Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [202]
Gossip had indicated to her the means Nicholas had probably used to draw Gregorio into their interests. How he had overcome Jehan Metteneye’s natural prejudice she had no idea. His wife had not spoken to Nicholas or herself since the marriage. Nicholas and a pretty girl, caught in a cellar. She tried not to think of it. Men were men. Sometimes she had wished that Cornelis had been less staid. She supposed Jehan Metteneye had his secrets as well and, properly seasoned at the baths or the butts, had exchanged them for Nicholas’ confidences. To get Jehan Metteneye’s vital interest, a young man would have to use what means he could. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
And meantime, there was Felix and the White Bear meeting to think of. Her son was asleep. She wouldn’t help him by worrying. She must plan as if he were about to emerge unhurt, happy, successful, from Sunday’s joust. As if she were really likely to be free to set out on Monday, to travel through Burgundy and Savoy for two weeks.
In which case, there were fearsome lists to be made, arrangements to be thought of. The business she usually handled would have to be supervised by Gregorio. Which was why, of course, Nicholas had gone to Spangnaerts Street so early. She must remember that he was human, and there must be limits to the burdens she laid on him. But so far, she could see none to his capacity.
When, later that morning, three riders rode into her courtyard, she was busy in her office with Henninc and paid no attention to the small commotion outside. It was five minutes later that Felix burst into the room, his cheekbones flushed. “Mother!”
Behind was someone very grandly dressed indeed, in velvet riding dress with a draped hat and scarf pinned with jewels. She knew him. Roland Pipe, of the household of Charles, Count of Charolais, the Duke of Burgundy’s difficult son.
She rose, curtseying. Henninc melted back to the panelling. The Receiver-General bowed. Felix said, “Mother! The Count has asked … Der Roland brings an invitation to me from Monseigneur de Charolais. A personal invitation. To a grand hunt. A special hunt at Genappe on Sunday. I have to leave now. Right away.”
“Such an honour!” said Marian de Charetty. She seated her guest, signed to Henninc for wine, and sat herself, flushed and smiling and breathless. The picture of a bourgeois mother overwhelmed by the favour shown to her bourgeois son.
The picture of a mother thanking God that her son need find no excuse, now, to face enemy lances at the White Bear jousting on Sunday. For when the heir to your liege lord commanded, no excuse was acceptable. Thanking God, she thought, and someone else.
When Nicholas came back much later, Felix had already gone. The yard was full of the news. Nicholas sat and let the dye workers tell him. They were disappointed, mostly. It was fine, of course, that the great lords should see, at last, the worth of the good Charetty family. But where now was the special pleasure and pride of standing there in the crowd at the jousting and saying, There! There’s the young master!
Someone who used to share his cabbage with him said, “Why not take his place, Claes? There’s the armour.”
“Now, there’s an idea,” Nicholas said. “I’d win every bout. I’d be Forestier. I’ll show you. Come on, why don’t we all go in for it?”
When his mistress looked out of her window to find the reason for all the shrieking and laughter, they had rigged up a rope line for the barrier and were charging one another in pickaback pairs, with kettles for helms and stirring-sticks for their lances. They broke a rod, and Henninc’s voice roared over the yard, berating them. Then one of the charging figures took off his helmet, and Henninc, faced with his mistress’s husband, fell silent.
Nicholas jumped to the ground. “I’ll pay for the stick. No. I was wrong to take them off their work. We were just glad about the honour to jonkheere Felix.”
Grinning, they were clearing up quickly and scattering. They would work late, if need be, to make up for it. She saw their spirits were high and that Henninc,