Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [86]
The Portinari eyebrows went up. “You are butchering something?”
Thomas, trying to follow the correct Italian, was scowling. Claes’ face got pinker.
Tobie said, “If I had any sense, I’d be trying to. You an expert in music?”
Pigello Portinari looked at him thoughtfully. “It is customary –” he began.
“Your brother isn’t,” said Tobie. “I’m trying to save the leg of a croaking fool of a monk your Tommaso is sending for the chapel of your chief in Florence. We brought him alive over the Alps. He has been delivered alive here in Milan. You let him die because you want me running attendance on you, and you have to explain to Messer Cosimo de’ Medici. And the Duke.”
“The Duke?” enquired Messer Pigello with composure.
“The Duke of Milan. Your Duke. My uncle is his physician.”
“Your uncle? Giammatteo Ferrari da Grado?”
“My uncle. My father was the ducal notary who officially transferred the dukedom from the Visconti to the Sforza nine years ago. My name is Tobias Beventini of Grado. The name of that fellow, as I told you, is Claes. He speaks Italian. Take him.”
“With pleasure. How fortunate,” said Pigello Portinari, “that we met, and have resolved a confusion. Instruct your excellent youth to box the papers and come with me. And perhaps, later, we may tempt you to visit the Palazzo Medici?”
“Well, someone will come,” said Tobie briskly. “You’ve got four horses to collect and pass on to Florence. And Brother Gilles, of course. But that won’t be for a while yet. Excuse me.”
He departed. So in due course did Messer Pigello, followed by Claes and his satchel. Lacking a good astrologer, no one saw any harm in it.
Claes was still away when Julius and the captain made their triumphant return from the Arengo. Tobie heard them come back. Deservedly well-supped and lavishly irrigated, the doctor lay on his pallet with his hands under his head. The jaunty clack of their hooves, and the pitch of Astorre’s voice bawling at Julius, conveyed everything. They had succeeded. The contract, the condotta, was captured.
And so it turned out. A cheer from some nearby quarter below told that good news had been announced to the fighting-arm. Then Astorre’s padded glove punched back Tobie’s door and the captain strode in, wrenching off his monstrous helmet and handing it back, without looking, to Julius, who passed it to Thomas, arriving behind. Tobie sat up. Astorre shot him a self-satisfied glance and began to walk up and down, his bow legs hinged like a lobster’s, while he reeled off dates and numbers and figures relating to the hiring of the Charetty company by the Duke of Milan.
His voice, at battle-pitch, made the ears sing. One hundred lances and one hundred foot, to be got down to Naples by spring. That was what he’d engaged to supply. And they’d take more if he got them. He’d signed a six-monthly contract at nine hundred florins the month, not counting their plunder entitlement. And pro rata terms from now until April, what’s more, depending on how many soldiers he took south this winter.
Within the next twenty-four hours, Cicco Simonetta, head of the Chancery, would pay out the money. And in six days’ time, when the horses and lances were rested, he, Astorre, would lead them all down to Naples. How? Was he the expert? They would be told. On foot, probably. Or on foot to Pisa, perhaps, and then south by sea. It would depend, wouldn’t it, on the weather, and where the enemy was, and how active? And he, Astorre, would send runners to all those towns and villages in the Low Countries and other places where men were paid by the Charetty to stand by for fighting. Come! the orders would say. Come to Naples and help yourselves to a fortune!
Julius was flushed too, as if he had spent all day drinking, which he certainly hadn’t. There were things Tobie wanted to know. So they were to join King Ferrante. So the terms were more than generous. So what else had Astorre and Julius learned? What about the Pope