Niccolo Rising (87 page)

Alexander, Duke of Albany and Lord High Admiral of Scotland, was only six. Conducted by his father’s cousin, Bishop Kennedy, he had arrived this summer at Bruges to be reared at the Burgundian court. Now his father was dead, but no one had taken him home. Bishop Kennedy, detained by an illness, was still at his side: skilful ambassador; agile diplomat, reporting back all the nuances of Burgundian response to the new Scottish régime.

Perhaps the child, thickly dressed in dark jewelled doublet and bonnet, had no desire to go home. He looked harried and sullen, walking there with his cousin. The Scots in the party studied him and the Bishop, and pondered. Including Simon of Kilmirren and his lady, walking behind with the others. The fifteen years between them could hardly be guessed at. Ripened with marriage, his wife now looked older than twenty. And he, all his life, had kept the style and looks of his golden youth.

Politics mattered. But once pacing down the aisle with his wife, Simon had remarkably little thought for the dead king. He could feel people looking at Katelina, beautiful even under her veiling. And at
himself, in cut black velvet tied with grey ribbons, and the hat of cocks’ feathers which he held in one hand.

The Mass was a long one, and the music tedious, but afterwards they would go to the adjoining palace of Louis de Gruuthuse and his wife, Wolfaert’s sister. Simon looked forward to presenting his Katelina to the noblesse of Bruges for the first time since returning from Scotland. It was possible, because of the degree of haste in the marriage, that not all of them knew of it. He had noted some curious glances. And one stare that he thought he recognised, but failed to find and identify.

He was careful not to reprimand Katelina when she shifted on the uncomfortable seat. He would, however, be happy when she had given birth to the child and had a body less cumbersome. He remembered her breasts as they used to be. There was a girl, across by the ambulatory, who had smiled at him as they came in, and who had small, heaped breasts like that, separated under the stuff of her gown in the Florentine style. Simon smiled back at her in a kindly way, and patted Katelina’s hand as she shifted again.

As they slowly filed out at the end, he was able to smooth his hair and put on his hat at the proper slant, while Katelina put back her veiling. Then they passed across the yard in the sunshine and, with the other, select guests, entered Gruuthuse’s palace.

Louis, seigneur of Gruuthuse, greeted them on the threshold. The style was ducal, but the lined cheeks, the thick eyelids under the fringe, belonged to a long line of wealthy burghers from Bruges and Brabant. Gruuthuse, courtier, statesman, man of business, was about to leave for Scotland himself, carrying Duke Philip’s greetings to the new child king, James the Third. He knew every Scotsman who entered and so, Simon saw, did most of his family. The boy Guildolf, it seemed, had got married. The bride, curtseying to Katelina, had what he would call an impudent smile. It reminded him of his young sister-in-law Gelis who, blessedly, had lumbered home.

They crossed the tiled hall and walked up a staircase between men in livery. The windows were very fine, and the woodwork, and the fireplaces. He glimpsed what looked like a library. The Gruuthuse motto and cannon were everywhere. So, of course, were the Scots. All the merchants, fat and lean, and their hôteliers. Jehan Metteneye and his wife. That fool John of Kinloch. Wylie, the archdeacon of Brechin. Mick Losschaert, with some of his relatives from the Scottish branch of the family, and the Bonkles also, from both sides of the water. Anselm Adorne, of course, with his wife and older children, and his married sister and her husband Daniel Sersanders of Ghent with their son Anselm. Napier of Merchiston. Stephen Angus. Forrester of Corstorphine. And various Scots just returned from Bourges and the French conference over Denmark, Spain, the Breton dowry: Monypenny, of course; and Flockhart with one or two Volkarts from the Flemish side for good measure.

Attending the requiem for their late master with proper sobriety. And rushing off afterwards, he had no doubt, to plot and plan for the next struggle for power back in Scotland. A Flemish queen dowager, and a crowned king aged eight, and all the battlefield of Lancastrian and Yorkist England to make capital out of, if you played your cards right. All you needed to look for were good card-players.

Simon found he was little interested in his own countrymen. He spent some time with the Duchess’s secretary, his brother-in-law, who complimented the lady Katelina on her appearance but not on her fecundity, which was deftly disguised by a swirl of brocade in her fingers. Senor João introduced the bride to some other ladies, and prepared to fulfil Simon’s wish to meet the commander of the Flanders galley, Piero Zorzi.

