Niccolo Rising (82 page)

A calm, smiling, cruel master. A merchant who had tried to ruin the Charetty business and who, in his own extremity, was now intent on acquiring it. An unpleasant merchant with a sword in his hand, who wasted no words on him at all, but simply walked forward, with purpose, to kill him.

There was a hand gripping his arm, and a knife at his back. Both belonged to the man whose shoulder he’d stabbed. The grip on his arm was numbing in its strength. But the knife was in the grasp of the weakened hand.

Nicholas flung all his weight backwards, not forwards. His elbow ground into the man’s wounded shoulder. He felt the blade slide into his
body, but there was no force behind it. The man holding him yelled, and let go. And as he yelled, Nicholas dragged the knife from his enemy’s hand and used it on him.

The man fell. Jaak de Fleury had a sword. His own weapon lay on the ground just beyond. Nicholas dived and got it, and swerved as Jaak de Fleury’s blade hissed over his head. He stood, sword in hand, as he had learned to hold it, and parried, and heard the orderly clash, as you heard it on the practice ground, over and over.

In this, as in everything else, he had no experience to set against the long lives of his betters. He had only his brain, which absorbed instruction and held it, for ever.

On the broken field where once he had struggled, his nails blue, to push virgin cloth in a vat, to nurture blithely the glories of the maligned urine tub, to share meat and ale and obscene and shattering jokes with his gossips, he was stepping, shifting, sliding, sword in hand, protecting himself as best he could from the great-uncle who was trying to kill him.

Who was thirty years older than he was.

“
You would like to be able to fight him? To beat him? To overpower him?”
Marian de Charetty had said.

And he had answered, “
If I’m afraid of him, I’m afraid for all time.”

It was true. The fear beaten into him at seven would never go.

Despite the fever, despite the strain of that miserable journey, despite Jaak de Charetty’s powerful frame and trained, tutored grasp of his weapon, he, Nicholas was thirty years younger, and had been recently placed in possession of some very select tricks of swordsmanship. But what had that to do with it? If he killed Jaak de Fleury, he killed his own blood, his kinsman. And left untouched his fear.

He parried and parried again. He didn’t know what to do.

Jaak de Fleury, his face a shining confection of sweat, pink as sugar, saw it and, panting, smiled. He shifted position, agile, muscular. He fought without his robe, broad-shouldered in his splendid doublet. The puffed silken sleeves of his shirt swung against the great muscles of his upper arms, and the jewels on his high collar sparkled. The point of his sword arrived again and again. And again, Nicholas parried.

From the ruined house, far behind him, a man’s voice screamed at full pitch, and went on screaming, louder and nearer. Jaak de Fleury glanced round. In a moment Nicholas, too, looked over his shoulder.

The figure springing from the tumbled stones, red hair beating, was Lionetto.
Lionetto!
And the two figures running behind, drawing their swords, were Julius, blessed Julius, and Gregorio.

How had they found him?

The horse.

What in God’s name was Lionetto doing here? That was easy. Looking for Nicholas. Lionetto had good reason, too, to want to kill Nicholas. Only Nicholas hadn’t known that he knew it …

He couldn’t fight two men. He hadn’t the skill to defeat Lionetto by himself, never mind with Jaak at his side. And however fast they ran, Julius and Gregorio couldn’t get to him in time. So he was going to die. Not from a beating. From the adult equivalent of a beating, which you got when you meddled with adults’ affairs.

“Traitor!”
Lionetto was shouting.
“Whoreson! Rascally scum!
Steal a soldier’s money, then! Break your trust! Empty his purse and betray him! Oh, yes. Do all of that. But not to Lionetto. Not to Lionetto, my friend.”

Captain Lionetto had arrived. He stood, sword in hand, the third point of a triangle formed by himself and by Nicholas and by the glittering form of Jaak de Fleury. The merchant, one eye on Nicholas, stepped back a little, his sword disengaged. Nicholas watched Lionetto.

But Lionetto’s eyes were on Jaak de Fleury. He said, “I didn’t believe it. Rumours, I said. But I thought I’d make sure, with all that new money I’d sent. The Pope’s money. The cash from all the booty. And there was your Milan agency closed. Your man Maffino absconded. No money. No money for Lionetto.” He smiled. His nose spread, glittering among the wholemeal crumbs of his skin. “So I asked about my money in Geneva. All my money. All the savings I’d lodged there. And what am I told? Gone as well. All gone. And why?”

