Niccolo Rising (19 page)

The boy turned his back on the apron and replied, pointedly, to the youth with the good clothes and the hat. “This is the third. Brother Gilles is from the choir of the Augustines. He is a friend of the soldier Astorre of your company. The man Astorre waits, too, to travel to Sluys.”

“Oh,” said Felix. A ringlet, out of habit, fitted round his finger, and he twisted it.

“He is severe, Astorre?” said the boy. “You do not wish to see him?”

Felix said, “He’s only my mother’s captain. I’m going to Sluys.”

“He’d do your shopping for you,” said Claes. “Monkeys. Leopard-skin mantles. A new sort of feather?”

“I’m going to Sluys,” repeated Felix. The singing had stopped.

The door opened. “I heard that,” said captain Astorre. “Jonkheere Felix –”

“I’m going to Sluys,” said Jonkheere Felix for the third time.

Claes never sighed. He just said, “And so am I,” and grinned cheekily up at the soldier, who cuffed him absently across the face and said, “Well, what are we waiting for?”

That was Astorre in a good mood, because his friend Brother Gilles had been picked for the Medici chapel. The clouds cleared from Felix’s face. He grinned at Astorre, at Tommaso Portinari, entering briskly to lead them all to the company barge, and even at Claes, following obediently in his stocking soles with his clogs round his neck to save the boat-planks, and his shears under his arm, wrapped in his apron.

They embarked without a qualm, and even Tommaso looked cheerful. They were all off to Sluys, and the Venetian galleys.

Afterwards (but he was lying) the notary Julius used to say that it was the worst moment of his life, that sunny day in September when he squinted down from the deck of the Venetian flagship and saw the Medici skiff being punch-rowed along the canal towards him.

In it were his employer’s son Felix, who had promised not to leave Bruges, and his employer’s apprentice Claes, who had been under house-imprisonment in her dyeshop, and Tommaso Portinari, to whom his employer did not wish to owe favours and who, by the cramped look of his nose, was going to exact from someone the price of suffering the smell from Claes’ apron all the way from Bruges to Sluys.

And last and worst, there in the prow was the pullet body and cockerel face of his employer’s captain Astorre, his beard pecking the air as he vaulted out. Then he stood on the quayside, the button eyes attacking the palaces of crates, the terraces of bulging bales, the landscapes of sacks and baskets and barrels through which chains and clusters and units of men were moving about, transferring their environment piecemeal to cart and barge and warehouse under the swinging stalks of the cranes.

Then the beard pointed shipwards and Julius drew carefully back. There were, after all, two galleys lining the wharf, and you could only pray that Felix and Claes and Astorre would choose not to come on board the flagship.

Two galleys with a hundred and seventy oarsmen on each, and thirty bowmen, and the navigating officer, and the scrivener and his assistant, and the caulkers and the carpenter and the cook and two doctors and the notary, all with their boxes open on deck displaying their little items for sale, and their price lists.

It was one of the perquisites of the Flanders voyage, the right of the crew to take small goods for private sale at the ports they touched at. He shouldn’t wonder if the priest hadn’t a bag below deck there, with a morsel of incense and some quite expensive church vestments inside it. And the commander’s cabin, you could be sure, was stacked to the arras with sweet wine and some items smaller and heavier, like gold dust from Guinea, where that wool-headed slave came from.

But all that, of course, was a matter for the friends of Ser Alvise Duodo, and not for vulgar public huckstering. The Greek with the wooden leg, Monsignore Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli, was in there with Duodo now, no doubt seeking news of his captive brother in Constantinople.

It was a pity that the Greek had not come alone. It was a pity that he had brought with him the noble merchant who had sailed with him from Scotland, the ungentle Simon. For the present, the curtain of the poop cabin was drawn, but at any moment, one of them might emerge before Julius finished his business. It was a pity, as well, that Julius was not entirely sober.

Julius did not, after the incident of the cannon, the girl and the dog, wish to draw the attention of Simon to himself or any member of the Charetty household. Already he had successfully dodged his gaze once: something not hard to do on a deck one hundred and eighteen Venetian feet long, and packed with people and boxes. As well as disliking Simon, he was inclined to be deeply envious of him. He wished he could watch Simon, but without being seen. He was aware that he had delivered an extremely capable seven days of work to the demoiselle de Charetty after his berating, and that he had celebrated the fact just a little too early this morning. He particularly, therefore, did not wish Felix and Claes to come aboard. As for Astorre, it would be a disaster. Julius cautiously raised his head, shaking it slightly, and looked over the rail.

