Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [249]
He had no news from the West, from his previous life. Now that he could use his pendulum again he was doing so, sparingly. He knew that Gelis and Jodi were both in the Low Countries, and he had touched Kathi, once. She was safe. The stab of relief made his heart ache, for he had no right to feel it. He had forfeited the right to feel it for Gelis and Jodi as well, yet nothing but death could change that. He had not known, until recently, that love could exist in such different forms.
He filled his days. Living now close to the castle, he saw much less of the Patriarch, having taken up residence in the house and workshop of Fioravanti, with whom a strange unofficial partnership had grown. Blessed with an early grasp of mechanical principles, Nicholas had benefited from years of working with John le Grant and, later, Moriz the priest: his fascination with the subject went back to Donatello’s experiments with perspective. So he was drawn to something he recognised as a radical advance on what he already knew, and spent the dark days, and the days of lengthening spring deep in discussion over plans and designs at tables littered with instruments; and in sheds filled with gritty samples of brick, and fragments of plaster, and buckets of evil-smelling mixtures of mortar. The cathedral of the Uspensky was to be Muscovy’s triumphant proclamation to the West: Russian in style, but incorporating the best the world had to offer in materials and design. The princes of Muscovy would be crowned there.
During all this time, Nicholas continued to strengthen the connections he had already established, on behalf of Julius’s business, with the small trading community, both inside Moscow and outside it. Already, for the building of the cathedral, elaborate plans had to be laid to ensure that the materials, the masons, the labourers, the scaffolding experts were commissioned and brought into Moscow during those periods when travel was possible. Couriers passed between Nicholas and Julius, rapt in building his business at Novgorod, and entranced at this new dimension. Anna never wrote; but at least she did not abandon her spouse and go home.
Lastly, for fastidious adviser in all this, Fioravanti had obtained the services of the one resident who had both Greek and Florentine blood; who had business links with the West and the Levant and who was also close to the work’s greatest patron. Nicholai Giorgio de’ Acciajuoli, having politely sacrificed several weeks of his leisure to act as escort and interpreter during grand-ducal audiences, finally agreed to move into the architect’s household.
He seemed to find it amusing. As an individual, he proved, as Nicholas had always suspected, to be a superior bastard whose superiority was perfectly justified. After a period of wary adjustment, Nicholas suddenly learned how to deal with him. Fioravanti was a brilliant visionary, but the Greek with the wooden leg provided the rapier tongue, the cynicism, the wit that gave spice to their lives together. Nicholas fed Julius in Novgorod with work, and prayed that he wouldn’t come home. For one thing, Acciajuoli would eat him alive.
In March, Rudolfo’s son left, bearing two white gerfalcons for the Duke of Milan, who was fond of Fioravanti, and would also have building work to be done in the future. Acciajuoli, learning of the proposed trip, had been encouraging. ‘But of course, Nicholas, you will be returning as well? The proud husband and father, so long deprived? Even if they won’t allow you in Bruges (and so I hear, although I cannot imagine why), you might be reunited with your family in Cracow? In Danzig? In Lübeck?’
Nicholas