Niccolo Rising (73 page)

“No, I don’t,” said Nicholas obediently.

Felix said, “I was called in by Cicco Simonetta, and asked if I would accept a gift from the Duke to take back to the demoiselle of Charetty. He offered money.”

He had, from the floor, Nicholas’ entire attention. “And you told him we were tired of money?” Nicholas said.

“I told him,” Felix said, “that in place of money I should like to ask a great favour. Such as the return of the singing Guinea slave whose services my mother had come to miss sorely.”

The scarred face below him changed a little. “Loppe?” said Nicholas. “I didn’t know he’d seen you.”

“For some reason,” said Felix, “he enjoyed being with us. He doesn’t like Milan now Brother Gilles has gone away. He’s afraid he’ll be sent to Cosimo in Florence. I think,” said Felix dreamily, “an African, properly dressed, makes a good impression in any company.”

“So?” said Nicholas.

“So Messer Cicco offered to return Loppe with pleasure. And I said that I hoped to send in his place something that would give the Duke even more satisfaction.”

“You did?” Nicholas said. “A sack of duty-free alum? A fancy helmet? A jacket with ermine tails on it? Or … Felix? What did you think he might like?”

“What you said he’d ordered, and he hadn’t. I suggested,” said Felix, “that what the Duke ought to have was an ostrich.”

Below, they wondered if the two young men from Flanders were killing each other, such was the outburst of thumping and shouting that came from above. But when they descended a little while later, red-faced and rather dishevelled, the older had the younger by the shoulders and they both appeared to be laughing.

Chapter 34

T
HE
D
OWAGER DUCHESS
of Brittany, whose childless marriage had occurred when she was very young, was neither very old nor very wise. Her late sister Marie, who had married the neighbouring monarch in France, had been basically silly as well, although brought up with a liking for letters and poets. Indeed, her young court had acquired a certain notoriety because of its liking for poets, but this was less a matter of orgies, it was thought, than mere childish levity.

The Dowager Isabelle, although much given to rages and passions, was a lady of shallow mind who could be easily diverted from most things, always excluding her strong desire not to be sent back to Scotland. Her little court, unlike that of the young Duke her nephew, was a backwater, and public affairs seldom intruded. She was allowed, therefore, to include among her cats and her ladies a member of the family van Borselen, whose affiliations were Burgundian. This was a concession. France was Brittany’s overlord, and no friend to Burgundy. And Burgundy, it was rumoured, was no friend to France’s protégé, the English king who was a Lancastrian.

Nevertheless the Duke of Brittany, having cast a practised eye over Katelina van Borselen, was heartily in favour of allowing her to stay to wait on his aunt. She would learn nothing dangerous. They might even convert her to a Breton way of thinking. He would like to see that glossy hair out of its pleats, and the rest of her, but Antoinette would deny him her bedroom again. And he liked his women, as a rule, with more colour.

In April, it was true to say, the Dowager’s new maiden of honour had possessed a brighter complexion. The change, along with several others, had begun during May. And by now, the middle of June, Katelina could be left in no doubt at all what had happened. She had begun to carry the child of a bastard servant called Claes. It shouldn’t have come as such a shock, for in a blaze of wilful defiance she had flung the possibility at the feet of the gods. She had lied
to Claes. She had said whatever would make him do what he had done.

And now, what? The Dowager’s poor silly sister had consumed green apples and vinegar to preserve her from motherhood. She could try these, or harsher remedies. She was in Brittany, far from home, and no one would know. Every court had a servant who knew someone – a barber, a midwife who could interfere with nature. But it would have to succeed. Sometimes the child persevered, and was born mangled. Sometimes you died yourself.

Suppose she allowed the child to finish its term? Then she would have to leave court, find friends to hide her, and foster it. It had been done, by women with money. She had no resources. She could see no way of keeping such a thing secret. And the shame for her family would be terrible. For their sake, she must provide the child with a father. So she needed, quickly, a rich and powerful lover. Or, of course, a husband.

