Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [32]
The man Simon had lodged a formal complaint about the death of his dog, and Julius had just finished another unpleasant interview with Meester Adorne and two magistrates in which Claes’ liability had been defined in terms of large sums of money.
If the final amount to be paid by the Charetty company to the Scots merchant was less than it might have been, they had the Scots bishop to thank. From his residence with the Carmelites, Bishop Kennedy had disclosed his disapproval of unseemly night brawling. My lord Simon had lost a fine dog, but he had himself at least partly to blame. Compensation was due, but not prodigal compensation. He trusted his good friends of Bruges to see to it.
Breathing hard, Meester Julius crashed downstairs to the public room of the Two Tablets of Moses after that interview and threw himself on to the tavern bench occupied by Felix, who had collected round him a number of unreliable friends such as the Bonkle boy and Adorne’s nephew Anselm Sersanders and the Strozzi under-manager Lorenzo, who seemed to spend such a lot of time, looking discontented, away from his employer’s business.
Someone said, “Aha! The party of dog-lovers. Julius, my little friend, your mistress is on her way to chastise you. Stick to ink and parchment and numbers, my dear. It takes men to control men.”
It was the voice of one of the most tiresome Frenchmen in Bruges. Lionetto the condottiere was sitting at the next table with the bald-headed doctor Tobias and all his other friends round him. Tobias was drunk, and so was Lionetto. In Italy and in Geneva, Julius had seen enough of drunk mercenary captains to know at least how not to handle them. He said, “Do you want Claes? Take him.”
Lionetto gave a long laugh, which emerged in two phases with a central intermission. He was one of the few mercenaries Julius knew who looked not only low-born but proud of it. But that might have been the red hair, too coarse to curl, which brushed his shoulders, and the pock-mottled skin and ripe nose. He had a chain over his doublet with rubies in it. Or glass maybe. But the gold of the thick links was genuine.
Recovering, Lionetto said, “Pay me and I’ll take him, if you’re afraid of the widow. Hey, Felix! Your mother’s coming, you know? Get your backside stripped off for the horsewhip! You too, Julius! Hey?”
Beside him the doctor, grinning, let his elbow slip off the table and knocked over Lionetto’s full tankard. Lionetto, cursing, smacked the doctor over the head and then, leaning forward, ripped off one of the man’s stained black sleeves and mopped up his splattered hose with it. The doctor looked annoyed. Lionetto shouted.
“Julius, my little man! Give me your naughty dog-killer and I’ll give you a sot of a physician in exchange for him! One pint of Gascon wine, and he’ll abort you quintuplets. That is, if you could ever get quintuplets between you. You’ve only got one man at the Charetty, and he’s your fornicating apprentice!” Lionetto frothed. “Claes’d have your mother under him if she wasn’t too old.”
Felix missed it, thank God. There was only one sort of man who could handle Lionetto, and that was another condottiere. Wait, Julius thought, fuming. Just wait till Astorre gets to Bruges with the demoiselle. Then we’ll see about horsewhips. He saw Lionetto open his mouth and steeled himself to do something about it, and then didn’t have to. Everyone quietened. Everyone looked at the stairs. From above, solemn in their long gowns, the magistrates were descending to take their customary refreshment in the common room. Anselm Adorne was among them.
And as they seated themselves, and talk began to resume, a second interruption caused it to wane again. The tavern door opened, and in walked the Greek with the wooden leg. The one who was begging gold to ransom his brother. Acciajuoli, that was the name.
Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli looked around, smiled at Meester Adorne who was signalling to him, and crossed steadily to where Julius and his assorted juniors were sitting. He was looking