Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [67]
All the men were familiar to Julius. Between contracts they came about Bruges or Louvain, and he interviewed them and paid them. He had assumed that was to be the total of the party, before he heard the Widow’s new plans. But not a bit of it. They now had a black servant. The one who had dived for the goblet. The one the pawnbroker Oudenin had given the Widow. And whom the Widow, not wishing to offend minen heere Oudenin or be indebted to him too greatly either, had sent on the expedition. A touch of luxury.
Nor was that all. They had the offices of a monk. A musical monk called Brother Gilles who, inconveniently, was part of the Medici consignment for Florence. In addition to three suits of tapestry, a quantity of Paris goldsmithwork embedded in fleeces, a satchel of letters and four expensive hackneys with breakable legs, a gift for Cosimo’s nephew, Pierfrancesco.
And finally, and almost as disturbing, the baldheaded physician Tobias. Who had fallen out, it seemed, with the captain Lionetto and had applied, with success, to serve his rival Astorre instead. It was Master Tobie, indeed, who was busiest on the trip to Geneva, cutting lay corns and administering purges, or powders which, it was hoped, would produce the opposite effect. Julius, observing the daily training of Claes, was reassured when the surgeon showed no alarm, even in the earliest days when the embittered Thomas showed him small mercy.
Kill or cure it undoubtedly was, considering the sickbed Claes had left behind him; but it was amazing how weapon-play hardened him. The more punishment he got, the quicker he became to avoid it. And soon he could hang on to his horse at a gallop, even when they made his saddle fall off. You would see him jolting along, the iron brim of his round basin-hat clapping up and down on his nose like a pot-lid. It made everyone cheerful.
Later, Thomas found the boy an old two-handed sword and showed him a few tricks with his own blade before he knocked him out with the flat of it. And the horse-soldiers, discovering Claes didn’t bear them a grudge and was a born teller of jokes into the bargain, accepted him round the fire in whatever barn they got into for the night (while Astorre and Thomas and the rest, naturally, slept five to the bed in the comfort of the inn) and were easier on him next day. Even the African seemed to take to him, and had to be beaten once or twice for sneaking off to the barn instead of staying on the floor beside Julius’ bed.
He and Claes appeared to converse mainly in sign language and Catalan, which they all knew bits of from Lorenzo. He was a very large negro, with shoulders like mattresses, and Brother Gilles was afraid of him and prayed when he came too near, which the negro seemed to enjoy. So they rode on sedately south, glittering with helmet, cuirass and leg-armour under the banner of Astorre, nobly horsed, with the nose-piece of his helmet supplying a profile of astonishing dignity, considering the convulsed and furious face that worked beneath it.
On the way to Geneva, Claes was thrown to the bowmen, and it was discovered that he had an accurate eye, which allowed a respite to some of his bruises. This lasted for a day, at the end of which an outburst of maniac inventiveness got him thrashed by Astorre himself. It had very little effect. His superabundant energy, it was apparent, had returned. He was cured. That was the night before they entered Geneva. Once settled in their chosen inn, the doctor tossed a phial-end of salve to Julius’ African and told him to smear some on Claes’ lacerations. The black man, who answered to Loppe rather than Lopez, appeared to understand well enough, and went off with