There was a rich and powerful lover at hand. She guessed her father’s dreams that one day she might be the mother, married or unmarried, of a Burgundian prince. He would think no harm in a liaison with a profligate duke with a permanent mistress. But the more high-born the lover, the less flattered he would be at the arrival, after seven months or less, of a son or a daughter. And the less inclined, from experience, to acknowledge and rear it. Whereas a husband, contractually bound, might well ignore the calendar, and be happy with whatever heir he had so quickly begotten, rather than be labelled a fool.

She had wanted a husband. She had hoped to make up her mind here in Brittany, free of family pressures. And she had certainly been free of those. No letters had reached her since she left in April. In the early weeks, indeed, before she was sure where she stood, she had enjoyed the sort of life she had envisaged: of undemanding companionship to the Dowager; of becoming acquainted with the dramas, the actors in yet another court; of choosing her own role to play in it. She learned to evade the Duke, and to make friends with his mistress. The first visit of Jordan de Ribérac had been therefore doubly unpleasant.

Later, she was to be glad that she had then been ignorant of her condition. She had had no warning. He had arrived on an April morning in the Dowager’s audience chamber. The room, which was small, became simply a shell for his bulk and his height. His robe was of Lucca velvet. The scarves of his hat were embroidered with gold. His face with its many chins was fresh and smiling, but the eyes scoured her naked.

The last time the seigneur de Ribérac had visited Bruges, Claes had nearly died in the fire at the Carnival. The last time she had met the seigneur de Ribérac, he had proposed, placidly, to requisition her virtue on her kitchen floor, preparatory to marrying her. What she had denied him, she had presented, the same night, to Claes. But that
Jordan de Ribérac couldn’t know. Or he wouldn’t just scar his face, or order his death by two inept assassins. He would personally kill him.

Now, it appeared, he was merely in course of a courtesy call on the Dowager. He spent half an hour and spoke to all the ladies of honour. She couldn’t leave. She hardly believed he would address her but he did, his eyes cold, his smile delightful. “What, mademoiselle! No suitor yet for your charms? Or none we know of in Bruges, where they keep their fools in barrels like fish, so I’m told. You are wise to come to Brittany. Make your choice here. Wait until the air is clearer and fresher before you venture to Flanders again.”

She said, “Even in Brittany, monseigneur, the air is not as fresh as I would wish.”

It was childish. It made no impression. He merely spread his smile blandly among all his audience. He said, “Bruges! A place for small artisan businesses and coupling servants. A wise man would clear the city of both. Forget Bruges. Wait until you savour Carnival evening in Nantes, my dear lady. Whatever your past experience, I promise you this will exceed it.”

He had turned away before she could reply. He knew. He knew something.

Afterwards, when he had gone and the Duchess and her kittens were sleeping, Katelina left the Dowager’s suite and went to the reception rooms where she might find the Duke’s mistress. The King of France, it was clear, was satisfied that no French secrets could leak through to Flanders from the Dowager’s court. That a Flemish secret might leak through to France ought to give him great pleasure.

Antoinette de Maignélais, when she found her, naturally knew all about Jordan. France was full, my dear, of these Scots who came and fought in her wars and then stayed on to become rich. Grateful kings gave them seigneuries, like this Ribérac. A clever man with a good eye for trade didn’t take long to make connections, acquire fleets, amass property. And the reward? The King of France’s ear, my dear, on all matters financial, and some of the darker little secrets of his treasury. His present Majesty often sent him to Brittany, to disentangle the affairs of his first wife’s sister. Personally, said Antoinette, she preferred men who were not quite so obese.

Katelina agreed, as most people did with this lady. When Agnès Sorel, the French King’s great mistress, died ten years ago, her place was filled by her cousin Antoinette, Madame de Villequier: some said before she was widowed, some said after. When the King’s taste became jaded, she found him younger bedfellows. She still did so, and was as often at the King’s side as at the Duke’s. She had carried to the Duke, rumour said, the King’s ulcerous leg. She was sharp-witted, forthright and practical.

Katelina said, “It’s not so much the fat. Is he trusted?”

The lids fell, in mock pain, over the bright, painted eyes. “My dear,
you know better than that!” said Antoinette. “If there is one person to be trusted at court, we do not rest until we have changed him. But, having the strings of the Mint in his shirt, I suppose our dear Jordan has all the money he wants. But, let us think, now you mention it. What else would attract him?”

“The same position under the next king?” said Katelina.