Simon brightened. He had some business to do with the commander, a short, personable man in a magnificent outfit of ash colour and silver. He could see him through the crowd, his arm held by the seigneur de Gruuthuse, who was steering him to meet a tall man and his wife on the far side of the room.

The wife Simon couldn’t at once place, except that she must be Scots, in view of the severity of her mourning. The man was in dark clothes as well, but very plainly cut with no jewels, although you could see that his belt was expensive, and his tunic of good cloth. His face, turning towards the Venetian, was vivid with interest and when he smiled suddenly, a disarming pocket appeared in each cheek.

He smiled and Simon, arriving with Vasquez, halted and looked at him with disbelief, with amazement, with a growing fury that, for a moment, deprived him of speech.

At the same moment, the other man glanced across and his face changed also, radically. João Vasquez, arrested, stopped on the verge of introducing him. Gruuthuse looked round with an air of enquiry. Simon stared straight at his host. He said, “M. de Gruuthuse, I cannot think you know what you are doing. We are here to mourn the death of our king. You insult us by inviting the man who caused him to die.”

Like Anselm Adorne, Louis de Gruuthuse was a master of awkward situations. He smiled at the commander and made a little move, so that Zorzi was no longer quite in the circle, and Marian de Charetty, moving with him, was able to distract him. Vasquez stayed.

Gruuthuse said, “Well now, you might as well blame the good men who made that cannon in Mons as pounce upon Nicholas here. And the name of Gruuthuse is guarantee enough, I should have thought, of good faith. I should never shame any guest. Come. There are others who want to meet you.”

Simon made no move, nor did he look at anyone but the youth he had last seen in tatters outside the burning wreck of his dyeshop. Simon said, “How dare you appear in this company? How dare you dress as a
burgess, as if your stinking clothes and your clogs were forgotten? I’d like to teach you a lesson.”

“You already have,” said the boy Claes. He had changed colour. He began to back away, with the encouragement of that meddler Gruuthuse.

Simon followed him, lounging. “You think I would fight you again? Hardly. But when you tempt Providence as you do, you should look out for acts of God. They do happen. Another fire. The sad expiry of a business deal. A lack of confidence, shall we say, in the house of Charetty? It might be awkward, you know. How would you live, after all, if there was no business? You would have to go back to the dyevats, wouldn’t you? And take your elderly lady along with you?”

Louis de Gruuthuse said, “Kilmirren. That’s enough. Senor João, I’d be obliged if you would see to your friend.”

Simon paid no attention. Simon said, “What are you going to do,
Nicholas
, when you’re tired of her and she can’t support you any more? You got rid of her son quickly enough, they tell me. You may be sorry. A young man can support his elders if he works hard enough, and is well beaten.”

He was getting home to the boy. The boy looked stupid. He said, “Ser Louis, forgive me,” and tried to turn on his heel, but Simon caught him hard by the elbow, willing the fellow to try and hit him. The youth wrenched, and then stood still. Simon’s hands were used to a sword. He could grip to draw blood, when he wanted to. People were looking round. Simon saw Katelina turn as well. He hoped she would come over.

The boy said, “Let me go.”

“You didn’t hear me,” Simon said.

“Yes, I heard you,” he said. Bleated, perhaps. Their host, giving up, had moved away, his face rather grim. After a moment, Vasquez left too, leaving them isolated.

Simon said, “And you have nothing to say?”

The boy said, “I have nothing to say here. If you use your imagination, you must know what I think.”

“I don’t know why I think it worth the trouble,” said Simon. He released his grip. He said, “Ah. There you are. Come and look at this turd who has married his employer and can do nothing in front of gentlemen except stand and quake.”

“You mean Claes?” said Katelina van Borselen. “But no one expects Claes to be brave, unless someone pays him.”

The boy and she stared at one another. Simon, pleased, thought he had never seen her look more handsome than she did now, in her scorn. The emeralds he had given her jumped and flashed round her throat, and gold shone around the edge of her hennin, whose veils framed her face.

After what seemed a long time the boy said, “You’re back from Brittany.”

She said, “I hope you received the ostrich. I did my best for poor Lorenzo, you know.”

It seemed a pointless remark. Simon had expected her to join in the baiting. The boy looked as if he didn’t know what to say. Eventually he said, “It came. I have to go and look at it today. Thank you.”

