Niccolo Rising (28 page)

The face below him lightened a little. “The good Lord,” said Claes. “Although you couldn’t protect them from that. But someone, maybe, with potions.”

“I see,” said Tobie, and thought. Eventually, he said, “I don’t see any danger of that. Don’t trouble about it.”

“Then I won’t,” said Claes, his upturned face smiling.

Tobie, leaving him, felt his own smile stiff on his face as he returned to his room, and his medicine chest. Nothing was missing, as yet. He locked the box … against whom? Astorre and his henchmen, objects of Jaak de Fleury’s contempt? Master Julius, protective of Claes and vengeful on his own account? A plot of one of de Fleury’s own abused servants, overheard in the kitchen? Or even Claes himself, afraid of being driven to the very kind of self-protection that he and Julius had been, in their exasperation, urging upon him?

But no. He didn’t believe that. He didn’t believe Claes was ever driven to do anything against his own judgement. He had only once seen him truly helpless, and that was on the quayside at Damme. His motive now was probably simpler than anything Tobie imagined. And sadder. For whoever harmed Jaak de Fleury or his wife, Claes would be blamed.

Thoughtfully, the doctor put the key in his pouch and went off to find his host, Jaak de Fleury, and make him party to the happy news of Claes’ vindication. At first, M. Jaak would hardly believe that his wife had not been ravished. Indeed, unless you knew differently, you might almost think him disappointed. But when Tobie took him aside and
explained the exact nature (in Latin) of Madame’s unhappy illness, he began to recover his colour, and breathe more naturally, and even went the length (eventually) of thanking Tobie for his welcome diagnosis.

After a while, he recalled that the boy Claes was shut in a cellar, and sent to have him released. Asked about compensation to Claes for his beating, M. de Fleury promised to give the matter some thought. There was no sign that he did so. The only compensation Claes appeared to receive was the negative one of retaining his hands and his features. He emerged from the cellar some time later, with a little less than his usual ebullience but otherwise remarkably calm, and Tobie gave Loppe some more ointment. Then Claes disappeared to the stables and the business of the morning began, almost as if nothing had happened.

No one suggested that the surgeon might visit his hostess in her chamber. In a way Tobie was sorry. He had been looking forward to asking her questions, with Julius on one side and her husband on the other to protect his character. Tobie found his way to the kitchens instead, and was given ale and a pie and had a long talk with the woman called Tasse, while Julius dealt with the representatives of the Medici, for whom Jaak de Fleury professed to care so little.

Many people might claim to despise the Medici, but few could afford to ignore them. In London, Bruges, Venice, Rome, Milan, Geneva, Avignon, their banks, carefully managed, controlled the business of nations. And the banks in their turn were controlled by the head of the family, that brilliant, gouty old man, Cosimo de’ Medici, from his palace in Florence.

He had sons to succeed him. But better than that, generations of trained businessmen who followed each other from centre to centre. Julius knew some of them. The Portinari family, of whom Tommaso of the rings was the junior member, while his brothers looked after Milan. The Nori family, including old Simone of London and young Francesco here, many years in Geneva. And coming in with Francesco Nori at this moment, his senior Sassetti, just under forty, with his Roman nose and cropped curly hair, who bestowed on M. de Fleury the most sonorous and formal of greetings before turning to renew acquaintance, cordially, with Julius and clap the shoulder of Astorre, the Charetty captain.

Astorre had guarded consignments before. Astorre was used to these sessions. Astorre had, Julius noticed, a certain intensity of expression which reminded him that the captain, too, had money tied up here in Geneva according to a boast he had once made. M. de Fleury, it would seem, had offered him family rates, and an assurance that his money would be safe if anything happened to the Charetty company.

It interested Julius that, despising Astorre, Jaak de Fleury still wanted his business. Not the man, clearly, to let personal feelings interfere with profit. Good mercenaries could make a lot of money – a
string of successes, a single brilliant capture, a season of looting could reward with uncounted gold any bank which was lucky enough to attract their investments. If Astorre got a first-rate contract in Italy and did well thereafter, de Fleury would make a big profit. His, Julius’s, own money was with the Strozzi. As Marian de Charetty knew, damn her. There were no such things as secrets these days.

