Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [103]
It was good for business, and social success kept Tommaso contented. He wished sometimes that Tommaso would marry, instead of embroiling himself in long-standing contracts with large, stupid women. He supposed that, like all good Florentine mothers, Caterina di Tommaso Piaciti had forbidden her son to marry anyone but a Florentine. Pigello was married already, with two promising sons. One never knew. Perhaps when one of his plain mistresses gave him a plain son, Tommaso would be encouraged to have a bride sent out from Italy. Or perhaps what he wanted was not, in any case, to found another branch of the Portinari dynasty, which stretched back already more than two hundred years. Angelo often wondered how the Portinari felt, serving the Medici. But then, the Portinari had never won fortunes, or cities, whereas Cosimo had done both.
So Angelo Tani drew his under-manager into his room before the new courier came and said, “I think it would be wise, Tommaso, to forget that this boy Claes has been an apprentice. There are those in Milan, it seems, who think him useful. We should make him welcome.”
Tommaso had acquired another ring. The stone was Oriental. It represented, no doubt, some sort of discount on the goods he had bought from the Flanders galleys. Tommaso said, his eyebrows disappearing under his stylish arrangement of fringe, “He will be duly astonished. The last time I saw him downstairs he had a pair of shears under his arm, and an apron you could smell from the belltower.”
Tani said, “I don’t propose, naturally, that you carry him up the staircase and then wash his feet. But a courteous recognition of the fact that he has received a deserved elevation – that should not seem out of place. Unless you would prefer not to see him?”
Vain hope. Beringed and fastidiously dressed, Tommaso was there beside Angelo Tani when the parlour door opened on Claes. Today the Charetty servant wasn’t wearing an apron and there were short boots on his feet instead of clogs. The rest of his clothes certainly hadn’t tied up a fortune. The Widow had outfitted them all in blue cloth before they went to Milan, and that, clearly, was what Claes was wearing: a stiff-collared doublet with a short, plain jacket over, and a double-brimmed cap. He was professionally shaved, and his old frayed purse had been replaced by a newer one with a good latch, but otherwise there was no difference that leaped to the eye. His cheeks shone, dimple-buttoned. He said to Tommaso, “You’ve got a new ring. Duke Francesco has one like that. And a brooch to match. Made by one of his goldsmiths. What did you pay?”
Tommaso pondered, and then named a figure.
Claes, emitting an unfocused whistle, sat down on the bench offered him. “No, I couldn’t find you anything better than that. That was a bargain. You stick to your supplier. Messer Angelo, thank you. So you read the letters? Were they in order?”
“My friend, in excellent condition,” said Angelo heartily. He poured wine into three of the good cups, handed it, and sat himself beside Claes. “Considering the road, and the weather. And, no doubt, you had several others to carry.”
“You would think all the world was writing to its master,” said his courier cheerfully. “The letters for Messer Nori at Geneva alone! More, I dare say, than even Messer Pierfrancesco has written to you. And, of course, the letters to be forwarded to Lyons. Everyone seems to be buying their helmets at Lyons these days. Not so fine as the Milanese, they say, but much cheaper.”
“Cheaper than Bruges?” said Tommaso.
Claes lifted his face from his cup. “You’d have to ask the Justiniani. The Venetians. They bought some, I’m told. Or Messer Corner might be able to tell you: I brought a letter for him. They say the Venetians pay cash. Of course they