Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [155]
“Monsieur Raymond du Lyon?” said Claes. “I am happy to meet you.”
“And I you, Monsieur Nicholas,” said the other. The hair under the brim of his hat was dark, like Gaston’s, and he had a jousting man’s shoulders. His pleasant, free smile displayed three broken teeth. He added, “You took no harm, I trust, from our method of disengaging you? We tried hard to think of a gentler one.”
“It’s the one I feel most at home in,” said Claes. “As your brother would tell you.”
Raymond du Lyon smiled again, but made no rejoinder. Instead he said, “My lord Dauphin wishes to speak to you. Come.”
The prince who sat on a cushion, knock-kneed legs splayed before him, fitted well enough the description gossip gave of him. Below the narrow-brimmed sugarloaf hat was the thin, drooping nose, the thick lips, the small chin. The most suspicious man alive, someone had called him. Pretty Margaret of Scotland, marrying him at eleven, spoiled by his father, had died defiant at twenty, intransigently childless on a diet of green apples and vinegar. Plain Charlotte of Savoy, married at twelve, was already at twenty twice pregnant and had had no chance to be spoiled by Louis’ father. The last time the Dauphin had seen his father was thirteen years ago. Since then he had fled to Burgundy and his father had made his famous quip: The Duke of Burgundy has taken in a fox that will eat his chickens.
He was eating them now, wrapped in a napkin. Claes approached and, remembering not to make a fool of Felix, knelt the prescribed three times while the Dauphin laid down his meat and wiped his mouth and hands. Claes kissed his fingers, smelling of both fox and chicken. Placed on the grass, he was given a manchet with a chop and a chicken leg, smothered in sauce. A wooden tankard appeared, with Bordeaux wine in it.
The Dauphin spoke, using French. Some malfunction of palate or teeth or even of tongue made his words thick and not always clear, but never prevented him from speaking often, and quickly. Now he said, “I have this problem that requires a young mind, my good Nicholas. Monsieur le Bâtarde, where is it?”
One of the noblemen, rising silently, opened his purse and handed a paper to the Dauphin. No, a parchment. Covered with diagrams.
The Dauphin held it out. “Of course you were at Louvain with your young master Felix. I saw you, when the good rector was teaching. Monsieur Spierinct. He made this chart for me, but sometimes, when my poor mind is full of business, I cannot remember the key. Translate it for me.” It was an astrologer’s projection, in both Latin and Greek. Everyone knew that the Dauphin employed his own astrologers. One of them was probably present.
Claes or Nicholas? Nicholas bent his serious gaze on the Dauphin and said, “Yes, my lord. I have broken the Medici cipher.”
He could feel the movement behind him. The sharp eyes in front were like the old man’s hunting knife. The Dauphin said, “Well now: you make the Knight’s move, but you drag me behind you. One step at a time. Can you interpret this document?”
Claes said, “My lord. Forgive me,” and took the vellum, running his eye over it. After a moment he said, “To this point, I can read it. After that, I should have to correct it. The transcriber has made a mistake.”
One of the company was standing at his elbow. The Dauphin said, “You hear, my lord? My transcriber has made a mistake. Show my lord, Nicholas.”
And that had been predictable, too. As he spoke, Claes was achieving, methodically, the last of his mental calculations. He reviewed them. Then he lifted the parchment, using his meat bone as pointer. “There are the false figures. Instead, it ought to go something like this.”
Halfway through the recital, the other man said, “Stop!” He looked flushed. He said, “My lord Dauphin, this is correct.”
There was a little silence. The Dauphin looked surprised. “Then give the boy more wine, another dish!” he said.