Niccolo Rising (78 page)

He meant it for Felix. It was Nicholas who jabbed his spurs in his horse and launched it out into the field and across to where Felix was walking. He rode in an arc, to come between the gathering enemy line and Felix’s back. Felix, suddenly aware, gestured quickly and started to run. Nicholas turned his horse, to overtake and gallop beside him.

The retreat was not quite complete. The trumpets of Piccinino had not yet answered, although his troops were almost all back in line. It was probably the stray rider dashing out from Urbino’s section that drew the eye of some skilful crossbowman. Even in the dying light, a horseman was an easy target.

Julius, watching the little rescue taking place, caught the gleam of the weapon and screamed. Nicholas heard him. It made no difference. The bolt was already on its way.

Nicholas, stopping his horse, had already leaned down to swing Felix into the saddle when Felix gave a small gasp. His mouth opened. Instead of jumping he sank slowly down to his knees. A moment later Nicholas had flung the reins from him and dropped beside him. They saw him kneel, and take Felix by the shoulders, and then hold him, looking down at his back. The bolt between Felix’s shoulderblades was quite distinct.

Julius began to urge his horse forward and then instead dismounted and ran, and saw that Tobie was doing the same. After the single shot, the living had drawn back from the field. No one on either side moved, except to sway, or shuffle, or shift to hold up the wounded. The trumpets went into the last cadenza of their call. Julius reached the injured boy.

Tobie was already there, behind Felix. He didn’t even touch him; only looked up at Nicholas, and then Julius, and moved his head a little, from one side to the other.

Nicholas had been speaking to Felix. The murmuring voice went on after Julius came to his side, but he couldn’t hear what it said. Now and then, Felix asked a question and Nicholas answered. He had one hand under the boy’s arm, supporting his weight. The other was spread behind, above the murdering bolt, holding Felix’s head forward, his cheek resting on Nicholas’ shoulder. The cut brown hair blew a little, in the sunset breeze.

Tobie said, “You can lay him down when I’ve drawn it. Then he’ll go, Nicholas.”

“He knows,” said Nicholas.

He looked down. Some message must have passed. He looked up from Felix’s face and found Tobie, and said, “Yes. Before the pain gets any worse.”

Other men were whimpering in other parts of the field, but Felix made no sound when the bolt was drawn, although Julius heard the rush and spatter of blood. Tobie unlaced the cuirass and Nicholas, changing his grip, lowered the slight, wiry body until it lay on the ground.

Felix looked gaunt, the way he did when he had drunk too much the night before, or become too excited, or spent too much time with Grielkine. His eyes, large and shallow and dull, were only on Nicholas. He said, “Why did you marry my mother?”

“Because I love you both,” Nicholas said.

A little later, Tobie said in his quiet voice, “Close his eyes.”

Nicholas carried Felix de Charetty from the field to his tent, although Loppe came to his help at the last part. Then the doctor closed the flap and didn’t come out for a while.

Nicholas didn’t come out at all, and so must have slept there. The next day, when he did appear in Astorre’s pavilion, he had his saddlebags already packed but passed Julius and the others without saying anything. It was Tobie who said, “Nicholas feels, and I think he’s right, that the lad’s mother should be told as soon as possible. After the burial he’s going off, fever or no. He’ll take Loppe, but I’d feel better if you were with him as well. If, that is, you want to go back to Bruges at all.”

Julius knew the date. It was Wednesday, the twenty-third day of July. However promptly anyone left, Marian de Charetty wouldn’t know of her son’s death for many weeks; perhaps not until September. He said, “What about you? No, of course. All the wounded.”

The doctor’s eyes were swollen with sleeplessness. “I’ve got my hands full. A useless tragedy, if ever there was one. We came off worst, it seems. But Piccinino isn’t likely to attack again soon, if ever: he’s lost too much. Astorre will stay to the end of his contract and I’ll leave Godscalc with him, of course. I’ll get to Bruges when I can.”

Julius said, “I’ll go. Felix, Claes and I. Nicholas. We went about a lot together, and Felix was a good lad. But I wouldn’t have said …” He stopped.

The doctor fixed him with his odd kestrel gaze. “That Nicholas would respond in the way he did to what happened? You and I have seen death in battle. It was his first time.”

“Yes. And, of course, he has the boy’s mother to face. The Widow. His wife,” said Julius rather blankly.

