Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [52]
He saw the yellow head of the Scotsman quite quickly, progressing sedately towards the wharf steps, and in no evident need of retrieval. Claes he could not see at all nor, when he shouted an enquiry, did the other swimmer even turn his face towards him.
The water still pooled and danced, where the two men had plunged. Julius swam towards it. He was quite near, in fact, when he saw the blood, spiralling up like whelk-red in a dye vat.
He took a strong breath, and dived, and found the cold, drifting bulk of Claes’ body.
Because the boy appeared to be dead, which might have been a nuisance, the seigneur commander Duodo made his stately way along his deck to the wharf, followed by the Athenian de’ Acciajuoli and the ship’s surgeon. When they got there everyone else drew back, with the exception of a bald-headed man who continued to kneel, busying himself in a bad-tempered way with the inert, half-naked body of the apprentice. It was grotesquely discoloured.
Messer Duodo said gently, “This is an unfortunate business.”
Lionetto and Astorre looked at one another, and Lionetto moved forward a little. “Oh, they’ve got the water out of him,” he said. “They mend quickly, that class. I dare say he’ll be none the worse in a week or two.”
“Ah, the lad is alive,” said the commander. One would have been deceived. The youth’s eyes were shut, and distressingly sunken. Also, there appeared to be blood. He said, “What are you staunching? Perhaps my surgeon can help?”
Without looking up, the bald-headed man said, “I am a surgeon. I could do with proper bandages, and some ointment. It’s a stab-wound.”
It was the Greek who said sharply, “A stab-wound?”
There was a pause. The ship’s surgeon laid down his box and, kneeling, opened it. The second mercenary, the one they called Astorre, said, “The Scotsman snatched the shears as they went over, and stabbed him.”
The first mercenary, Lionetto, had flushed. “It was the boy who took the shears. You heard the Scots lord declare it. The boy had stabbed him once already.”
“There seems to be some confusion,” said the commander mildly. “Did no one see precisely what happened?”
The answer, as he expected and, indeed, counted on, was in the negative.
The Scots lord, wet and tired after the combat, had left with his servants. The notary here, who had saved the youth’s life, had seen no more than anyone else. There was no need for the lord commander to trouble himself further over an idle dispute. The good pawnbroker Oudenin had offered to carry the lad to his house until he could be moved back to Bruges. The ship’s surgeon, if the lord commander permitted, could supply immediate medicaments. The bald-headed man, whose name was Tobias Beventini, was also willing to help. Master Tobias was a fully qualified medical officer, already attached for a year to the mercenary army of this Lionetto.
The commander was mildly surprised that one of the company of Lionetto should care for an employee of his antagonist’s household. Indeed, the man Lionetto objected, but the doctor Tobias continued to work, and paid his captain no heed whatever.
The commander, it seemed, was expecting a buyer almost immediately to discuss the price of his Candian wine. He murmured a few appropriate comments, gave carte blanche to his surgeon, a langorous person burned by the Levantine sun who called himself Quilico, and paced back on deck, leaving the Greek to watch, since he was interested.
The Greek said, “The wound. Is it serious?”
The bald-headed man said, “Yes. He needs warmth and attention quickly. Once we see how matters go, he can be taken back to Bruges by canal.” He looked up, his drinkers eyes narrowed. He had a small flexible mouth like a fish, and a pallid face with a fuzz of pale hair round his cranium. He said, “And if you are going to ask, I didn’t see what happened.”
“I am more concerned,” said