and come and take wine with me.”

  Bulky and diminutive, the figures of the two captains stilled. Their faces turned, relaxing, towards the source of this flattering statement. Between the two formidable bodies the goblet remained for a moment, firmly held by one hand of each, while they sought a way out of the dilemma.

  It was solved for them. Not by Messer Nicholai; not by the seigneur commander; not by either of the contenders.

  Simon, the blue-blooded Scottish guest of the commander, made his elegant way towards the two captains, paused, and with a sudden, nicely-judged blow, propel
led the glass spurting upwards from the half-relaxed grasp of the captains. The trajectory was oblique, and exact. To a wail of delight and of horror, the thing rose in the air, spanned the gunwale of the galley and, in a glittering, rose-coloured arc, descended to drown itself, finally and expensively, in the depths of the harbour.

  Everyone looked at Lionetto, whose white-hot glare, muting, resolved itself into a flashing smile, directed at the Scotsman. Then, turning, everyone looked, with greater hopes at Astorre, who had purchased the goblet.

  Astorre put his hand on his dagger, and took it off again. Then he put his hand on his purse, opened it, and withdrew and held up a coin. For thirty feet and more, trading, already slackening, came to a halt. Ignoring Lionetto; ignoring the Scotsman; ignoring, with magnificent aplomb, every factor against him: “A florin,” said Astorre, “for the man who will dive for my property.”

  “Wait!” said the commander. The deck, which had begun to tilt, righted itself swaying under his feet as swimmers and non-swimmers paused on their way to jump over the side. The Greek smiled.

  “Let me suggest,” said the commander easily, “that more success might attend the efforts of just one man. Let the slave perform. It is his trade, diving.”

  He was the commander, so those who grumbled, grumbled quietly. Instead of jumping, they struggled for viewpoints. Nearest the companionway were the captains Astorre and Lionetto.

  The African brute was unshackled. He was instructed by dumb show what he was to do, and then instructed again by an oarsman in broken Spanish. Then, as the devil still hesitated, they flung him over the side and pointed a few arrows at him, in case he thought of swimming all the way back to the Guinea coast.

  When he came up to the surface from time to time after that, they flung whatever came to hand at his head and shoulders until he went down again. Nobody wanted to be there all day.

  The commander watched with patience, having already chosen the moment when he would declare, with regret, that the search was void. It was therefore with astonishment not unmixed with annoyance that he saw the dull wool-head and broad shining features shoot up yet again from the water, accompanied this time by an upflung arm bearing the captain’s vulgar pink goblet, unbroken.

  He could hear, from the two ridiculous men, the hiss of indrawn breath as they caught sight of the goblet: see the smile of the face of the owner and the rage of the man Lionetto.

  The negro had reached the steps and was dragging himself upwards. At the top, stabbing the air, were the long arms of Lionetto and the short arms of Astorre, awaiting him. The African hesitated.

  The Greek said something to the commander, and the commander spoke to the Spanish linguist.

  “Tell the slave to keep the goblet from the two captains. Tell him to throw it to the other men of the – what? – the Charetty household. Where messer Nicholai indicates. The three men you see over there.”

  The first Julius knew of this inspiration was the tilting backwards of all the heads in front of him, as if to watch the flight of some firework. In a perfunctory way, he looked up as well. Arching high in the air, there rushed towards him something gleaming and pink that looked very like the stupid standing-cup Astorre was carrying on about. Julius staggered, jabbed by Felix’s elbow as Felix started to jump, trying to catch the thing.

  He was annoyed with Felix. It pleased him to see Felix teeter in turn as Claes calmly took his place, raised his large, secure hands and caught the goblet.

  Julius could have sworn, afterwards, that he caught it.

  It was hard to tell, therefore, how a second later it was not in Claes’ hands at all, but smashed into a shower of rose-coloured particles which glittered everywhere you looked: in bits of fur and folds of silk and majolica bowls and screws of sugar and people’s boot-tops and purse-bags and scabbards.

  Or empty scabbards, in the case of Astorre and Lionetto, who were thrusting together towards the unfortunate Claes, a blade in the fist of each. Behind them on the rail, the nobleman Simon was smiling.

  It was Lionetto, who had not paid for the goblet, who suddenly stopped, looked at his dagger, and then dropping it back in its sheath, threw back his head and started to laugh. “That silly boy and you between you could strip me to my small clothes! That’s what you said! Astorre, my poor fool! You couldn’t even hold your own goblet, and he couldn’t even catch it! Strip me to my small clothes!”

  “Ah,” said the Greek softly. “What a pity.”