The painted eyes wandered. “Ah,” said Antoinette. “Tell me. Is this hearsay?”

“No,” said Katelina. “He has been seen at Genappe. He has information about the Dauphin’s chamberlain which could only have been learned at Genappe. He takes with him one at least of the Scots Guard of archers.”

“How do you know?” said Antoinette.

Katelina said, “He has no hold over me or my family. But he is trying to persuade me to marry him.”

“Why?” said Antoinette. “Of course, you are very beautiful. But he is a rich man, with many to choose from in his own country.”

“To oust his Scottish son from the inheritance,” Katelina said. “He wants heirs. Once he has them, his present son may not long survive.”

“And he chooses a Flemish, a Burgundian lady,” said Antoinette. “How fortunate that he is fat, and did not attract you. Doubly fortunate. Fat men are noticed, when gossip starts.”

“Gossip is none of my business,” said Katelina.

“I am aware,” said Antoinette. “But, my dear, you know very well that in Bourges, where the king is, gossip is what makes the walls and the ditches and mans the embrasures. Gossip, my dear, not bricks and mortar.”

That was when Katelina wrote her letter to Gelis, to be passed on to Claes. To a casual reader, the missive appeared mostly concerned with the astonishing shipwreck of an ostrich. In the weeks that followed, Antoinette didn’t return to the subject of Jordan. Later, when Katelina knew she was pregnant, she did nothing to correct or cancel the rumour she had started.

From what Claes had said, there was truth in it. Antoinette would report to King Charles. And King Charles would have his own way of testing the loyalty of the vicomte Jordan de Ribérac. If the rumour was correct, if he was the Dauphin’s man and a traitor, she would be amply revenged for his treatment of her. And for what he had done and tried to do to Claes.

Claes. She had wished to call him Nicholas, and he had shown her that the wish did her no credit. Now, when she had even more cause to slaughter her pride, she found herself resisting. She remembered what Claes the man and the lover were like, and he bore no badges of servitude, and many of joy. In his own right, he was Nicholas.

From there, she was moved for the first time to wonder what he would make of the child. He had no reason to expect this would happen.
She had convinced him otherwise. He had said, and she believed him, that he had no wish for marriage. He had dismissed, with finality, the alternative. But if there was a child coming?

If its coming were interrupted, what would he feel? But to dispose of it was her right, as it had been her decision to risk conceiving it. If she bore it in secret for fostering, would he want to know? He might not. Or he might, if told, take the child. Even proclaim, for the child’s sake, who its mother was.

What was his own rearing? She knew so little about him. He had had his mother, she thought, for a few years. Then he had gone to some distant relative, who had been harsh. No. A man brought up like that wouldn’t see his child given away. He would have, then, to be made to believe that it was not his. Unless …

Unless. The second month passed, and her eyes became large and profound, and her cheekbones sharpened a little. Sometimes she was late for her morning duties, but she never missed one. She met many men, but none she liked. She took no lovers, but kept thinking of the one she had had.

In the second week of June, when she knew she must do something, Jordan de Ribérac returned. This time, the Dowager was closeted with her astrologer and her companion on duty was absent. But for the page at the door, Katelina sat alone in the outer chamber. The fat man, with sketchy formality, sat down beside her.

The eyes again stripped her naked, from fichu to high waist and below. And this time, there was something to see. Jordan de Ribérac said, “Well, demoiselle. Where is your husband now?”

Katelina said, “You think I should have one? Are you proposing yourself again, M. de Ribérac?”

He smiled. He said, “The number of suitors is not so great, is it? The Duke, I am sure, would make an accommodation, but he cannot marry you, and the state of his leg, I am told, is truly distressing. As for the others, you know the situation, I’m sure, as well as I do. You hear the news from home?’

The tone of his voice urged her to say that she had. Instinct kept her to the truth. She said, “No. Letters seem to have been lost.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I see. Then perhaps I can give you first news of these promising friends of yours. My son. Let us begin with my son. Simon, it appears, is on the verge of a most advantageous alliance with a lady called Muriella, the daughter of John Reid, the Staple merchant. Will she be fecund? I wonder. Simon is not fond of children. But you must, I am afraid, dismiss the charming illusion that once we shared. My sweet Simon will not run to your call.