Niccolo Rising (85 page)

“Don’t you see?” Tobie said. “The Dauphin would enjoy doing it for all sorts of reasons. He hates his father. He’d get Lionetto back on the Milanese side. And he wouldn’t mind helping to destroy Jaak de Fleury. The firm had always favoured the Dauphin’s father although, out of greed, M. Jaak didn’t refuse Lionetto’s custom. And that’s what the Dauphin did. He gave the necessary orders. Gaston du Lyon was in Savoy himself that last time Nicholas passed through with Felix. That, I am sure, is how Jaak de Fleury was ruined.”

It was still impossible to connect Nicholas with that sort of cunning. Struggling with his disbelief, Julius began with reluctance to search his memory. He recalled an incident. He said, “In Milan – it was Gaston du Lyon who told Nicholas and myself about the bankruptcy. And then …” He stopped.

“And then?” said Tobie.

Julius said, “The Medici were waiting for us. They were able to offer us full payment of all M. Jaak owed us, in money or goods, and return of
all the unpaid-for goods Jaak was holding. Nicholas had already sold them all the debts previously outstanding. The Medici were pleased because they’d been able to recoup everything, having … having prior warning of the bankruptcy.”

“Quite,” said Tobie. “Nicholas told me, too, to tell the gunfounder at Piacenza that Jaak de Fleury was in no hurry for the weapons he’d ordered. In fact, I was to ask Agostino not to send them to Geneva, even when ready.”

“So that they would be here for us, when the house of Fleury fell,” said Gregorio. “Julius … you were with Nicholas in Milan, you say, when the news of the bankruptcy came through. How did Nicholas take it?”

Julius said, “He was as horrified as I was about the demoiselle Esota and the wrecked business. He …”

“What?” said Tobie.

“Smashed a flask,” said Julius lamely.

“But,” said Gregorio, “was he surprised at anything else? At the bankruptcy? At the money he was collecting?”

And into Julius’ mind came the memory of that hot night in Milan, with the two grotesque heads wagging over the sheets of figures, and Nicholas sitting passively by, saying nothing; drained, he had thought by the fever. Julius said, “No.” Then he said, “I’m sure he didn’t mean to harm the demoiselle Esota.”

Unexpectedly, Gregorio said, “I don’t think he meant to harm M. Jaak physically, either. He was only parrying in that fight.”

Julius didn’t say anything. At the end of a weary journey, after killing two men, what did lack of energy prove? Was it possible? Was it possible that after all his exhortations
this
kind of retaliation, this long, quiet, vindictive trail of destruction, was the way Nicholas had picked to assert himself? After a long time, Julius said, “He protected Astorre. He could have left Astorre’s money in Geneva too.”

“Perhaps he needs Astorre,” said Tobie. “He didn’t protect Felix.”

“No!” said Julius violently. “I don’t believe that!”

“And he needed the demoiselle,” said Tobie, as if he hadn’t spoken. “To begin with, at least. Just as he needs us, to begin with.”

Gregorio said, “Wait. I think this is going too far. I don’t know Nicholas well, but I would swear that his regard for the demoiselle and for Felix were real. This past week, his feelings have been beyond disguising. Julius will bear me out.”

Julius said, “Of course that’s true. My God, Tobie. You saw him at San Fabiano. That wasn’t all fever, surely? I saw him when he heard about the extent of the disaster at Geneva. He could hardly speak all the way back to Bruges, and he still hasn’t got over it. How could he feel like that, if he were the sort of monster you’re talking about?”

“Remorse?” said Tobie. “He’s not twenty yet. It’s his first experiment. The next one will probably set off its explosions more neatly. The
question is, do we want to wait until it happens? It might be one or all of us another time. Deliberately, or – if you want to give him the benefit of the doubt – accidentally. I put him down at first as an innocent cursed with an overwhelming intelligence, and liable to blunder in any direction. I thought you and I could control that. But suppose he’s not an innocent at all? Suppose he knows very well where he’s going, and proposes to get there in this fashion?”

A silence fell. Julius didn’t want to speak. He twisted his hands on the table, slowly, one inside the other, and still couldn’t imagine Nicholas doing all those things. And then could, quite easily.

Gregorio said, “There isn’t any absolute proof, is there?”

Tobie said, “Only by consulting the Dauphin or the Duke of Milan, who are unlikely to tell you.”

