Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [48]
Holding the curtain back for the Greek to re-enter his cabin, he saw that Monsignore de’ Acciajuolo’s gaze was resting on the pleasantly-endowed young man from Scotland who had just shared their collation: the yellow-haired person called Simon. It occurred to Messer Duodo to wonder, idly, what the Athenian’s tastes might run to. He said, “I doubt if our Scottish friend intends to come back. It would seem that he regards himself as a friend of Lionetto.”
And as the Athenian, without replying, hesitated on deck, as if about to recall the Scot to the cabin – “Indeed, Messer Nicholai,” said the commander. “I think you and I have wasted time enough on this nonsense. We have that to discuss which, after all, requires no audience.” And the Greek turned, the curtain falling behind him.
For whatever was about to take place, he could do nothing about it.
Chapter 8
WITH DISMAY, Julius watched authority leave, and Astorre and Lionetto freed to stride down to the wharf, and lock horns at last without hindrance. The loss of the commander’s invitation was barely remarked, so intent were both captains on battle. They took their stance face to face on the quay, pursued by three or four dozen spectators and surrounded each by their friends. Behind Astorre, somewhat bemused, gathered Julius, Felix and their henchman Claes, with his recovered apron rolled under his arm. Behind Astorre stood the group of men who had supported him, Julius remembered, in the tavern of the Two Tablets of Moses. They included the bald man, whom he placed, blearily, as the drunken doctor Tobias, who had looked after the cranemen when Claes had damaged their faces.
Claes. Oh, God: idiot Claes. What were they to do with him?
Then Julius saw that the group about Lionetto included the Scotsman Simon, and realised, chilled, what someone wanted to do with him. Julius pulled himself together, and grasped the arm of the Charetty mercenary Astorre. He said, “Captain. It’s over. We should get back to the Widow.”
Jeering, Lionetto caught the words. “Oh, yes. Run back to the Widow. Why fight, if you can earn your living between the widow’s cordial legs? Was that what you wanted the goblet for? A bedding gift? I’d not blame you. No more nights in the mud under canvas; no university throw-outs to give you orders, no …”
Scarlet-faced, Felix leaped at him. Julius lunged, but Claes was before him, as Simon was before Lionetto. The collision of the apprentice and the Scotsman was of the briefest. It was the third time they had met in a matter of weeks. It was the first time they had touched one another. It was an encounter of greater moment than any other. For as the Scotsman fell back, it could be seen that the side of his fine lemon doublet was spotted with blood.
Simon caught his breath. Then, one hand over the wound, he stretched forward the other and drew from under the apprentice’s arm a rolled apron with a gleaming point, blotched with red, sticking from it. In silence, the Scotsman grasped the point and, unfurling the apron, held out for all to see a pair of finishing shears. Lionetto took and examined them.
Simon said, “This man has attacked me. I claim the right to punish him.”
Felix said, “You have no right. He is a servant. He was protecting me.” His face was scarlet.
Julius said, “My lord, it was an accident. The shears had come from the grinder’s, and Claes was carrying them rolled in his apron for safety. And, if you will forgive me, this is not your quarrel.”
“Indeed,” said Simon. His clear blue eyes, catching the sun, reminded Julius of his reputation with women. They said that shrew Katelina van Borselen had turned him down, and he had lain with every high-born woman in Bruges between then and now.