He said the word gently. As he said it, his right arm flashed out. A splash of blood appeared on Jaak de Fleury’s shoulder and the merchant made a sound and jumped back, his sword lifted.

Lionetto lowered his, artfully. “Why? The Duke of Savoy, they say, has told Jaak de Fleury to hand over all Lionetto’s savings. That’s what they say. That’s what they want me to believe. But was Lionetto born yesterday? No.”

Again, he moved. The sword flashed. It pirouetted past the merchant’s sword, wildly lifted, and touched and entered the merchant’s arm. Lionetto said, “I think you have all my money.”

The pink in Jaak de Fleury’s face had altered, by measure of a small beaker, say, of diluted woad. He was gasping. He said, “Of course I haven’t. It’s your own fault. You changed sides. You moved from Piccinino to the Aragon side. The French heard. They gave orders. Everything you had was to be confiscated. Savoy ordered me.”

“Really?” said Lionetto. He danced forward. The merchant moved back. “Perhaps they did. But of course, you got compensation.”

“No!” said Jaak de Fleury. “They promised. They didn’t pay. I’d invested it all. The withdrawal bankrupted me. I’m a bankrupt.”

“So I see,” said Lionetto. His sword flicked. A jewel flew from the merchant’s collar. “Penniless,” said Lionetto. “So where is my money?”

Nicholas said, “It’s true. The King of France told Savoy to confiscate it. He
is
bankrupt. It’s Charetty money he’s living off.”

Lionetto turned. “No money?”

“No. Leave him alone,” Nicholas said.

Julius said,
“Nicholas!
He was going to kill you.”

“Oh?” said Lionetto. “Why was he trying to kill my little Nicholas? Perhaps I will spare him. I wouldn’t mind killing Nicholas now and then, myself. I nearly killed your doctor, did I tell you? I met him riding north. Your doctor Tobias. It was the money he brought that made me leave Piccinino. But he pointed out that he’d meant me no harm. He’d made me rich, which was true. Except that I’m not rich, am I? And whose fault is that?”

Jaak de Fleury was not a cowardly man. His self-esteem had never made courage necessary. He stood, breathing quickly, and said, “I see no point in continuing this.” And turning his back, he walked away.

Lionetto, on the other hand, was a mercenary. He said, “Nor do I, my dear monsieur.” And taking three unhurried steps after him, ran him straight through the back.

Standing over the sprawled, athletic body, he tugged out his blade, examined it, and then wiped it carefully on a patch of grass. “I hope,” said Lionetto, “that you all observed. This poor Nicholas was fighting for his life when I saved him. What are all those people doing there?”

“Watching you save Nicholas,” Julius said. He was breathing rather quickly as well. “Do you have urgent business in Bruges?”

Lionetto cast his glance round, and scowled at Nicholas. “Not now,” he said. “Don’t I remember having cause to complain of you once as well?”

“You did,” said Nicholas. “But another man fought me on your behalf. I think you could call the matter fully closed.”

Lionetto grunted. “Did you win?”

“No. I lost,” Nicholas said.

Lionetto’s fiery eyes swept the field beyond Jaak de Fleury, to where a dead man lay on one side of the wall and another just over it. He said, “Well, you seem to have got the knack now. If you want to claim the old fellow’s death, I won’t contradict you. I need a coin to get me a lodging at Ghent.”

Gregorio said, “Take my purse,” and threw it.

Lionetto caught it and stared at him. So did the other two. Lionetto grinned. “Did you a service, did I?” he said. “Well, remember it. Some day I might want a service in return. Demoiselle?”

He bowed to someone walking forward from the crowd that had gathered on the street side of the site. Then, sheathing his sword, he strolled off, hat in hand.

The person walking forward was Marian de Charetty.

Julius said, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

Gregorio turned from watching Lionetto. He said, “I think she saw who did the killing. I think perhaps Nicholas …?”

Nicholas said, “Could you … Perhaps you could clear the crowd and get hold of the people who have to be told? I’ll bring the demoiselle back to Spangnaerts Street.”

His heart beat heavily after the fighting, and his hands were shaking. He fought to stop the beginning of dizziness. He stood where he was, and collected his wits, so far as he was able. The further she came from the crowd, the more private they would be. She would still have to accept what he had to tell her in public. The spectators couldn’t hear, but they could see her.