Julius said, “What are you going to do?” directly to the doctor.

Tobie’s hands were still, his lips pursed, his eyes on the opposite wall. He opened his mouth. Without warning, he sneezed.

“May God bless you,” said Julius.

To his surprise, the doctor went patchily red. Then he said brusquely, “I’m staying. If he’s already turned the wrong way, I’m fairly confident that I can outwit him. If he hasn’t, I might be able to stop him. I don’t think you or I would be in any danger at the moment. He needs us. What I
am
going to do, however, is warn Marian de Charetty.”

Julius said, “I would stay, too.” Then he said, “Perhaps the demoiselle knows.”

The light gaze came back to him. “And that’s why he’s … No. She wouldn’t have acted the way she did with Jaak de Fleury. Goro?”

“No,” said Gregorio. “I’m sure she doesn’t know how M. Jaak and Lionetto were tricked. She wouldn’t have allowed him to do it. She’s a very honest lady. I would stay. I will say this, too. He can’t be wholly innocent. But I don’t think he’s evil.”

Tobie said, “Or not yet. As a matter of interest, was it Jaak de Fleury who had the dyeshop burned down?”

Gregorio said, “Not that we know of. The man we caught there was the Scotsman. Simon.”

“So she has more than one possible enemy,” Tobie said. “I’ve had an idea. Why don’t we set them at each other’s throats?”

“They’re there already,” said Julius.

Chapter 40

I
SOLATED IN HIS
wooden box, where the triggers for the moment had ceased to act, Nicholas was not only waiting; he was adrift.

He gave no appearance of it, being endlessly industrious on the concerns of his business by day, and taking on himself, by night, the charge of the demoiselle’s happiness.

Marian de Charetty was happy. He had known since their marriage the triple rôle he had played, sometimes as Claikine, the child whom she pitied; sometimes as Nicholas her steward and factor, to be relied on like Julius or Gregorio. And sometimes as a substitute for Cornelis, who would take her burden when she was tired, and whom she could trust, because she was married to him.

He had known, too, what pity could lead to, and loneliness. Because of it, he had kept one private rule since his marriage. It was not a popular one among the girls who thought they knew him.

He no longer suffered a servant’s life, and so no longer, you would say, needed compensations. Instead, he found himself with a new, densely organised career, but no means of relief. He endured it, but not easily. What part this had played in his surrender on the night of Jaak de Fleury’s death he didn’t want to know. But he could hardly fail to see, in the morning, the result of that night spent with Marian: her fresh colour; and the calm with which she spoke lovingly of all that had to do with Felix. To Nicholas she used the same voice exactly. He was to be Felix. He was to receive comfort, and not bestow it.

And so it had continued. The first days for her had been bridal: to wait until nightfall a penance. He had to be wise for them both: to remember that night-long pleasure was something that only the young can withstand for long; to be gentle; to recognise that the relationship must diminish, and settle sooner or later at a level much less intense. He was ready, he thought, to deal with that as well. The real world demanded tolls of all kinds. To drain off his energy, he had the exercise ground and the archery butts to return to. He got Julius to go with him to both, and forced even Tobie and Gregorio into joining.

They didn’t thank him, although once they were there he thought they enjoyed it. He had hoped, for the sake of the business, that they would all three get on together; and for the sake of the business, unloaded on them everything he could think of, so that they got used to helping each other.

They did get on well together. They were roughly the same age, and all professionals. He had expected to be regarded as the outsider, and he was. He thought that once he felt better about a number of things, it would be time to start handling them. And then to make plans.

Soon after that, the alum sanction came through. It was the first of the things he had been waiting for. The arrangements were already poised, and only needed to be put into action. Nicholas set Tobie to do some of that, and went on himself to visit the Hôtel Jerusalem.

He had seen something of Adorne since he came back: there was no need to talk about Felix. Nor had much been said about the death of Jaak de Fleury, which officialdom had dealt with so remarkably smoothly. Since the wedding here in this hall, Margriet Adorne had been a good friend to Marian, sustaining her in the first days of her loss, and helping her now with her daughters.

It was to be expected, he supposed, that Tilde and Catherine, jealous and angry, should want to enjoy what their mother was now enjoying, and should bid fair to run wild with the young of their circle. Someone had to restrain them, since attention and restraint, in the end, were what they wanted. He himself was the one person who couldn’t help. But Marian and Margriet were managing, between them.

