Niccolo Rising (48 page)

“And so what kind of training do you get from a bodyguard?” Felix never had any trouble changing his ground, especially when furious. He said, “My God, a week in the company of a second-rate common soldier and you lecture me about fighting. A gently born man doesn’t exercise by back-yard wrestling. He jousts. Do you think I learned what I know about that from Astorre?”

Claes, waiting patiently, bent and blew out a candle round Felix. “Who did you learn it from then?” he said.

Felix drew breath and stopped. He said, “You’re not paid to be inquisitive. You’re paid to do as you’re told. Blow out those candles.”

He moved to one side. Claes blew them out, while Felix stalked with the lamp to the door. His mother followed. From the dark, Claes’ voice followed them. “Captain Astorre teaches jousting as well.”

Felix turned his head and gave a short bark and laughter. “And you think you can joust better than I can?”

“I haven’t got a horse. Or a lance.” Claes’ voice was rather sad.

Felix turned fully round. He said, “Well now, that’s no difficulty. I’ll lend you one. You make yourself up a nice set of armour. We’ll make it a loan. And I’ll get the others to rig up a barrier outside the walls, say tomorrow, and we’ll see what you can do. With a proper wager, of course. If you have the spunk.”

“Felix! Claes!” said Marian de Charetty.

Her son, still carrying the lamp, brushed past her, crossed the yard and banged the door into the house, leaving yard and cellar in darkness. Behind her, she could hear Claes laughing under his breath. There was a scrape, and then new candle-light appeared behind her, sheltered from the wind by his hand. He had taken the helmet off, and looked a trifle more serious.

He said, “He wanted jousting armour. He must have it already. I wondered about the Brotherhood of the White Bear. Their big tournament after Easter.”

She stared at him. “He wouldn’t try for that!”

“He might. He’d be eligible, with the right backing. Anselm Adorne took the lance when he was very little older.”

“But he was trained. All the Adorne family were taught by tournament masters.”

“Maybe Felix is being taught by a tournament master. I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s very confident. But it might be as well to find out how good he is.”

He had begun walking, but she stayed where she was. “How good are you?” she said.

“Not very,” said Claes. “I’m hoping that we’ll be evenly matched. Whatever happens, he’ll have to win. So there’s no need to worry. Nothing can possibly happen to Felix. And it’ll be the first time on record that I’ve had a beating dressed in a full suit of armour. I could have done with it a few times in the Steen, I can tell you.”

It took two days in fact to set up the unfortunate confrontation between Felix and his mother’s servant. Most of the arrangements were made by Felix. Recruiting his friends, he began, grinding his teeth, to prepare on a scale close to that for total war. Then as time and the same friends did their work on him, he began, as usual, to forget his anger and enjoy himself. He resolved to show his paces, display his armour and score a decisive victory without undue punishment to his good if somewhat loudmouthed friend Claes. Thus, of course, winning the wager; which had reduced itself, at his mother’s insistence, to a pair of mailed gloves.

It came to him, nearer the time, that he was not supposed to have any armour outside the usual household store. He helped himself from that, but could not resist retrieving from its hiding place his own splendid
helm, with the eagle’s head and the plume of red feathers. He told Guildolf de Gruuthuse to say he had lent it to him. He began to look forward to the contest. A number of his friends, stirred by the preparations, got hold of their fathers’ horses and asked to join in as well. A couple of serious town officers came round and warned him that encounters of this kind were forbidden unless properly ordered, even if only in play. He lost his temper at the word “play”, and John Bonkle had to pacify them and slip them some money.

The day dawned, cold and wet. The whole house, it seemed, emptied.

No: what nonsense. The dyesheds were full as they should be, and the fuller’s shop, and the house vibrated with the steps of its servants. But Felix left, and Claes, and the rabble of young men accompanying them, and a group of indolent horses, and a wheelbarrow full of armour, and a lot of pennants with the new paint running down them.

Long before now, Marian de Charetty had ceased to feel any apprehension over this nonsense. There was no venom in the affair now. They were all old enough to be able to manage matters, and she trusted Claes to keep both her son and himself from any real damage. Standing now at her glass window, she saw, divided into uneven diamonds, her son’s face brilliant with excitement and Claes beside him, marching about, booming in ecstatic embodiment of the absent, impassioned person of captain Astorre. The rest, Bonkle, Sersanders, Cant, the young Adorne were doubled up, helpless with laughter. Claes himself she saw, she knew, was cloudlessly happy.