So Astorre stayed through the dealings that morning. It was, in the main, a matter of checking and issuing receipts for the goods consigned from Bruges to Geneva. And there followed a formal inspection of the goods in transit from Bruges to the Medici in Italy. The tapestries were unroped and viewed, and the gold plate. Brother Gilles was summoned and introduced, but excused from an example of his vocal agility. Then there were led from stables to courtyard the four hackneys which were to delight Messer Pierfrancesco.

Jaak de Fleury retained throughout his air of ineffable superiority, and was no more affable to the Medici managers than he had been to the servants of his distant kinsmen, the Charetty.

Julius, papers in hand, walked out with Astorre and the rest to see the horses brought out for inspection, and saw that Claes had emerged from the stables and was helping the grooms. Julius was relieved to see him free, and also tickled. Unlike Felix, a walking bible of blood lines and litters, Claes had no close acquaintance with animals. Despite his grand-uncle’s recent jibe, the grand total of his experience extended to draught-oxen, the dog he might or might not have clubbed and the hard-mouthed horses from which he had fallen with regularity most of the way to Geneva. It was remarkable therefore that he had taken to the Medici thoroughbreds, and they to him. The nights spent sharing their straw had led to some sort of companionship. He fed them illicit mouthfuls. When he went near them they nuzzled him so that his ears dripped.

So the animals and their handlers now came to rest before the two Medici managers, and Claes was turning away when Sassetti said, “Well, now. Am I mistaken, or is that a young man I used to know? Claikine?”

Claes turned and looked. The frizzled hair, flat from three weeks under his helmet, was the same colour as the rust on his mail shirt, his face was blotched as it usually was, and he had something very close to a black eye. He grinned. “Messer Sassetti.”

“And Messer Nori. Well,” said Sassetti. Waves of chilly affront emanated from the lord of the Fleury. The Medici manager ignored them. “And here you are, a soldier now, do I see? With capitano Astorre? About to make your fortune?” Sassetti turned to Julius and the doctor. “The liveliest child I ever saw in this household. A terror, were you not? But a good courier, a runner of fast errands,
volando
. I wish my office boys had your speed. Well –” dismissing him with a smile – “and these are the horses.”

He approved the horses. There remained only, before they all froze, to return to the house and effect the formal handing-over of the Medici dispatches. Julius sent Loppe for the satchel, and opened it, and unwrapping the heavy oiled paper, spread the contents on Monsieur Jaak’s board so that the waxen seals, firm and brilliant, lay in profusion like flowers.

First, he picked out the Medici packets: the seal of Simone Nori from London; the package from Angelo Tani in Bruges, and another from Abel Kalthoff, their Cologne agent, all with
il segno
, the pear-shaped outline topped by a crucifix and bearing those three imperial spots which signified the Medici. All intact with their seals and white thread. And all impenetrable, even had it been otherwise. For no banker in Europe would communicate sensitive information to another in open writing. And the Medici codes were the best in the world.

Nonetheless Sassetti and his companion turned them over, good humouredly, before enclosing them in turn in their pouches, and took the chance, as bankers will, to glance idly at the other packets waiting to be dispersed to their owners. A communication from Marco Corner, the Venetian merchant, to his relative Giorgio here in Geneva. One from Jacques de Strozzi to Marco Parenti the silk merchant, the husband of Lorenzo’s sister Caterina who lived in Florence. One from Jacopo and Aaron Doria to Paul Doria in Genoa, care of the Milan representative of the Bank of St George. And a dozen at least addressed to the Medici bank at Milan whose assorted seals bore haloed figures in the most expensive of wax.

Sassetti stretched out a thick finger and exposed one of them. “The Bishop of St Andrews, Scotland,” he said. “Annates, of course. Or perhaps a Papal collection? I see why our little consignment is so powerfully defended. What might happen to the Pope’s attack on the Turk if the gold does not reach him?”

“My dear Sassetti,” said Jaak de Fleury. The archaic cheekbones gleamed with irony in the handsome face. “Who could imagine this former ladies’ man at the Vatican ever collecting enough money to send off a row-boat? Will Burgundy help him? No. Will Milan lift a finger? And all those odorous hermits he has conjured out of the East to join churchly hands in a Crusade – what do they want but a house and a pension and sufficient literate pupils to praise them in Greek for posterity?”

