Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [192]
“Piccinini is now supporting the Duke of Calabria. Yes.”
They were in the doorway. “But what can you do?” said Messer Gregorio, staring at Nicholas.
“Turn back the tide of war, single-handed,” said Nicholas. “No. There’s a fellow with Piccinini called Lionetto. I’d hate to have him on the wrong side.”
“I don’t understand,” said Gregorio.
“No. It’s just as well you don’t,” said the extraordinary youth, cheerfully. “Or you’d turn and walk straight out. I warn you. Don’t stay with this company if you like things to be peaceful.”
With darkness came exhaustion for Marian de Charetty. The talk, the arrangements had gone on all evening. Tilde, who had not come to the parlour for wine, had appeared there at suppertime, joining Felix and Catherine and Nicholas and her mother at the table. Her face set and swollen, Tilde had at least answered when spoken to and, sitting next to her mother, had held her hand tightly. Nicholas left her alone, and talked about jousting.
You could see the idea enter Felix’s head, and take shape there. You could see him, instead of speaking in monosyllables, begin to guide the conversation. It was no surprise when he said, rather loudly, “You did say, didn’t you, that Mother and I would find the business doing remarkably well? I presume in that case it would support an extra horse or two, and a shield, say?”
Nicholas’s reply, agreeing placidly, clashed with her own sharp refusal. She looked at Nicholas. He said, “I don’t see why not. He’s the head of the business. He ought to make a show at the White Bear.”
She stared at him. She said, “I thought –” and stopped abruptly.
“You thought the business couldn’t afford it. So did I. But they didn’t drink half as much wine as I thought they would this afternoon, and the wedding came cheap.” He grinned at her. Tilde was looking from one side to the other, puzzled. Marian realised that, of course, they would expect him to economise, to reduce their spending. He had tricked her into allowing him an act of generosity.
It was later, when the meal was over, and Tilde and Felix had gone and Catherine was already asleep in her big bed, that Marian found herself alone before the parlour fire for the first time with her husband. He had been with her all day and yet, in a sense, it might have been Henninc. Except that never in a thousand years would Henninc have contrived to achieve all Nicholas had achieved from last night. Or Cornelis.
Although, of course, Cornelis had given her a bridal night. And she herself had made it plain to Nicholas that there was to be none. He had acquiesced: had even arranged for Catherine to stay with her. And had engineered, too, all those joint anouncements which made it clear to the world the basis on which his marriage stood. For her sake, she knew.
For the same reason, he would have to leave her room soon, to find the chamber he had arranged for himself in another wing. Returning from seeing to Catherine, she had given him a last cup of wine and saw, by the firelight, that his eyes were heavy. She wondered if his night, too, had been sleepless, or if he had passed it in dreamless, confident rest. He said suddenly, “I’m sorry. You must be tired as well.”
He spoke as if they had never been in company except when vigorously and formally entertaining one another. As if she had never tended him, lying in feverish dreams on the pillows upstairs during his sickness. She said, “I don’t think there is anything in the world I want to talk about. Yes, there is. The joust?”
“He won’t take part,” said Nicholas. “Take my word for it.”
“After all that expense?” she said, her smile wider. “Two horses? A shield?”
He said, “Notice how generous I was being with your money. It gives him … it will help him with his friends.”
“You mean,” she said, “he can boast about how he is taking advantage of you?”
“Something like that. He deserves it, anyway.” His eyes closed. He said, “Dear Christ, I must go,” and opened them and got up.
He hesitated. Sitting, aching with weariness, she tried to will him to say