• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1903 0

the surgeon Tobie was curious. He was curious, primarily, about Julius himself, who seemed an extraordinary mixture of innocence and ambition. The widow de Charetty, Tobie guessed, had disappointed Julius in some way. Now he appeared to hope his fortune was going to be made in the train of a great mercenary company. He was a good accountant, and he was possibly right. Tobie, with a year’s experience of Lionetto’s unlovely ways, recognised in captain Astorre a man of equal ambition and perhaps equal lack of principle, but with a rough regard for the rights of his men which Lionetto had never troubled with. Before age overtook him, Astorre wanted, Tobie guessed, the big prizes that had so far eluded him – the great reputation, the statue in the market place with laurels on it. Half a day in Astorre’s company, and he was sure of it.

Tobie knew Astorre was watching him, and moderated his own abrasive style not at all. If Astorre didn’t want him, he could say so. But he would want him. Tobie knew about Lionetto, who was after the big prizes also, and who had sworn to get in Astorre’s way if he hindered him. Some time, when he trusted him, Astorre would ask Tobie about Lionetto. Meanwhile, at the thought of Lionetto, Tobie’s back occasionally twitched.

But Astorre would keep him, of course, for even better reasons. Tobie was the finest surgeon this side of the Alps, and maybe beyond them. Maybe. That, in a way, was what he was trying to prove. There was no medical crisis known to man that you didn’t come across treating an army, except maybe childbirth. He had worked in a kind of furious ecstasy all the past year, and had found out things and done things he hadn’t believed possible. Including curing the boy, which had led to his being here. The boy Claes, who must come to no harm in the house of the Fleury. Or at least, not until he and Tobie had had a talk about hair dye, and love potions, and holly.

The Hôtel de Fleury was massive. The yard swallowed their cavalcade: the cellars accepted, in their various quarters, the furs from the Doria and the barrels of salmon from the Strozzi; the goods from the Charetty which Jaak was to market; the consignments from the five merchants who had travelled with them and who would pay, heavily, for the privilege of warehousing until the next Fair.

The goods for Italy were stored in yet another area, ready for transfer to packmules for the Alpine crossing, and the Lorrainer carters paid off with their wagons and beasts. The horses for Pierfrancesco, with care, were led to the stables and housed with Jaak de Fleury’s own.

The consignment they called Brother Gilles, with less care, was required to wait in the biting wind in the emptying courtyard, listening to the raucous voice of the Fleury steward and his henchmen and the dwindling noise of the men at arms as they were led off to their quarters. At last, none was left in the yard but the captain Astorre, his deputy Thomas with Claes, Julius with his African servant, the silent, shivering singer, and Tobie. Then, and only then, the massive double doors of the Hôtel de Fleury creaked and opened: a servitor, bowing, stood back, and there emerged on the threshold the magnificent person of Jaak de Fleury.

Magnificent, thought Tobie Beventini, was the word. Not in the way of Popes or Doges, a tribute to status, to trappings, although this man had both. Magnificent in physique and in presence: a being to command. Jaak de Fleury was taller than most, and built like an athlete at the peak of his powers. His shoulders were of a breadth to wear like thistledown a gown of double cut-velvet lined with the finest of sables. His face below its wide jewelled hat was smooth and tanned and heavily handsome: the nose solid and straight in the French manner; the eyes dark and intelligent; the well-shaped lips smiling; the smile itself serviced by gleaming whorls: round the lip-corners, under the high, solid cheekbones, extending the full, well-lashed eyes.

Jaak de Charetty said, “Well, Astorre my poor man, how late you are. To be expected, of course. I