The merchant raised his splendid shoulders and gave a civilised groan. “The King of Scotland must be mad, sending money. His sister, at least, is a fool. She stayed here for years, betrothed to the Count of Geneva until the King of France pointed out how unsuitable such a marriage might be, and they sent her back to Scotland.”

“She was Bishop Kennedy’s cousin,” said Julius. “Perhaps there is a dowry to retrieve.”

The Medici men, who would know, maintained an appearance of
tranquil attentiveness. Julius, taking the hint, dropped the subject. The money from the Bishop of St Andrews, he knew very well, was ransom gold for Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli’s brother. If the Greek planned to beg here as well, it would do him no service to underline the size of his takings.

The conversation dwindled to a close. M. Jaak de Fleury did nothing to protract it. M. Jaak de Fleury, Julius knew very well, could hardly wait to get rid of the Medici, and then see them all on their way off by nightfall. M. Jaak de Fleury did not enjoy their company.

A difficulty emerged. Collecting now in the bank of the Medici was a fresh batch of reports for Milan. Messer Nori would bring them tomorrow. And the Charetty captain, he hoped, would undertake the task of conveying them. The price offered was excellent. M. de Fleury refused point-blank to entertain the Charetty company any longer. Julius, negotiating swiftly and decisively, obtained an agreement from Nori. If he returned now and assembled the letters, Julius would send a man to the bank to collect them. He was happy to have thought of it. When, later, it came to choosing the man, he thought Claes, familiar with Sassetti and Geneva, deserved the small excursion.

That M. de Fleury might not approve did not cross the notary’s mind. He packed his papers, and went off to help Astorre get the cavalcade loaded once more and assembled. The peremptory summons came then, to appear before M. Jaak in his cabinet. The interview was disgusting. Julius emerged from it white with suppressed anger and marched towards his room. The first person he encountered was Claes, carrying Thomas’s luggage. “So you came back!” said Julius.

Claes looked surprised. “I had to wait. The letters weren’t all ready.”

Julius flung himself down on a mattress. “The old monster was convinced you’d run off, or were giving away all his secrets.”

Claes looked sympathetic. “Did he threaten to cut your hands off? No, they gave me some beer and asked about Meester Tobie. I told them about Lionetto and his glass rubies.”

“And about de’ Acciajuoli?” Julius said.

Claes’ brow wrinkled. “No. They have their own silk factory, the Medici. You know that? I told them about Messer Arnolfini: does that matter?”

“No. That’s only trade between Arnolfini and the de Fleury company; it doesn’t matter,” said Julius. “The Charetty don’t handle silk.”

“It’s just as well,” said Claes. “What they said about the Widow!”

Julius sat up. “About the demoiselle?” he said sharply.

Claes looked defensive. “Well, about women in business. You heard M. de Fleury already. They don’t like the cloth she’s been sending. And they say she puts too high a price on it.”

Julius stared at him. “That’s nonsense. We price it below the market, if anything.”

“Well, it doesn’t sell at that price,” said Claes cheerfully. “And it’s mouldy.”

“What!”

“Maybe M. Jaak is storing it in a bad cellar,” said Claes. “The one I was in was rotten damp. Maybe someone should tell him.”

“Maybe,” said Julius slowly.

“You talked to him,” Claes said. “Did he mention it?”

“No,” said Julius. “Maybe I should have taken his offer. Someone seems to be making a profit out of the Charetty company.”

“Offer?”

“He wanted me to come back to the company,” said Julius shortly. “After enquiring whether the Widow meant to marry again, and if Astorre or myself were proposing to be her next husband.”

“The captain!” said Claes.

“Yes. Although to do him justice,” Julius said, “M. Jaak didn’t seem to favour Astorre as head of the Charetty business. He was kind enough to say that I would make a very good master for that sort of woman. Then, when he was sure that wasn’t what I was after, he offered to take me back in my old post, now I saw what a poor thing it was to hang on to some woman’s skirts.”

Julius paused. Normally, it was not the sort of thing he would mention to a youngster like Claes, but he had to tell someone, and Claes was handy. More and more, Claes was handy. Julius wished, not for the first time, that Claes would come to his senses, and make a responsible contribution and attain some sort of standing so that a man could discuss matters with him.