Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [119]
“You wish to invest?” said Adorne. “I am no longer, as you may know, an officer of the city. But I have some knowledge of what property there is, and what may come on the market. Perhaps we should have a meeting about it.”
“Monseigneur, how can I thank you?” said Claes. “A meeting would bring us both profit. I’m sure of it. And look. There are your children and Anselm your nephew.”
They had arrived at the inner basin, which was a pity. There on the white sheet of the frozen Minnewater were the screaming figures of two of Adorne’s older daughters, and the morose face of his oldest son Jan. With them were not only his nephew but a party from Zeeland. His lordship’s secretary and chaplain had brought the de Veere princeling Charles, and with them were his father’s cousins Katelina and Gelis van Borselen.
The young people caught sight of Adorne. With varying success, they skated towards him. First to arrive was Katelina van Borselen, whom Claes had seen three times before. Tittering with the lord Simon at Damme. Resenting the Greek’s Greek in Adorne’s home. Apologising … however badly, apologising … at the demoiselle’s house for occasioning Simon’s bad temper.
It was she, of course, who had warned him first of Jordan de Ribérac.
She looked today in better temper, and also in looks: her vigorous face with the well-marked brows and rounded chin was blooming with colour, and strands of dark brown hair had escaped from her hood and hung, like Katelijne’s, in front of her ears. She wound them back, halting expertly before Anselm Adorne, and smiling, gave him a greeting. Then she transferred her gaze to Claes, and frowned, and then lifted her brows. “And our newest envoy. They tell me you have been rechristened Niccolò. With a knife, it seems.”
Her voice was not abrasive, but Adorne, who set store by good manners, frowned in his turn and moved away to speak to his children, leaving Claes standing on the bank of the pond. Claes said with caution, “My face, demoiselle? I lay down and let someone skate over me.”
Her expression was the one Julius wore, when he regretted unbending. Since he felt not at all unfriendly, Claes added, “It was a small accident only. The name was accidental as well. The Milanese prefer it to the Flemish version. It hasn’t stopped anyone from calling me Claes.”
“Or anything else,” said Anselm Sersanders, arriving with a hiss of ill-fitting skates. “Look, I borrowed these. Want to try?”
He staggered. A small, stout girl of thirteen or fourteen withdrew her fist and said, “You were skating with me.”
“Well, skate with Claes instead,” said Sersanders. “He’s very good.”
“He’s a servant!” said the fat girl.
Claes smiled at her. He said, “But that’s what servants are for. I skate beside you, and you tell me how I may serve you. Look. I am going to skate like Controller Bladelin. He is very grand, but he’s just the Duke’s servant, after all. He skates like this.”
He finished binding on the borrowed skates, and stepped on to the ice, facing the child and drawing his face into the shape of Controller Bladelin, when about to address a grand lady. It hurt, but was worth it. He made an elaborate bow, achieved a dangerous wobble, and offered his arm to the child, uttering a genteel invitation in a laboured French accent. It was one of the easier voices to imitate. The child’s face, mesmerised, looked up at him and then back at Katelina van Borselen. He realised, a little too late, that this must be the younger sister. Ah, well. He repeated, “Distinguished lady: grant me the privilege?” and taking the child’s unresisting hand in his own, skated off with her.
She said, “Do more of that.”
He did more of Pierre Bladelin. He did both the burgomasters. He skated, daringly, like the Duke’s libertine nephew, flamboyant and self-assured until the devastating fall at the end. He skated, with