Chapter 37

I
N
M
ILAN
, M. G
ASTON DU
L
YON
, deeply bored and deeply frustrated in the Hospitio Puthei, discovered to his surprise that two members of that extraordinary little Charetty company had come without warning into the city.

Enquiry showed that they were passing one night in a tavern, although not their usual Inn of the Hat. They had made one call, to report to the Duke of Milan’s secretary on this unbelievable news of the rout at San Fabiano (which on top of the losses at Sarno was enough to make the Duke weep). The young men had then returned to their inn, so his informant said, without attempting to visit the Castello, or the Acciajuoli, or the Piazza Mercanti, or even have a pleasant evening walk about the piazzas.

They were leaving for the north in the morning. One of them was the likely youth interviewed by Gaston’s master the Dauphin while hunting outside Genappe. If he was carrying dispatches, Gaston wanted to know what they were. And there were some of his own he could add to them.

Gaston du Lyon, chamberlain, chief equerry and carver to the most serene and excellent lord Dauphin of Vienne, first son of the Most Christian King of France, sent a gift of marzipan and five household servants to collect M. Nicholas and his companion and deliver them both to the Hospitio before it grew any later.

They came without having changed, which was disrespectful but not unknown when men rode hard bringing news. They had even taken part in the actual battle. The merry one, Nicholas, had altered quite a lot since the memorable episode of the avalanche. It was not surprising, considering what he now was meddling with. The other, a well-built fellow whom he remembered seeing on the same occasion, was the Charetty notary, M. Julius. They had a black servant with them, a huge fellow, who waited for them outside.

M. du Lyon was given, briefly, an account of the fighting in the Abruzzi. The notary did most of the talking. Disappointingly, the boy
Nicholas was not carrying papers, and wouldn’t accept any. He didn’t rise, either, to the news that Prosper de Camulio was in the city and about to leave for Genappe. Gaston du Lyon, who had a fine ear for rumours, rather wanted to know why this fellow Nicholas had spent some time, it was said, with Prosper de Camulio and the Venetians before going south to the Abruzzi. Laudomia Acciajuoli, delicately sounded, had professed not to know or to care. The Duke’s doctor, Giammatteo Ferrari, on the other hand, had shown a mild interest.

Gaston du Lyon was disappointed in Nicholas. He himself had, after all, performed several services for him. But for him, M. Nicholas would never have got that youngster Felix away from Geneva in May. The boy was dead. He had asked. In any case, the Dauphin had finished with young Master Felix. He had not been discreet.

Piqued, the chamberlain didn’t at once take the trouble to pass on his own news. He ignored Nicholas and spoke of the Naples war: after Sarno it seemed that Duke John, unexpectedly, had failed to take advantage of his victory and march straight in Naples. They might save the city yet, with the fighting season soon ending. The merchants would be glad. So would the Duke of Milan. He had expended 100,000 gold ducats, it was said, on keeping Duke John out of Genoa and Naples. Or trying to. And the Pope, they said, was already planning to avenge what happened in Sarno by sending a new army under San Severino.

In England, the Yorkists were in London. So that King Henry looked like losing the war, and his Most Serene Majesty the Dauphin’s father was unlikely, one supposed, to attempt anything against Burgundy now.

The notary, who was bright enough, responded suitably, and asked intelligent questions. The youth Nicholas continued to say very little. Since Geneva, the scar on his cheek had faded considerably. And one must not forget. He had broken the Medici cipher.

Gaston du Lyon said, with courtesy only slightly exaggerated, “I shouldn’t keep you both, tired as you are. Is your mission to Burgundy urgent, friend Nicholas? Or do you have time to spend at the Geneva fair?”

The response this time was quick. It reminded Gaston of the evening at cards with Monna Laudomia. The youth Nicholas said, “Should we call there?”

Gaston du Lyon gave him a glance which might have come from the Dauphin’s amused face. “If you do business with the de Fleury,” he said, “claim your dues before the rest of the creditors empty their boxes.”

The youth said, “I see.”

M. du Lyon hadn’t expected to be embraced on both cheeks, but he was disappointed. It was the other one, the lawyer, who straightened and said, “Monsieur? What did you say?”

Gaston du Lyon turned his head. “Only a little item of news.
The depositors Thibault et Jacques de Fleury have been declared bankrupt.”

