Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [245]
Nicholas tilted his head back against the cart and, as well as his chattering teeth would allow, returned a shaky, unfocused smile.
“Although,” said Tobie, “we’ll never know, will we, what brought it on? Relief or disappointment?”
Chapter 36
WHEN YOU HAD good enough health, but had spent your whole life inviting beatings of one sort or another, it was nothing new to feel alternately hot and cold, to run a small fever, to feel sick until the pain passed. It didn’t matter, because it always passed. It was the same now, in Tobie’s tent, after a blurred interval where Nicholas saw very little, but sometimes heard voices. Sometimes when he woke it was dark, and sometimes it was light. He was not greatly troubled about whether he woke or not.
The voice that finally reached him and kept him awake was that of Felix, arguing. The voice answering him appeared to be that of Julius, but he couldn’t make out what the dispute was about. He was still dreamily listening when a shadow fell over his bed and he saw it was Tobie, with a cloth in his hand.
Tobie said, “Ah. Don’t speak, or you’ll have them both over.”
His lips didn’t want to smile and his tongue didn’t want to move, but central authority at length prevailed. “Why not?” Nicholas said.
The pale eyes, ringed and pin-pupilled, studied him. “Why not, indeed?” said Tobie. “Piccinino is getting bored. Urbino is getting bored. The brilliant young noblemen leading the skirmishes on both sides have taken to throwing out personal challenges. There’s to be a joust in two days, and Felix wants to take part.”
“A joust?” said Nicholas hazily.
“On the battlefield. On the plain between the two armies. All properly supervised, with the appropriate truce declared on both sides. Chivalry. Lunacy,” Tobie said.
Felix’s voice said, “He’s talking. He’s better. Nicholas? Tell them to let me go.”
Felix came up to the bed. He had under his arm the amazing helmet the Dauphin had given him, with the red plumes and the face of a sour-looking eagle with carbuncles for eyes. He must have brought it in his luggage from Genappe.
Felix’s face was different: the neck thicker, the nose and cheekbones firmed and broadened. The wavering curl had gone, too, from the ends of his hair. His hair, cropped below the ears, had reverted to its natural straightness, except where bent by the weight of a helmet.
Nicholas said, “Someone said you killed eight men. A lie. You talked them to death.”
Julius had come over too. The sling was still there, and the strong face was paler than usual. He spoke straight to Nicholas, notary to apprentice, as if they’d been at home in Bruges. “He’s right. He fought very well for a brat who never listens to what he’s told. Did he train in Milan?”
“Yes. Who are the challengers?” Nicholas said. He didn’t look at Tobie, but felt the heat of his glare.
Felix said, “I was going to fight in the White Bear. You know I was. If I could fight in the White Bear, I can manage a few jumped-up mercenaries.”
“Who?” repeated Nicholas. He kept his eyes, with difficulty, open.
“Well, no one great,” Felix said. “Nardo da Marsciano. He’s fighting Francesco della Carda. And Serafino da Montefalcone issued a challenge to someone called Fantaguzzo da San Arcangelo. So I issued a challenge too. The Count said I could.”
“The Count,” said Tobie through his teeth, “said that any of the survivors of Sarno was welcome to break a lance, and he would double the prize. Felix could draw anybody. Piccinino himself.”
“The Count? The Count’d be scared,” Nicholas said, his eyes on Julius. Julius obliged with the faintest shrug and a nod. Nicholas said, “The Count’d probably get one of those Braccian crossbowmen and they’ll pick Felix off on the way to the lists, and good riddance. What’s the problem? If Felix has killed eight men already, I don’t see how mortal man can prevent him.”
“I said you’d say that,” said Felix. “And you’ve to