Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [113]
She broke off. She said, “You’re not afraid? Even after today?”
He didn’t try to hide his relief. It wasn’t only relief, it was happiness. He cracked his cheek open, beaming at her, and shoved a cloth at it and went on beaming at her through it. He said, “You won’t regret it. You really won’t. Never mind today. Today won’t come back. I’ve something funny to tell you.”
Instead of smiling back, she was angry. “Something funny,” she said. “That I should like to hear. What about? The Turks? The war in Italy? Felix? Simon? Monseigneur de Ribérac? The explosion? – No, we must keep the explosion for another day, and a few other problems. What is your amusing story about?”
Her voice grated. He suddenly saw how tired she was, and that she was angry with herself now, instead of with him. He clutched the cloth and bestowed on her the warmest, largest, most enveloping smile in his power.
“Well, really,” he said. “Well, really, it has to do with an ostrich.”
Chapter 17
THAT AFTERNOON, the biggest entertainment in Bruges was the split face of the Charetty apprentice who had gone to be made a soldier. The household saw it first, as the big lad began clattering about and hopping up and down stairs, collecting papers and other things he needed for all the errands he had to run, he said, before the Festival. Those who had seen him arrive the day before, or had talked to him in the yard, swore that his face was all right then. It wasn’t the work of some narrow-minded husband, because he’d slept in the house all last night. One or two merchants had come for their letters, and there had been a call from this fat French lord, but the Widow would have screamed to the magistrates if the fat lord had done it, or would be screaming to Claes, which she wasn’t, if Claes himself had upset her.
Asked how it happened, Claes told a different story every time. Some of them were truly marvellous. None of them could be believed for a minute. He was a real joker, was Claes.
He himself had thought of staying in, but there was too much to do, and Felix hadn’t come back, which meant he was still in the tavern. By the time another hour had gone by, his face had swollen, half closing one eye. He closed his satchel and took up his cloak and went off to make his calls. Everyone he met had a different witty provenance to suggest for his spectacular stripe, a whipping from the Widow being by far the most popular.
He seemed to meet all his acquaintances at once that day in Bruges, but that was because he had no working routine to follow. It was uncanny, in this familiar place, to hear the command of the bells and not to obey them. Not to hoist the cloths out of the vat and stagger off at a run with his team, to get them pegged out before the noonday peal drove them to dinner. Not to herd with the others for meals and for prayers; to report to his yard master or to his employer; not to be safely one of a group. The group he was now in was not a safe one.
As he suspected, Felix was still where he had left him. He joined him there, because it had to be done. It was not a good place: an inn serving no wine, but just beer for artisans, and the artisans resented rich young fellows like Felix occupying the benches all day, and taking the owner’s attention. By the time he got there, Felix and his circle had eaten and then had settled down to some defiant drinking. When Claes came in, the more alert of his friends noticed his slit face at once and, convulsed with laughter, vied with one another, naturally, in accounting for it. Felix, rousing himself,