The notary said, “Are you sure?”

Taken aback, M. du Lyon paused, but forgave the man on reflection. He was certainly in a high state of excitement. “Yes,” said M. du Lyon. “There is no doubt. They have lost everything. It has caused a great disturbance, I’m told. They had many creditors.”

“Nicholas?” the notary said. “Nicholas. Jaak de Fleury.”

“Yes, I heard,” the courier said. “I’m obliged for the news. M. du Lyon, forgive us. We have to set out early.”

“You go to Bruges,” said Gaston du Lyon. “But you will have time to call at Genappe? My lord Dauphin, I’m sure, would be happy to receive you. News of affairs. The death of that poor boy, whom he loved as a son.”

“I shall do what I can,” Nicholas said. “But I think the debts on both sides have been honourably discharged. Monsieur, I am grateful.”

In diplomacy, one recognised the end of a contract. Another, more lucrative, had clearly offered elsewhere. He would warn the Dauphin. He wondered if the youth knew just how feeble the Dauphin’s father had become. Smiling, Gaston du Lyon saw his visitors to the door.

Had he gone with them he would have been amused to see the notary, exercising none of the restraint of his calling, literally capering in the street beside the large, silent figure of the former apprentice, with the black servant following disapprovingly behind.

“Jaak de Fleury!” Julius was saying. “Lord of the money-boxes. The pompous bastard who used to wring his servants dry. Including me. And used that poor woman for all he could get. And worked you like a dog. Don’t tell me he didn’t. Bankrupt! Can you believe it?”

“Yes,” said Nicholas.

“Well?” said Julius.

Creeping over him was the irritation which had been with him, illogically, ever since they left Urbino’s camp at San Fabiano. He didn’t expect Nicholas, God knew, to be the crazy clown of the lighter at Damme, or the Waterhuus joke, or the escapades with girls and with goats and the rest. But he hadn’t expected him, either, to have grown in eight months into a married version of Lorenzo Strozzi.

He said, “I suppose you’re worrying about all that cloth you delivered, and the money they owe us. All right, you can’t rebuild the Bruges shop, but there’s still Louvain, and the condotta. You can’t do everything right. My God,” said Julius. “Isn’t it worth the loss just to imagine Jaak de Fleury’s face?” He paused, stretching his imagination. He said, “And it’ll help the demoiselle, surely. At least she’ll know she’s free of the de Fleury family and all their intriguing. D’ you want to go inside already?”

Nicholas had turned into the gates of the inn without saying anything. In the afterlight of the sunset, a pair of sedate, well-groomed
horses stood in the courtyard, held by liveried servants. Their harness was embroidered in silk, and the emblems worn by servants and horses were familiar from the falcons and diamonds and feathers all over the inside of their owners’ palazzo. And the motto woven into the horsecloths.
Semper
meant always. And
always
meant the Medici.

Nicholas said, “We have visitors. We could go away and wait until they’ve gone. But I don’t know. I’m tired.”

Once, you never had to bother with how Claes felt. Indeed, you never knew. But of course, the frantic energy had been sapped by the stress and the fever, and he had to take thought if he wanted to keep up the pace of this journey. Nicholas had always been good with plans. Julius said without much conviction, “They may be waiting for somebody else.” Then Loppe, who seemed to have transferred his mind-reading from Felix to Nicholas, slipped indoors and came out with a grimace and a report in his elegant, ducal Italian. The visitors were not only theirs, but had been installed in their private room to await them. The landlord had known what was due to the seigneurs Pigello and Accerito Portinari, of the local filiate of the Medici.

Loppe said, “They won’t wait all evening. I could get you a chamber elsewhere.”

He was speaking to Nicholas. He often spoke to Nicholas, Julius noticed, as one man to another, and not as a slave to his mistress’s husband at all. And Nicholas, he saw, did not even notice it but stood in thought, and then said, “No. We’d better see them. But you needn’t wait up.”

Loppe did not move. He said, “If it is late for one person, it is late for three. The seigneurs Portinari could come back tomorrow.”

This time, Nicholas looked at him, but failed to show either surprise or annoyance. He simply said, “No. I want to leave early.” And Loppe gave way at once, only watching his masters, as Julius saw, until they had entered the inn and begun to climb the stairs to their chamber. There, awaiting them with no sign of impatience, were Pigello Portinari and his brother and factor Accerito.