They came back four hours later with nothing wrong but a sprained wrist (Sersanders’) and a bill for three pigs which Felix had chased and stuck with the wrong end of his pennant after they wandered by mistake into the lists and upset his charger. They had also stopped off on the way home to show off their armour and drink to the success of the tournament. This Marian de Charetty deduced from the erratic clanking which preceded her servant Claes’ scaling of the stairs to her office. He knocked thunderously on the door and came in apologising because he still had his gauntlets on, there having been a bet that he couldn’t drink from a glass without removing them. His face was scarlet, the scar crimson.

“If you must sit down,” said the Widow, “I think that chair is strongest. So it went well?”

He sat down. It sounded like a meal being dished up item by item. He was beaming. “I should say so. I don’t know when I’ve laughed … Yes, it went very well. No trouble at all. That is, the pigs. We – I have to tell you about the pigs.” He told her about the pigs, while she refused to smile. His face, blotched with sweat, grazes and tears of laughter, was a mess and he couldn’t wipe it, either, because he couldn’t get his gauntlets off and she wasn’t going to help him.

It didn’t seem to trouble him. She said, “I’m glad you’ve had such an enjoyable time. It must have been more interesting than earning your pay in the dyeshop.”

Through the drink, she had his attention. He said, “Demoiselle? I’m sorry.”

If she were as honest as he was, she would say what was in her mind. She would say, accusingly, “Why are you so happy, so often?”

Instead, she said, “What about Felix? That was the purpose of it all, surely?”

He said, “He has great promise, and courage. All the courage in the world.”

“But not yet the skill for the White Bear tournament?” said Felix’s mother.

“Nothing like enough skill. No. Not yet. And because he’s brave, he won’t recognise his shortcomings. He’ll take risks, and run into danger. He should be prevented from jousting at Easter. Prevented at all costs,” said Claes.

She was silent, trying to imagine herself forbidding Felix this thing he had set his heart on. She said, “How much danger would there be? Blunt swords, buttoned lances …”

“Men still get killed,” said Claes. “And things happen that aren’t accidents. Suppose someone wanted to ruin your business?”

She stared at him. She rose, and coming round her desk, held out her hand and said irritably, “For goodness’ sake, get these gloves off. Felix is hardly the backbone of the business.” She dragged, clanking, at one glove. “In any case, who would go to such lengths?”

“Felix is the heir,” Claes said, offering the second glove, and then looking at the kerchief she was holding out to him. “That’s the second time you’ve had to give me a cloth. You must be surprised to find I’m even house-trained.” He paused and said, “As to that, if you remember the first time, you’ll remember some quite distinct threats.”

She stood, a glove in either hand. “Jordan de Ribérac?”

Claes dropped his eyes to the kerchief. “I had an encounter with two of his men the other day. Not a pleasant one. And don’t start thinking of formal complaints: nothing can be proved. Indeed, he’s gone back to France now anyway. But it made me think. For example, the vat explosion while I was away?”

She sat down, the gloves in her lap, looking at him.

He said, “I felt it wasn’t an accident. I made them show me the new vat, and the new pump. They’d been connected up wrongly. You’d have had another accident in less than a week.”

“Who –?” she said.

He shook his head. “Someone Henninc didn’t know, with all the right credentials. I’ve told him to have no repairs done except by the men he knows well. But of course, anyone can be bribed. And if there’s trouble here, there might be trouble at the Louvain end of your business.”

She said, “We’ve had it already.”

“I thought you might,” said Claes. “I haven’t much time. But I wondered if I ought to go and see the new man. Olivier, isn’t it? Felix might like to go with me. And I thought I should also like to call at Genappe.”

Sixteen miles south of Brussels, the compact moated castle of Genappe had been a favourite hunting lodge of the Duke of Burgundy’s until recently. Until the Dauphin Louis, heir to the kingdom of France, had fled to his dear uncle for sanctuary and his dear uncle the Duke had presented him with Genappe, to be his home for as long as he wished to defy his own father.

Claes proposed to call on the Dauphin of France. Her servant Claes. Her remarkable, half-inebriated, wholly self-possessed Nicholas. Who was so happy, so often.