It was a disaster. The boat with Tommaso in it appeared to have gone. But Felix’s head, wearing a hat like a bagpipe, was already visible as he climbed from the quay to the flagship. Behind him was Astorre, in a flat cap and a smart leather jerkin, with brocade sleeves stuffed like a goose pie. Behind trailed Claes in his felt working cap and sweaty shirt, its drooping neckline exposing his muscular chest and the upper selvedge of that silky dun-coloured thatch with which Nature, as Julius had envious cause to know, had endowed his virility.

Felix saw his tutor, smiled in an alarmed fashion and trained his bagpipe vaguely towards the vendors who were shouting most loudly while his eyes hunted for the object of his desire. Astorre, his gaze on some distant and glorious prey, ignored Julius altogether. Claes, his albuminous eyes glowing with the simple joys of communication, said, “Felix wants a monkey. The demoiselle has gone to her meeting.”

“I’ve sent Henninc to join her,” said Julius, frowning to keep his eyes in alignment. “You were right. The ballast was alum from Phocoea. Who told you? The Greek, Nicholai?”

“Oh no, Meester Julius,” said Claes. “The scrivener’s list says the alum is from the Straits, at Castile prices, and I’m sure Monsignore de’ Acciajuoli would agree. That’s what the Venetians were buying. Phocoean alum would be much more expensive.”

“So it would,” said Julius, frowning more deeply. Alum, that white,
innocent powder that got dug out of the ground like rock-salt was about the most important ingredient in the world to a dyer, for it bound the colour to the cloth. Claes would know that. All the same, Julius wondered from time to time if Claes understood what he was really saying, as he carried these tales from place to place. It had been unlikely, after all, that the Greek would tell him anything. Claes simply heard things, by virtue of passing from office to office, in a city where artisans were invisible.

Julius said, “Well, you’d better watch out. Our dog-owning Scottish friend Simon is in there with Messer Nicholai and the commander, and it would be just as well if he didn’t lay eyes on you. Also –”

“God save us,” said Claes, with no more than a simple expression of interest. “There’s the captain Lionetto and his friends. They’ve bought a black man.”

Anyone could see they hadn’t bought the black boy, but were merely scrubbing him to see if his colour would come off. Julius, on occasion a man of discernment, said, “Wants a monkey? She wouldn’t stand for it.”

“I expect the price would be too high anyway,” said Claes with optimism. He had continued to gaze at the Guinea slave, who had stopped tugging his chain and was rolling about as the powerful arms of captain Lionetto jabbed at him with a deck swabber. “They’ll have to buy him if they damage him. Unless Felix would like a black boy instead of a monkey. The demoiselle might like that.”

“Felix’s mother?” said Julius. His eyes watered with laughter. He said, “Tell Oudenin the pawnbroker over there. It’ll help his courtship.” Everyone knew that Oudenin had been throwing his daughter at Felix’s head, but really fancied an armful of the widow.

To his surprise, Claes assumed a willing expression, laid down his apron and left him. With disbelief, Julius watched the apprentice squeeze and squirm his way over the deck until he reached the pawnbroker’s side, and there, sitting down, engage him in some sort of artless conversation, in the course of which they both rose.

Whether or not Claes had been talking about Marian de Charetty hardly mattered. As he got to his feet, the soldier Lionetto said, “Hah!” and, gripping a friend on each side, began to force his massive way through the crowd to the apprentice. His ginger velvet and his hair were the same colour.

“Hah!” said Lionetto. “And whose doublet are you staining today, my silly lout? And what fool gave you leave to foul the air of this ship with your stinking rags? You need a wash. Give him one.”

Undoubtedly slowed by the cups of wine he and Henninc had shared, Julius steadied his gaze upon Lionetto’s two cronies who had gripped the apprentice and were beginning, to a general rumble of appreciation, to lift him at the proper angle for a quick dispatch over the side. No one showed any special anxiety on Claes’ behalf, nor indeed did he himself
show any positive resentment as he hung, looking mildly astonished, from the soldiers’ muscular grasp. A bald man remarked, in merest commentary, “Maybe he can’t swim.”

