Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [205]
Meanwhile in Metteneye’s house, arranging for his servants, his horses, his gear, Simon was chastely polite to Jehan Metteneye’s wife, as arch and as pendulous as he remembered. The girl Mabelie had, of course, gone. The woman didn’t mention that, or the affair with the knave Claes. After he had left Bruges on the last occasion, travellers to Scotland had sought him out for quite a while, regaling him with the heartening news of his youthful friend’s promising recovery. And later, of how he had been encouraged to depart from Bruges, and had gone off to soldier in Italy. The end, he supposed, of a trouble-maker.
It was John of Kinloch, the Scots chaplain, who disillusioned him. Master John, in stained black, met him on the stairs and, instead of stepping aside, took occasion to compliment him on the splendid armour he had heard so much about, and the exquisite doublet he had now assumed with, he saw, a left sleeve fit for a king. He then remarked, without stirring, how interested Simon must be in the latest news of young Nicholas.
If the fellow was trying to find common ground, he was failing. Simon said, “Forgive me. I can’t think whom you mean.” He glanced down the stairs. Metteneye was approaching. Rescue.
“Oh,” said John of Kinloch. “You’d remember him as young Claes. Who would have thought, when his life was despaired of, that all this would happen?”
The quality of Kinloch’s smile was explained. Simon smiled in return, at the chaplain and at Jehan Metteneye, now starting up the stairs. He said, his tone one of civil amusement, “I heard he was in Italy. Then he’s made his fortune, has he? A commander?”
Both men laughed. Kinloch moved to one side and Metteneye took his place on the same step. Metteneye flicked Simon’s chest with a finger. “Now we’ve got you,” he said. “You’d never guess. No. Here in Bruges, the young rascal. He’s married the widow Charetty, and he’s managing the whole of her business!”
“Married!” said Simon. “Surely not.”
“Oh, quite legally,” said the chaplain. He was smiling more widely, God damn him. He’d got what he wanted. Simon stopped even attempting to disguise what he felt. The chaplain said, “Of course, they’re related, but there’s to be a dispensation. I wonder Bishop Coppini didn’t mention it when you were both in Calais. He took the wedding Mass. With Anselm Adorne’s chaplain.”
Coppini, the bastard. No, of course: he would know nothing about Mabelie, or the gun, or the dog. Or the shears. But Anselm Adorne did, and had supported the marriage. Marriage! And who else now found Claes entertaining, of the men he would meet during the tournament? Metteneye had spoken with tolerant amusement. Metteneye, who had tried to thrash Claes with the best of them.
They were both still gazing at him. Simon said, “In view of all the trouble he’s caused, you do surprise me. There must be twenty years between Claes and the poor woman. He’s running all the business, you say?”
“Aye,” said Metteneye. “And you wouldn’t believe what he’s done for it. Bought arms and artillery and formed a big company and sent it off to the Naples wars. Started a private courier service between Flanders and the Italian states. Expanded the dyeing and pawnbroking business. Bought property and added new management …”
“All with the widow’s money? I didn’t know she was worth as much,” said Simon.
“Oh, she had a fair bit,” said Metteneye. “But most of it’s being done on loans and promises. That’s the beauty of getting old Astorre’s company and the courier service started early. The Medici are backing him, and the others he’s contracted to. It’s in their interests to make him loans, you see.”
The chaplain stood, grinning. Other people were coming into the passage below. Simon said, “It seems he must have entranced the poor lady. I hope she doesn’t wake up one morning and find her husband and her business and her money all gone together.”
Jehan Metteneye nodded. “That’s what my Griete says,” he said. “And maybe there’s truth in it. But they’ve