He clearly saw nothing odd about it. She said, “Well, you’d better make sure your blue doublet is properly mended.”

The large gaze admired her; the caterpillar mouth expanded in a beam of complete and serene understanding. He said, “And put back all the bells while I’m at it?”

Chapter 22

E
ASTER, THAT
year, fell in the middle of April. The expedition to Genappe, Claes decided, should ideally take place just before it. In case circumstances changed, he became very busy.

By the middle of March, Marian de Charetty was a substantial property-owner, possessing three warehouses next to her own, a wine tavern close to the fish market and – at a cost that frightened her – a house and storerooms in Spangnaerts Street. Spangnaerts, or Spanish Street, was in the heart of the prime trading quarter of Bruges, near the Bridge of St John, across the canal from the English and Scots trading houses, and within three minutes of the customs house, the Bourse, the consulates of Florence, Venice and Genoa, and the Lodge of the Brethren of the White Bear. It was also next door to a house owned by Anselm Adorne.

Felix was given the task of supervising the refurbishing of the wine tavern. Astoundingly, he set about it with vigour, making a number of excellent innovations and causing concern only in the undue sternness of his dealings with both his staff and his customers. One of the Metteneye boys, who had been accidentally sick over one of Felix’s new trestles, was more than surprised to find himself bundled into the street and told not to return until he could hold his drink properly. Felix’s mother, called upon by the Metteneye mother, found herself having to apologise.

The money to do all this, it seemed, was being found partly by loan, and partly from the profit of some investment Claes had made with the Milan Medici.

Thomas, arriving with two hundred foot and horse towards the end of February, found accommodation, beer, food and fodder waiting for him, and a string of mules and hired carts bearing armour. Thomas, offspring of three generations of landless soldiers stranded in France by a succession of forgivable English defeats compounded by a succession
of unforgivable English truces, began to soften still further towards foreigners, who weren’t at all bad so long as you kicked the bastards from time to time where it hurt most.

After a week of pandemonium Thomas and his small army left, to join Master Tobias at Milan and proceed south to Astorre and Naples. With him went an extremely burly chaplain called Godscalc from northern Germany, and a Hungarian crossbowman called Abrami, both discovered by Claes. The function of the chaplain, he explained, was to help Julius with his clerking and keep Tobie from interfering, while reminding the troops that disobedience to Astorre’s orders meant death and hellfire immediately. The job of Abrami was to help Thomas imagine he could handle everything, while handling all the things Thomas couldn’t.

Marian de Charetty listened, questioned, objected, argued and occasionally won a point.

The pump in the yard had been set right, and a man brought in from Alost to do nothing but look after the equipment, keep friendly with Lippin, and obey Henninc’s orders. Henninc was pleased and the man, who reported direct to the Widow and often got quite different orders, was discreet and able. What portion of Claes’ network of contacts had produced him was not yet evident. Godscalc, Marian knew, had been a brother of the chaplain to the painters’ guild: she suspected Colard Mansion had supplied him. The Hungarian, amazingly, was related to the wife of one of the seamen at Sluys. Henninc’s new deputy, who spoke native Flemish, went by the name of Bellobras, which still caused Felix extreme amusement.

When she wasn’t worrying about loans, the Widow felt like smiling as well. She had never before experienced so buoyant an upheaval: not in her girlhood; not in Cornelis’ lifetime. She had envied Claes his disposition. All through the worst of his ’prentice excesses, he had always been lively to deal with. Employing him now, it would seem, as an equerry, she woke every morning alert and expectant, wondering what amazing battles she would have to fight, what new acquisitions, new experiences, new adventures would be packed into this day before it ended. She was never disappointed. She had never seen anyone work so prodigally in so many diverse arenas. The excesses of the past she now interpreted as mere spillage of all this vitality, and could only be thankful there had been no more of them. Speed, of course, was important because he had to get back to Milan, because of the courier service. That had been organised, too. She had asked to be kept informed about it, and was, to a fault. It seemed to be a matter of hiring riders and analysing information about horses and lodgings and tolls and other couriers. The Bruges branch of a number of banks, including the Medici, then made known their willingness to confide certain kinds of dispatches under contract to the Charetty. One of the new couriers had already gone south with a heavy guard and a satchel.