Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [191]
The Widow herself stood smiling. A stiff smile, but a real one. If she was trembling, it didn’t show. She had courage. But of course she had courage, to agree to the whole thing in the first place.
It was a woman who shrieked, “Three cheers for the demoiselle!” and it was women who began cheering, although the men had mostly joined in by the third. Their faces were diverse as the faces of men about to fight a battle. They didn’t know what they felt yet. They wouldn’t know until this was over, and they were huddled in some corner together.
Marian de Charetty was saying, “Thank you. It seemed right to mark the occasion. I see the sun is still shining. If you will move into the yard, Henninc will take some of you to help him bring out a wine cask, so that you can drink our health. And your own. And that of the company.”
It was over. The demoiselle, helped by her son, was stepping down from her box. Hesitantly, some of her people were already moving forward to speak to her. She began to take their hands, one by one, smiling and speaking briefly. Henninc had gone, busy with his commission, and silent. You could see Nicholas follow him with his eyes, and then one or two of the brasher men stepped up to him, and soon a small group surrounded him, and more and more.
He made no attempt, Gregorio saw, to join the demoiselle and create of the occasion a bridal reception. The experimental jokes he appeared not to hear. The questions about his work and theirs he answered readily, with excitement even, so that some of it infected the professional men among them, who began to press closer and ask more. He finally moved out, in a wide knot of people, and found an old barrel to sit on while they crowded round him. In a while, laughter rose. Others crossed the yard to join him.
There were still sufficient paying court to the demoiselle to make it a fair division. Messer Gregorio walked to where she stood with her son and said, “Demoiselle, my congratulations. The Duke’s controller could not have spoken better, or more wisely.”
“I had Felix to advise me,” she said. “Is the wine coming?”
It had come. Without haste, the crowd around Nicholas dissolved, or rather reshaped so that it came with its nucleus to the trestle where the cups were being laid. The wine was poured. The Widow, raising her cup, gave a toast to the company, and they to her. Then, with her son, she left for the house. Gregorio, interested, waited.
Nicholas said, “Well, of course I should like to stay and get drunk with all my friends, but I suppose you and I ought to go in. I’ve told Henninc they can drink themselves silly for half an hour, and then he’s to come in and join us.”
Gregorio kept his face solemn. He subdued, with a great effort, a desire to ask directly how Felix de Charetty had been won over. Or if not, by his looks, exactly converted, at least persuaded to co-operate. Instead, he said, “What made you late?” They began walking indoors side by side.
“A letter from … a letter,” said his new master. “I’ll tell the demoiselle later. I have to leave for Italy as soon as I can. The day after the joust.”
“Trouble?” said Meester Gregorio.
“Well, trouble in the sense that I’d hoped to have longer than that to arrange things. It isn’t fair to you, or to the demoiselle. I’ll get everything done that I can before I go. In one way, it’s not bad to leave early. The sensation will have time to die. People will pick a public quarrel with me, but not with the demoiselle.”
“Who would pick a public quarrel with you?” asked Gregorio.
“The person you’re thinking of,” said Nicholas without animosity. “We’re to go to the parlour. It’s the special wine.”
“And Italy?” said Gregorio, hurrying. “What’s the trouble in Italy?”
“The trouble in Italy,” said his new master, “is that Jacopo Piccinini has changed sides.”
It was so remote from dyevats and weddings and wine in the parlour that Gregorio frowned. He said, “The condottiere? He was, surely in the pay of King Ferrante of Naples. Yes, I see. The Charetty company and captain Astorre are now supporting a weakened army.