Adorne was as glad as he was about the papers from Venice, and they spent a long time making arrangements. Adorne, the long, fair, quizzical face unaltered, was wearing a dark robe and doublet out of deference to his Scottish clients, whose king had just died. It had struck Nicholas at once that there would be a demand for black cloth. Once a dyer, one thought like a dyer.

Adorne said, “You know Prosper de Camulio is coming to Genappe?”

A hot night in Milan, and Tomà Adorno. And, of course, Felix.

Nicholas said, “On Genoese business? Or for Duke Francesco?”

“As envoy of the Duke of Milan,” Adorne said. “An alliance between the Dauphin and Milan is under negotiation. I can’t imagine that’s news.”

“No,” said Nicholas. “Is he staying long?”

“Long enough,” said Adorne, “to give you the introductions you may be waiting for. As with Milan and the Dauphin, circumstance seems to be making bedfellows of Venice and Genoa. I only hope, if you lie on that particular bed, that you will live to get up from it.” He waited. Nicholas, who had learned when to say nothing, made no comment. Anselm Adorne smiled and, taking ribbon, began to tie up his papers.
He said, “The requiem Mass tomorrow for the late James, King of Scotland. Are you and your wife brave enough to attend?”

He went on tying the ribbon. Nicholas said, “Why?”

Adorne pushed the packet aside and looked up, folding his hands. He said, “I thought you mightn’t have heard. Don’t you know how the King died?”

Nicholas sat very still. He said, “I knew he was young. I assumed he was killed in battle. He was fighting the English, surely?”

Adorne nodded. “At a place called Roxburgh. He was besieging the castle with all his artillery, including the two cannon from Mons. One of them burst as he stood beside it, and killed him.”

Nicholas said, “Not Meg, I’m sure. But Martha?”

Adorne said, “The one that sank at Damme. Of course, that had nothing to do with it. It left Sluys for Scotland in perfect order – if it burst, it burst for quite different reasons. But you should be prepared for certain remarks if you go to the service. When you go. I think you should attend.”

He waited. Nicholas said, “How many others were killed?”

“Only the King and one other man,” Adorne said. “Not a massacre. A piece of bad luck, that was all. They were both fascinated by guns. The King and Kilmirren. The other who died was Alan of Kilmirren, the uncle of your old acquaintance Simon. I’m told Simon is delighted. He now gets everything his own way in Scotland.”

Nicholas heard the words, but they were a long way behind the place his thoughts had arrived at. He realised that Adorne was speaking again in a different way.

Adorne said, “But, in fact, you did plan to sink that cannon, didn’t you? Monsignore de’ Acciajuoli saw you position the barge before it entered the lock. And found the pattern of jet-holes in the wall afterwards.”

Nicholas said, “I thought of a way to do it. That was all.”

“And did it,” said Adorne. “Why?”

“To see what would happen,” said Nicholas flatly.

He got back so late that he thought Marian would have retired, but there was light still to be seen, rimming the bedchamber door. At night, instead of wearing mourning, she waited for him in a fine robe the colour of her loosened hair. The gown had no fastenings, and there was nothing below it. There were ceremonies he had invented to do with that. There was no ceremony in the world he wanted to take part in tonight. But he couldn’t pass her door either. He paused, and then tapped and went in, fully dressed as he was.

Since coming back, he had grown to know this room well. The narrow windows with their studded shutters and the squares of latticed glass. The stone fireplace, with the settle piled with cushions standing with its back to the empty hearth. The painted chests which held her
possessions. The sturdy table, with a bowl of figs or pomegranates on its lower shelf, and a spouted wine-jug in silver standing on top, with two goblets ready. A shelf with her silver plate, and a porcelain jug with some late roses. A round mirror, and another table with a basin of water on it, and a towel hanging beside it, on a bracket.

Two stools, and a carpet, and some cushions on the floor, which became pressed flat with their weight, and had to be lifted and shaken before morning. And of course the bed, its frame reaching up to the coloured rafters, with the hangings and coverlet Marian had embroidered for her marriage to Cornelis and which, tactfully, she had not changed. That had been a marriage, and so was this. The bed was wide enough for any sort of ceremony.