Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [33]
Lionetto’s attack, surprisingly, had not upset Felix. Felix was subdued today. Or rather, that flattered him. Felix was quietly sullen. Sullen to Julius, that is. To his friends he turned a different face. Coming downstairs, Julius knew he had heard the wheeze of suppressed laughter. Julius had just spent an hour making feeble excuses to magistrates. If you weren’t the company notary, last night’s escapade no doubt appeared side-splitting.
The face Felix turned to the Greek was therefore half hostile and half expectant. This was a house-guest of Anselm Adorne. He was going to be censorious, and Felix was going to be impertinent. Julius could see it coming.
The Greek said, “Messer Felix, I have a message from your friend Claes, who is in the Steen.”
He spoke in very clear Greek. Julius, disciple of Bessarion, understood him. On his feet before Felix could speak, Julius said, “Monsignore … I thought he was released.”
The Greek sighed. “Perhaps so,” he said. “It was early this morning. I should have delivered it then, but I was overtaken with affairs. Is it too late?”
Belatedly, Felix stood up beside Julius. “Too late for what?” he said.
“Felix,” said Julius. He turned to Messer de’ Acciajuoli. “Forgive us. Please tell us what Claes has said. It was generous of you to trouble.”
“It was no trouble,” said the Greek kindly. “And a very shor message. He requires you, Messer Felix, not to do something.”
“What?” said Julius.
“What?” said Felix rather differently.
The Greek smiled. “That is all. He said you would know what he meant. Forgive me.” And smiling again, he turned with care, and made towards the table of Anselm Adorne and the magistrates. Felix remained on his feet.
“Felix?” said Julius.
The Bonkle boy tugged Felix’s tunic and he sat down.
“Felix?” said Julius again, really sharply.
Under his breath, the Sersanders boy said, “I told you.”
“Well,” said Felix angrily.
The Sersanders boy said, “I told you Claes was in trouble enough.”
Julius stared at him, and then at Felix, and then at John Bonkle, who wouldn’t meet his eye. He said, “Oh my God, what has he done now?”
By then, other people could have told him.
In the pleasant little garden of the van Borselens the fountain, playing gently while the family took the air, chatting, suddenly became possessed of Satan and thrust its jets hissing into the air, to fall drenching across my lord’s head and into my lady Katelina’s satin skirts.
In the yard of the Jerusalem Church the well overflowed into the piles of newly-mixed mortar, spreading its white sticky porridge over and into the timber stacks, and the feet of the masons and carpenters who were adding the latest improvement to Anselm Adorne’s splendid church.
In the egg-market, the casing shot off a water-pump and frightened a goat, which broke its tether and demolished three stalls of eggs until someone caught it.
The waterpipe running under Winesack Street sprang a leak under uncommon pressure and the water, rising, found its way into two cellars and the bath-house, where it put out the boilers, injected the bathwater with a stream of noisome brown liquid and nearly choked the proprietor, the porter and the clients with a surfeit of steam.
The barbers’ bloodpit, sharply diluted, overflowed. Joining the rivulet from a parting pump joint, the stream moved into the Grand Market and towards the wheels of the Great Crane. This, powered by two running men, each treading the curve of his wheel, was currently raising a net bearing two tuns of Spanish White, two chests of soap and a small cask of saffron.
By bad luck the water reached the Crane from behind, striking the wheels at a time when they were spinning hard in the opposite direction. The effect was to halt the spin suddenly, pitching each running man severely forward to the hurt of his features. The twin hooks, almost wound to the height of the Crane, then unwound even more quickly, dropping the Spanish White, the soap and the saffron and breaking every container.
Rivers of gold, rivers of white, rivers of scarlet and a scum of expensive