Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [196]
She had, at his own request, inspected Nicholas’ wardrobe. It was Felix, again, who had let fall, mockingly, that friend Nicholas was now patronising a tailor. Since what he wore had not changed, she could only assume that he had needed replenishments. Then she noticed that the doublets, the jackets, the hose, although still in the same subdued colours, were of better cut and respectable cloth, such as a manager of her household would wear. He had had made, in addition, one heavy robe, inexpensively trimmed. Seeing, as she had not, that an occasion like this might occur.
She was curious enough to look at the ledgers, but the accounts for none of these things had been entered. It meant very little. He could make a profit and spend it in a morning, and she would never know. But she felt, without knowing why, that he had paid for it in some other way. She had not commented, lifting the robe and approving it. It was correct for the occasion, as he would be.
The evening, as it turned out, was a grand pleasure, at the cost of some strain and a great deal of hard work. The house was full of wax lights and people, and above the noise of the people was the sound of trumpets. All the folk she expected were there, and many more. She spoke to the wife of Louis de Gruuthuse, who was quick-witted and friendly, and told her how intrigued her husband had been by young Nicholas and his interest in gunpowder.
She met Guildolf de Gruuthuse, whom she liked, and who, at fifteen, was in many ways older than Felix.
She met Katelina van Borselen’s father, who complimented her on her appearance and said he was looking forward to hearing more of this energetic courier service young Nicholas had got under way. As she could see, Bruges was filling already with Scots come over for the Holy Blood Procession and the Fair, and he would be surprised if she didn’t find some new clients there, who would like to send letters to Italy.
There were, she saw, quite a few Scots here as well, as was natural. Wylie. George Martin. The man they called Sandy Napier, to whom Nicholas was talking. Some of these, presumably, had been among Bishop Kennedy’s passengers last year at Damme. She wondered if any of them remembered the matter of the apprentice Claes and the gun, and what they would make of it all. Napier’s face, she saw, expressed nothing but animated interest.
At supper, she found herself next to Jean de Ghistelles, Grand-Veneur of Flanders and married to Gruuthuse’s sister. Nicholas, whom one did not trace nowadays by explosions of marvellous laughter, was sitting quite far away, beyond Count Franck and next to a very young, very plump girl whom she recognised, after thought, as Florence van Borselen’s younger daughter. Gelis, who had so upset Tilde at the Carnival. Marian de Charetty smiled down the table. If Nicholas had been any less of an artist with children, she would have been sorry for him.
Her sympathy, or that of anyone else, would not have been wasted. From the moment he saw the stony face of the fat child surveying him from the next place at table, Nicholas knew that there was very little between himself and disaster. But of course he had known, from the moment the demoiselle accepted the invitation, that this was likely. He had protected himself by meeting Florence van Borselen and his wife on business beforehand, to try their reaction to his precipitous union. The wife, he thought, would have been scathing about it in private, but in his presence she followed her husband’s lead, which was to treat it with disinterested courtesy.
Felix, of course, had long since proclaimed the tale of his supper in Ghent. It was even possible to tell, if following closely, that Nicholas was one of the company. But there was nothing in that to upset anyone. There was, however, plenty to upset everyone on other scores. Such