Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [118]
“To go where?” said the English Governor in excellent Flemish, which was to be expected of a son of Flemish-occupied Norfolk who had worked for fifteen years now in Bruges. Claes knew, as everyone did, of the friendship between the Governor and Adorne that went back to their teens. And of the friendship between the Governor and the bookseller Colard.
Claes gazed at the Governor and said, “I suppose Bishop Coppini is to go to England, Meester Willem. To reconcile King Henry with his kinsmen of York. Or perhaps to go to Calais, to reconcile the Duke of York’s son with King Henry. I wouldn’t know, not being on terms with my lord Bishop. Although, of course, we all saw a lot of his chaplain in Vigévano.”
“Ah,” said Messer Arnolfini. “And did the Bishop’s chaplain despair, too, of seeing the English war settled, and a brave English army set forth against the heathen hordes?”
It still hurt to smile, so he didn’t. “I took it, monseigneur,” said Claes, “that the Bishop’s chaplain had great confidence in the Bishop’s powers to resolve the English dispute. And resolve it in time, perhaps, to allow an English army to set forth to battle with confidence. But against whom …”
“Yes?” said the English Governor.
“Against whom,” said Claes with sorrow, “I was unable, monseigneur, quite to make out.”
It told them, for he meant it to tell them, all they wanted to know; for these were three men who were not on the side of the Lancastrian English king Henry, but on the side of the pretender of York, and therefore of the Dauphin of France and of the Duke of Milan and of King Ferrante of Naples. For whom Astorre and his new-gathered company were about to sally forth and do battle.
It was a matter of some ingenuity to lead the conversation from that point to his own interest in arms, but in time Claes succeeded. He received, humbly, what advice the company had to give. Then the conversation moved to the city lottery, in which not so long ago Meester van Eyck’s widow and a friend of the Governor had both been winners. “So I hope, my friend, that you have not delayed buying your ticket,” said Adorne. “Who knows what you might win?”
He had not bought a ticket, but now he would do so. “Come. Walk with me to collect my energetic children first,” said Sersanders’ uncle. “You will not forget, however, to bring the letters and armour to Messer Arnolfini?”
He would not forget. The three seated men rose. Farewells were taken. Not altogether to his surprise, he found himself walking through the afternoon streets to the inner harbour with the great man Adorne at his side, his ascetic face sunk in furs. Adorne said, “You brought me letters from my kinsmen of Genoa. Is there any more news?”
A pile of sacks made them separate. When conjoined: “Monseigneur, what can I tell you?” said Claes. “Your kinsman Prosper Adorno will be Doge when the French king loses control of Genoa. But who can tell when that will be? Messer Prosper has many friends, but they don’t wish to be named.”
“So long as they are friends,” said Adorne. “You know, my family supplied many Doges to Genoa. Because of the Levantine trading posts, they never wanted for wealth. But the Turks’ arrival changed that.”
“The loss of Phocoea,” said Claes. “I heard about it in Milan. A lot of people in Milan are talking about it. It seems a shame, Meester Anselm, that Venice has the franchise now. Of course, the Acciajuoli don’t think so. But there’s a fine man like Messer Prosper de Camulio, only waiting to be given some chance. And of course, Bruges suffers as well. The Charetty business as much as anyone.”
“Yes,” said Adorne. “I hear you are taking some care for your mistress’s business. I commend you for it.”
Claes dispensed, without smiling, as forceful an impression of pleasure as he could contrive.