Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [217]
His spirit in Bruges, Felix stood and remained mindlessly standing. There entered the room a cake of a woman, pale as a pudding packed into a gut of stretched silk, with a head of dyed hair rolled in ribbons. She trod towards him, lifted two draped and powdery arms, and encased him. His nose sank into flesh, found a vacuum, and plugged it. He freed himself with a gasp.
“Felix!” said Esota Fleury, her hands on his shoulders. “Motherless child!”
Renewed fright in his eyes, Felix turned his head. Jaak de Fleury’s smile was soothing. “Esota! The boy will think his mother dead, and she is unharmed. Ruined, but unharmed.”
For such a large face, Esota’s eyes were bright but meagre. They remained fixed on the boy. Sliding one hand down to his, she led him to the settle and seated herself at his side, his fingers clasped in both her palms. She said, “But motherless still! That wretched marriage, forced on an innocent widow. How can you forgive us? Your mother raped by a knave from our kitchens!”
Jaak de Fleury turned from where, instead of his wife, he was preparing wine for his guest. He said, “But that is merely rumour, Esota. We will not speak of it.”
“It’s true,” said Felix.
They stared at him. After a moment he realised it, and pulled himself together. He drew a deep breath. He said, “Not rape. If that’s the rumour, I’d be obliged if you would deny it. Nicholas and my mother recently drew up an instrument of marriage purely as a business arrangement. Despite his base beginnings he has, my mother thinks, great business acumen and can help her manage the company. This contract gives him proper authority.”
The woman released his hands. “Nicholas!” she said, amused.
“I suppose it is his given name,” said the merchant thoughtfully. “We, of course, think of him as he was known in the kitchens. Such a change of fortune can happen to few boys. A turn for business, you say? And so he owns it jointly now with your mother?”
“No. He gets nothing but a salary. Got. There won’t be much in it for him now,” Felix said. “There’s nothing to own.”
“Except debts,” said Jaak de Fleury. He sat down, glass in hand, and gazed at it thoughtfully. “Unless there is money we know nothing of? Business acumen, you were saying.”
“There’s property,” Felix said. “There’s Louvain. There are other investments. Something could be done. We’ll put our heads together.”
“You don’t think there is money somewhere? No cash? No investments? I only asked,” said Jaak de Fleury, “because in cases of arson, it is usual for someone to benefit, and here apparently no one does.”
“Arson?” said Felix. His stomach, which had begun to settle, started to disturb him again. His hair, which had been rolled up tightly that morning, had begun to come down in the heat. He said, “Someone started the fire?”
“So they say,” said the merchant. “Not your mother or yourself, it goes without saying. Someone with a grievance against their new young master, perhaps. What else could it be? Although I must say I have been wondering … Ah. I hear voices below. That will be your stepfather now.”
Felix didn’t even repeat the word. He merely gazed at his tormentor.
Jaak de Fleury smiled. “Nicholas. He is your stepfather, you say? You didn’t know then that he was in Geneva, calling on Francesco Neri of the Medici? I wondered if my poor house was to receive his next call. And after you arrived, dear boy, I sent to Francesco’s to make quite sure Nicholas made his way here. You wouldn’t want to miss him. And I must admit. I must admit,” the merchant repeated, rising and setting his glass on a table, “I am full of curiosity. Why, after such a disaster, is he not in Bruges, helping his wife in her hour of need with this great business acumen we have heard of? What can bring him to Geneva? And where, I wonder, does he plan to go when he leaves? However generous his managerial