Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [263]
Putting up with Nicholas was already proving a mild irritation. There was no excuse now that the boy was ailing. A week ago, he had thrown off the last effects of the fever and, although taxed as they all were (except Loppe) by the journey, he was otherwise in normal health. Physically, at any rate. But, having thrashed out the alum business and run briefly through the other matters now occupying the house of Charetty, Nicholas had fallen silent.
Felix, of course. Julius, who was himself tired from some extremely hard riding, recognised that he and Nicholas were bound to see the death of Felix from different viewpoints. He mourned Felix, of course, as a schoolmaster mourned any lively youngster he had taught, and helped out of scrapes. Nicholas mourned him as a fellow-schoolboy. On top of that, Nicholas had to break the news to the mother in the ludicrous rôle of the boy’s stepfather. But he had put on that cap when he married the Widow, and Julius saw no reason to squander sympathy on him.
Then they got to the gates of Bruges and the porter, an old enemy, said, “Ho! You’ll see a difference in the Charetty, you two.”
Nicholas was sorting out permits. Julius said, “Well, I should hope so. They tell me the doormen held a party and burned it to the ground in the spring. They wouldn’t have had the chance, I can tell you, if I’d been about.”
“There’s worse than fire,” the porter said. He grinned evilly.
“Such as?” Nicholas said. The permits were sitting on top of a canister of good German beer. The porter grinned to the point where all his teeth stopped and removed the canister, leaving the papers in Nicholas’ hands.
“Such as the Widow giving you all up for dead and about to marry again,” he said. “Or that’s the story. Otherwise it’s not right, is it? That fellow staying there day and night, and going to all her meetings, and doing the deals? Where’s the youngster?”
“When we’ve seen the demoiselle, she’ll tell you,” Nicholas said. “What fellow?”
He sounded calmer than Julius felt. Julius was running names through his head. That pawnbroker Oudenin. One of the dyers. The other lawyer, Gregorio.
The porter said, “They say he’s related. So you was related, wasn’t you, Claes? Likes her own kinsmen around her. Jaak, he’s called. From Geneva. Jaak de Fleury.”
Nicholas said nothing. Then he said, “Staying with her?”
“And running the business,” said the porter. “Got the experience, you would say. A real merchant. The kind a woman could lean on.”
Julius said, “Look. Steady. Not straight to the house.”
“Yes, straight to the house,” Nicholas said. His face, already different, had drained from sepia to buff under a patchwork of dirt. He said, “If she’s taken him in, it’s because he’s compelled her.” He’d already left the porter behind, moving forward over the bridge.
“Told her you were dead? Felix? Or what?”
“Told her I knocked Felix unconscious in Geneva and forced him to come to Milan with me. Did Felix tell you?”
“No,” said Julius. He was immensely weary, and annoyed at having to bring his mind to bear on what was surely a simple legal problem. Jaak de Fleury was bankrupt. He had no claims on the Charetty, and could be got rid of. If he’d felt fresher, he would have looked forward to the prospect of getting rid of him personally. It was a pity the woman had taken him in, but that might be from misguided philanthropy. Perhaps she had no real idea what Monsieur Jaak was really like. He remembered him, very distinctly, threatening to cut Claes’ hands off.
Julius said, “Did you knock Felix unconscious? I’m sure, if you did, it was for the best