  “Is it?” said the commander. “I should not have given much for the boy’s chances. Now they are at one another’s throats again. Really, this is now a discourtesy. Master, you will be good enough to tell the captains that your commander regrets that time no longer permits him to offer them wine, and that he would be glad if they would settle their differences upon shore. Tell me when they have gone. Messer Nicholai?”

  Holding the curtain back for the Greek to re-enter his cabin, he saw that Monsignore de’ Acciajuolo’s gaze was resting on the pleasantly-endowed young man from Scotland who had just shared their collation: the yellow-haired person called Simon. It occurred to Messer Duodo to wonder, idly, what the Athenian’s tastes might run to. He said, “I doubt if our Scottish friend intends to come back. It would seem that he regards himself as a friend of Lionetto.”

  And as the Athenian, without replying, hesitated on deck, as if about to recall the Scot to the cabin – “Indeed, Messer Nicholai,” said the commander. “I think you and I have wasted time enough on this nonsense. We have that to discuss which, after all, requires no audience.” And the Greek turned, the curtain falling behind him.

  For whatever was about to take place, he could do nothing about it.

  Chapter 8

  WITH DISMAY, Julius watched authority leave, and Astorre and Lionetto freed to stride down to the wharf, and lock horns at last without hindrance. The loss of the commander’s invitation was barely remarked, so intent were both captains on battle. They took their stance face to face on the quay, pursued by three or four dozen spectators and surrounded each by their friends. Behind Astorre, somewhat bemused, gathered Julius, Felix and their henchman Claes, with his recovered apron rolled under his arm. Behind Astorre stood the group of men who had supported him, Julius remembered, in the tavern of the Two Tablets of Moses. They included the bald man, whom he placed, blearily, as the drunken doctor Tobias, who had looked after the cranemen when Claes had damaged their faces.

  Claes. Oh, God: idiot Claes. What were they to do with him?

  Then Julius saw that the group about Lionetto included the Scotsman Simon, and realised, chilled, what someone wanted to do with him. Julius pulled himself together, and grasped the arm of the Charetty mercenary Astorre. He said, “Captain. It’s over. We should get back to the Widow.”

  Jeering, Lionetto caught the words. “Oh, yes. Run back to the Widow. Why fight, if you can earn your living between the widow’s cordial legs? Was that what you wanted the goblet for? A bedding gift? I’d not blame you. No more nights in the mud under canvas; no university throw-outs to give you orders, no …”

  Scarlet-faced, Felix leaped at him. Julius lunged, but Claes was before him, as Simon was before Lionetto. The collision of the apprentice and the Scotsman was of the briefest. It was the third time they had met in a matter of weeks. It was the first time they had touched one another. It was an encounter of greater moment than any other. For as the Scotsman fell back, it could be seen that the side of his fine lemon doublet was spotted with blood.

  Simon caught his breath. Then, one hand over the wound, he stretched forward the other and drew from under the apprentice’s arm a rolled apron with a gleaming point, blotched with red, sticking from it. In silence, the Scotsman grasped the point and, unfurling the apron, held out for all to see a pair of finishing shears. Lionetto took and examined them.

  Simon said, “This man has attacked me. I claim the right to punish him.”

  Felix said, “You have no right. He is a servant. He was protecting me.” H
is face was scarlet.

  Julius said, “My lord, it was an accident. The shears had come from the grinder’s, and Claes was carrying them rolled in his apron for safety. And, if you will forgive me, this is not your quarrel.”

  “Indeed,” said Simon. His clear blue eyes, catching the sun, reminded Julius of his reputation with women. They said that shrew Katelina van Borselen had turned him down, and he had lain with every high-born woman in Bruges between then and now. He looked sinewy enough to have done it and, eyeing him, you could be sure that those chosen enjoyed it. Mesmerised, Julius stared at him.

  Simon said, “It may not be my quarrel, but this is, I must assure you, my blood. Captain Lionetto, you and captain Astorre are great leaders, whose lives are precious to kings and republics. What excuse could Bruges give, if the world should lose such men over an idle quarrel? It was I who flung the goblet overboard. It was the lout here who broke it. Why not let me fight on your behalf, and the youth for the Charetty captain? As it is, honour demands that I should chastise him.”

  He paused, looking around with a half-smile pulling his lips.

  “And unless you think it unfitting, because of the difference in our degrees, I would assure you that I will not take a gentleman’s weapon against an apprentice. He may choose what he is used to. A stick, a baton, a pole – I will engage to match him with anything.”

  There was a rumble of approval. Beside Julius, Astorre said, “That’s fair enough, considering the Scotsman has to fight with a hole in him.”

  Julius said, “It was nothing. Look. It isn’t even bleeding now. Astorre, Claes doesn’t fight.”