Claes could swim, and he needed a bath. Julius pondered the situation, and concluded, hazily, that it was not an emergency. They got Claes under the armpits and swung him back, as the crowd scattered.

They didn’t swing him overboard, because the sinewy person of captain Astorre took three steps forward and kicked one of Claes’ captors in the kneecap, causing the man to kneel inadvertently, screaming. For a moment, Claes and his other captor stood hand in hand, and then the second man threw Claes’ fist away and advanced on Astorre.

He was forestalled by Lionetto.

Disregarding both his own soldiers and Claes, who continued to stand looking puzzled, Lionetto neither punched the other captain nor shouted at him. Instead, breathing heavily, he dropped one shoulder and, closing his fingers about the other man’s wrist, lifted Astorre’s unresisting right hand and held it, enclosed with his own, at waist level.

Encircled by their joint grasp was a standing-cup of enamelled pink glass, thick with gilding.

“That is mine,” said Lionetto gently. “I ordered it last year from the sailing-master.”

His beard six inches away, Astorre exposed yellow teeth in a grin. “Indeed. He forgot to say so. I have paid for it.”

“How childish you are,” said Lionetto. “It is hardly worth my while taking it from you. Give it up, and I will give you what you paid for it.”

“Take it from me?” said Astorre. “My poor baboon. This silly boy and I between us could strip you to your small clothes. To your inedequate organs if we felt like it. But the commander is a guest in our country and gentlemen do not brawl on his deck. I will take my property.”

“My property,” said Lionetto.

“Paid for by me,” said Astorre.

“Signori!” said a voice of some weight.

They turned.

The curtain of the commander’s cabin had been drawn back and in the entrance stood Messer Alvise Duodo, the hero of Constantinople himself. The Greek Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli was beside him, today wearing a velvet hat over his handsome cowled cloak. And behind them both, Julius saw with misgiving the arrogant clean-shaven features of the nobleman Simon, whose dog had nearly beggared the Charetty family.

“Signori!” said the commander again, causing, as he had intended, one or two of his bowmen to look up alertly. You could see, when the
capitano
turned his head, that his puffed hair was razored up to the ears, and his overjacket and his buttons and the style of his flat cap and
marbled silk doublet were marvellous. Only members of rich families like the Contarini or the Zeno or the Duodo were picked by the Senate and Republic of Venice to lead the Flanders fleet, and some of them were good sailors into the bargain, although that was not what they were there for. They were there because of the skill which allowed the seigneur commander to recognise, from a few murmured words of the Athenian’s, that the makers of the disturbance were mercenary captains of some value as well as some potential danger. The lord commander, walking forward, said, “Ah. Il signore di Astariis and il signore Lionetto. I was seeking you. Pray to settle your difference and come and take wine with me.”

Bulky and diminutive, the figures of the two captains stilled. Their faces turned, relaxing, towards the source of this flattering statement. Between the two formidable bodies the goblet remained for a moment, firmly held by one hand of each, while they sought a way out of the dilemma.

It was solved for them. Not by Messer Nicholai; not by the seigneur commander; not by either of the contenders.

Simon, the blue-blooded Scottish guest of the commander, made his elegant way towards the two captains, paused, and with a sudden, nicely-judged blow, propelled the glass spurting upwards from the half-relaxed grasp of the captains. The trajectory was oblique, and exact. To a wail of delight and of horror, the thing rose in the air, spanned the gunwale of the galley and, in a glittering, rose-coloured arc, descended to drown itself, finally and expensively, in the depths of the harbour.

Everyone looked at Lionetto, whose white-hot glare, muting, resolved itself into a flashing smile, directed at the Scotsman. Then, turning, everyone looked, with greater hopes at Astorre, who had purchased the goblet.

Astorre put his hand on his dagger, and took it off again. Then he put his hand on his purse, opened it, and withdrew and held up a coin. For thirty feet and more, trading, already slackening, came to a halt. Ignoring Lionetto; ignoring the Scotsman; ignoring, with magnificent aplomb, every factor against him: “A florin,” said Astorre, “for the man who will dive for my property.”

“Wait!” said the commander. The deck, which had begun to tilt, righted itself swaying under his feet as swimmers and non-swimmers paused on their way to jump over the side. The Greek smiled.