Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [43]
“Winrik the money-changer,” said Claes appeasingly. Winrik, patrolling the streets with his money-booth, was the best source of gossip in Flanders.
Felix sneered. “And in return you gave Winrik a long, helpful check, and found a mistake in his day-book and three miscalculations at least in his ledger. This stinking artisan,” said Felix to his sole audience, an infant trainee newly sent out from Florence, “– this Flemish moron tells numbers for pleasure, as you and I drink, or fart, or plan how to spend money.”
“Well, if you’re going to spend it, someone’s got to save it,” said Claes with reason. His large gaze drifted over the packets and letter-books of the Medici. “Save you money too,” he volunteered to the office boy, who looked him up and down, so far as he was able, and stepped back beside Felix, and then further back still, as the smells from Claes’ apron pursued him.
“There,” said Claes, running a set of large indigo fingers over an order book. “What’s that and that?”
The boy hesitated.
“Oh, never mind,” said Felix wearily. “Don’t humour him. It’s a disease.” He looked at Claes again. “What have you got Mother’s shears for?”
“They’ve been sharpened,” said Claes.
“Then isn’t she expecting you back?” said Felix, a touch of his father creeping into his manner.
“No,” said Claes without blinking. “What are you waiting for?”
“Tommaso’s boat. He’s going to Sluys. It’s the day of the private deck sale on the Flanders galleys. I want a monkey.”
“You want to be sent back to Louvain,” said Claes. “She’ll find out you’ve been outside the city.”
“I’ll tell her that you bought it for me,” said Felix.
Claes considered. “You mean I have to come to Sluys with you?”
“Well, yes,” said Felix, reviewing for the first time the practical problems of the immediate future. “That is, if Tommaso can get rid of his priests and his monks. He’s choosing a tenor for the Medici chapel in Italy.” His face brightened. “Terrible, isn’t it?”
Through several doors, sounds emerged which might have been singing. It was indeed terrible. Claes grinned at the boy. “How many has he heard?”
The boy turned his back on the apron and replied, pointedly, to the youth with the good clothes and the hat. “This is the third. Brother Gilles is from the choir of the Augustines. He is a friend of the soldier Astorre of your company. The man Astorre waits, too, to travel to Sluys.”
“Oh,” said Felix. A ringlet, out of habit, fitted round his finger, and he twisted it.
“He is severe, Astorre?” said the boy. “You do not wish to see him?”
Felix said, “He’s only my mother’s captain. I’m going to Sluys.”
“He’d do your shopping for you,” said Claes. “Monkeys. Leopard-skin mantles. A new sort of feather?”
“I’m going to Sluys,” repeated Felix. The singing had stopped.
The door opened. “I heard that,” said captain Astorre. “Jonkheere Felix –”
“I’m going to Sluys,” said Jonkheere Felix for the third time.
Claes never sighed. He just said, “And so am I,” and grinned cheekily up at the soldier, who cuffed him absently across the face and said, “Well, what are we waiting for?”
That was Astorre in a good mood, because his friend Brother Gilles had been picked for the Medici chapel. The clouds cleared from Felix’s face. He grinned at Astorre, at Tommaso Portinari, entering briskly to lead them all to the company barge, and even at Claes, following obediently in his stocking soles with his clogs round his neck to save the boat-planks, and his shears under his arm, wrapped in his apron.
They embarked without a qualm, and even Tommaso looked cheerful. They were all off to Sluys, and the Venetian galleys.
Afterwards (but he was lying) the notary Julius used to say that it was the worst moment of his life, that sunny day in September when he squinted down from the deck of the Venetian flagship and saw the Medici