Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [53]
“He will have it,” said the bald-headed man shortly. “I have nothing to do. Messer Quilico will be about. The pawnbroker is helpful, and I will stay with the boy through the night. It may be possible to move him tomorrow.”
Around them, the crowds had thinned. Lionetto, after lingering, had turned abruptly and walked off, with his friends but without this man he called Tobie. One or two crewmen from the galleys stood about, and nearest of all, of course, the Charetty boy and the factor Julius, his black gown flung round his shoulders over his soaking doublet.
The mercenary Astorre, who had caused all the trouble, said, “Well, my lord, if you mean that, I can tell you that the widow – that the demoiselle de Charetty, who employs him, won’t see you out of pocket at the end of it. Send the accounting to her. Or to Meester Julius here. Meanwhile, we ought to be going. Jonkheere Felix? Meester Julius?”
“You go,” said the notary briefly. “We’re staying.”
Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli looked at him. He said, “I think perhaps, if you will forgive me, that the demoiselle de Charetty might be more reassured to hear the tale from your lips or her son’s than from – anyone else. No doubt the surgeon here would appreciate your help in taking the boy to the pawnbroker’s you speak of. But I am sure Messer Quilico and Messer Tobias will engage to give you any news of a change in his condition. Indeed, I am myself staying here in the castle, and will see to it.”
An autocratic bastard, concluded the surgeon Tobie, when he had time to think of anything but the task of transferring the bleeding carcass of his patient from the quay to the house of the pawnbroker.
The man Oudenin, who seemed eager to help, settled him comfortably enough on a pallet in a room full, so far as Tobie could see, of kitchen utensils and seamen’s clothing. Then, after a fairly useless consultation with Quilico, they left him alone with the boy, and the medical provisions the galley doctor had supplied him with.
The apprentice was still unconscious. A hell-raiser in his own little way, so they said, but a long way from being able to deal with the nobility when bent on raising their particular hell. All right. To work, before the youth woke, so that the worst of it was out of the way. His hands this morning were steady.
Devil take Lionetto. Tobias Beventini of Grado knew very well, looking at the passive, marked face below him, that he was only doing this to score off the captain. If he didn’t watch, he’d be reduced like a child to taking umbrage. Since the day of the flooded tavern, Lionetto had never insulted him in public again and wouldn’t, when he was sober. Nor would he let him, when he was sober. Lionetto needed a good medical officer, and he had been the best of his year in Pavia. And it was his choice to work with mercenaries. It was still his choice. The Dauphin’s piles and the Pope’s feet were for sycophantic men like his uncle.
He preferred to sharpen his skills on common men, like this one. Yellow bubbles. He remembered laughing over it at the Crane, while he was tending the cranemen’s burst noses. By God, he had been drunk. But there was no doubt, this lad caused his elders a lot of trouble, and it was not surprising if they levelled the score now and then.
But not like this. Not the way that Scotsman had done.
Much later, during the night, the youth – Claes, was it? – stirred and opened his eyes, and the surgeon lifted over the soup he had ready, and prepared to give it him. For quite a while, as was natural, the apprentice didn’t seem to understand where he was, or what had happened, and said nothing when Tobie put the necessary questions about his condition. Then suddenly he seemed to gather his thoughts together, and answered quite sensibly, in a low voice. In return, without being asked, the surgeon described where he was, and what had happened to his companions. He didn’t mention the man Simon, or ask questions about the source of the wound.
Curiously, when Tobie