“And,” said Katelina, “I hear you are married now? That is your wife?”

He didn’t turn round. He said, “Yes. You are with …”

“I am with my lord and husband, of course,” said Katelina. “My lord Simon. Tell me, is your wife bearing yet? But no. I suppose those days are behind her. Indeed, you will be marrying off your stepdaughters soon. Tell me if I may help find them husbands.”

Simon stared at Katelina. He said, “What have you to do with scullion marriages? Are you playing some game?”

“I suppose I am,” said Katelina. “And I’m tired of it. Shall we go home? You know how you like me to rest.” She looked at the fellow Claes. She said, “My husband, you see, cannot care enough for my health.”

Simon hadn’t finished with the boy. He had planned to say a lot more, in spite of Gruuthuse. But when Katelina leaned her weight like that on his arm, he always grew a little alarmed, just in case. Just in case, after all these years, he might be robbed of his heir.

So he smiled at the imbecile Claes instead, conscious of the picture he and Katelina must make standing close, romantic as lovers in some superb Book of Hours. Then, taking time, Simon let his eyes travel to the dumpy figure of the boy’s wife, still standing behind, anxiety plain in her eyes. Simon laughed. Then, bowing with mockery, he led his lady away. As she moved, Katelina threw down the heavy folds of her train. It fell behind her as she walked, dragging against her swollen stomach. The stomach of a woman some five months gone with child.

It destroyed the graceful illusion he had created. At first Simon felt annoyed at her carelessness. Then he realised that it was not carelessness. It was contempt. It was there, on her face as she walked. And the boy, standing behind with his wife, looked as if she had stunned him.

Simon turned to his Katelina and, lifting a beautiful hand, traced her size caressingly with his palm. Then he looked over his shoulder. He conveyed disdain, he hoped, and certainly triumph. And the look on the fool’s face behind him was better than anything else that had happened that day.

Usually, he didn’t much enjoy leaving company because Katelina felt unwell. But this time, what with the conspicuous frowns of Gruuthuse and a few other people, he knew he had better depart, and work out in a day or two how he should apologise. He had a short temper, and he
didn’t suffer fools gladly, especially when he’d had a little to drink. People were always claiming to be upset, or insulted, but his steward usually made it all right, or he could arrange an invitation for someone and flatter them, or if it were someone like Gruuthuse, he would send round a charming gift with a grovelling note. Keeping one’s temper was for women.

Usually the fresh air cured Katelina’s upsets, but this time they got back to the house of Veere and she was still trembling. He was going to get her maid when she stopped his leaving the bedchamber. She said, “What did you mean about the Charetty business? Another fire?”

Simon thought back, and smiled. He hadn’t known she was listening. He said, “Did you see his face? I thought that would frighten him.”

She was sitting where he had placed her, not yet in bed, but in the tall wooden chair, with cushions behind her. She said, “You didn’t mean it, then?”

He couldn’t understand what she was talking about. He got a flask of wine out, and gave himself some. He said, “Well, I’m not likely to put any bargains their way, am I? It depends. It depends how he behaves. Why? What does it matter?”

Katelina said, “It doesn’t, of course. But she’s a good little woman, Marian de Charetty. It isn’t her fault.”

“Of course it is,” said Simon. “She shouldn’t have married him. Do you know what I heard? He’s not such a fool as you’d think.” His glass was empty. He filled it.

“Who?” said Katelina.

He got irritated when she was obtuse. “Claes, of course,” said Simon. “The Charetty servants have some great tale of what he’d been up to in Milan. Did you hear about Jaak de Fleury, the great-uncle that tried to take over the business?”

She had heard. It was surprising sometimes what she heard about the Charetty business while she remained regrettably ignorant about his.

“Well,” said Simon, “the story runs that it was Claes who bankrupted M. Jaak. He not only bankrupted him, but he ruined that captain, Lionetto, and got Lionetto to blame Jaak de Fleury. So Jaak de Fleury not only lost all his business, but Lionetto came to Bruges and killed him. I don’t believe it,” said Simon. “But they do. They think Claes – they call him Nicholas, now – was behind the cannon that killed the King and my uncle. They talk about his being a Yorkist agent and carrying messages for the Dauphin and inventing a magic that means that the Medici can talk to each other without words any more. Infantile rubbish. I tried to shame him today and you saw him.”