The fact that he waited for her, of course, told her what the news was. She was dressed as strictly as he had ever seen her; her gown tight to the wrists and the throat, and voile swathing her ears and her chin below the brim of her hat. The bright blue eyes were set in darkened skin, and her lips and her cheeks were both pallid.

She stood beside him, looking up, and said, “He hurt you?”

There was blood on the grass where he was standing. He remembered the blade in his back. It had been no more than a flesh wound, soon staunched. He said, “No. Julius and I – we bring you bad news.”

“I’ve lost Felix,” she said. There were no tears in her eyes.

“He had grown up,” said Nicholas. “Quite suddenly. He helped with the business at Milan, and wanted to fight at Naples. He did fight, and well. Astorre will tell you. Then instead of coming home, he chose to cross to Urbino’s army. The Count of Urbino and Alessandro Strozzi. They were fighting on the east.”

“I know,” she said. “In the Abruzzi. You were there?”

“He even had the chance to joust in the field,” Nicholas said. “And won. And was very happy. He died just after that, in the field. There was a battle, and he was hit by a crossbolt. It was very quick. We buried him there.”

He could see her flinch. She didn’t want details yet. She looked at the other dead man lying limp on the grass. She said, “He wanted the business.”

Nicholas said, “He hated the Charetty. He hated women, I think. Thibault married twice, and he despised him, and your sister, and my mother. He isn’t worth thinking about.”

“No. Later,” she said, “you’ll tell me more. And about where he is buried. And – oh. The girls. They’re not in the house.”

He said, “We could go for them now.”

The house in Spangnaerts Street, redesigned since the fire, was familiar to them and unfamiliar to him. Tilde and Catherine, sought and brought back, showed none of their mother’s restraint but gave her work to do, soothing them. To Nicholas they behaved as they’d done when he was the familiar companion walking in and out of their lives. His marriage to their mother might never have happened.

Marian de Charetty behaved, too, as if her rôle of widow had never changed. She had known Claes for ten years. She had borne Felix, and bred him, and seen Cornelis melt, at last, in pride over his child, his son.

Nicholas saw it, and without interfering went on with the business of clearing up the day’s wreckage.

The reckoning over Jaak de Fleury he left to the two lawyers, who seemed to think it no trouble in such a case of unprovoked attack. His body was taken elsewhere. Gregorio, with efficiency, began to arrange for the release and disbanding of Jaak’s few servants. What the man had left would go to his brother.

With circumspection, and without troubling the demoiselle or her family, Gregorio and Julius between them removed all the small valuables that had begun to accumulate, bought with the demoiselle’s money. Turned to silver, they would find their way back to her account. Towards the end, the effects of the journey made Julius stupid, and he was thankful when Gregorio agreed he should go off to bed.

Nicholas, of the unimpaired engine, continued to work. Gregorio visited him, and was told to go home, which he did. The bereaved family had his sympathy. But he was not married to his employer.

The demoiselle was aware of these things. From time to time, a tongue-tied Henninc or one or other of her household would appear and transmit an offer of help or notify a visit from someone. She returned polite thanks, but felt that today her place was with her daughters.

She gave her remaining children supper in her own parlour, but didn’t have any herself. After a while, the girls ate with the appetite of the young. They were already recovering. Tomorrow or the next day, they would want to know all about the battle, and the joust.

Later, after she had seen them to bed, she heard Tilde weeping, and went in and sat with her until finally she dropped off to sleep. Then she undressed herself, and put on her nightrobe and went to the chamber and sat at her unshuttered window, wanting Cornelis.

But that was wrong, because Cornelis would have suffered terribly. His son. His heir. She had only lost her baby.

With mild kindness, she remembered Cornelis. He had been as good a husband as any woman might expect. When her father had gone bankrupt,
faute van den wissele
, like Jaak de Charetty, Cornelis had taken the company, and made it thrive. He had never toubled her with it. The child and the household were her business.

And so they would be today, if Cornelis hadn’t died. Of course at times she was lonely. She was lonely tonight. Only Tilde and Catherine knew Felix as she did, and they were too young to console her. So were his friends. She thought of Margriet Adorne with sudden thankfulness. She did have friends of her own age, who would understand. Tomorrow. But tonight had to be suffered first.