Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [160]
Claes, her father had called him. It was the name all Bruges knew him by: perhaps they would never allow him another. It was the name which, with great determination, she had continued to give him in her mind ever since that night. She had not forgotten the things he had said, which were true.
They parted briefly: Felix de Charetty and his party to settle their horses and baggage in some other inn whose name Claes had some trouble, it seemed, in remembering. Then they returned, as guests, to share Florence van Borselen’s supper.
Her father had taken a private chamber for his family, and had invited other guests, all burgesses of Ghent with one or two wives and one daughter. His own clerk was there, considerately placed next to Claes. The room itself was small, with a clean tiled floor and a long table with a good linen cloth on it, striped with drawn threadwork. Seated on trestles along its three sides, the company ate and drank and made seemly conversation, served by her father’s excellent servants. Katelina watched the one girl glance at Claes, and away, and back again. He didn’t appear to notice, but she knew, positively, that he had. He and the clerk were finding an enormous amount to say to one another.
Her mother, as might be expected, talked of Brussels. Young Felix contributed something, but soon changed the subject and launched into a detailed and rather endearing account of coursing with the hounds of the Dauphin. When that came to an end, her father spoke of the attractions of Louvain and its professors and, politely, of the Charetty business there, and those parts of it about which clearly he thought Claes as well as Felix might feel able and happy to speak.
Katelina said, “You forget, Father. Claes has left that part of the business to carry dispatches.”
Her mother tapped her father’s hand. “There now, Meester Florence: you did forget that. And the beautiful warming-apple young Gelis received from Milan. A fine city, I’m told. But the princess’s chaplain was shocked at the way the ladies whitened their faces. He is a broad-minded man. But the paint was too much for him. He told us about it.”
Katelina’s father rarely listened to what his wife said, a practice which, Katelina often thought, must have contributed to his sweet temper. Now he said, “Dispatches? That should take you to some interesting places. Do you carry for the Dauphin?”
The two deceiving dimples appeared in Claes’ cheeks. The girl – who was she? She had missed her father’s introduction – glanced at them and remained looking at Claes. Claes said, “I know jonkheere Felix hunts with the Dauphin’s hounds, but there are the limits to the exalted company we keep. I carry for Angelo Tani, though, and the Strozzi bank and the Doria.”
“Well, I’ve met the Dauphin even if you haven’t,” said Felix. His hair, solidly curled for once, bounced as he turned to his host and hostess. “A delightful castle, Genappe. I expect you know it?”
Since they didn’t, he told them about it. Katelina doubted, from the recital, if he had seen much of it, or had been there often. She thought that it was perhaps just as well. Every plot was supposed to start at Genappe. It would do the Charetty business no good to appear too close to it.
Her mother said, “I suppose there is something to be said for a good family life, even if one doesn’t trouble with great households of servants and lodgings in every hunting-forest. There is the King of France, unloved and ailing, in spite of his dozens of new silk gowns and red and green doublets; and his own son his bitterest enemy.”
Katelina’s father smiled. “Hardly unloved, by all accounts, my dear,