Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [17]
Later he left. Thomas, rejoining him, was at least merry within himself, which was just as well, for there was nothing else to cheer an off-duty soldier. A professional from the English–French wars, Thomas was familiar with both redundancy and bereavement, and patently believed Nicholas had mismanaged both. Nicholas, having been denied the Charetty company, had lost his nerve for everything else.
Nicholas wondered if this was true, and concluded it probably was. He had left Gregorio his lawyer in Venice to set up a bank of exchange. He had neither been helpful nor sympathetic, but Gregorio had shown no sign of minding. He had allowed his notary Julius to take himself off to Bruges. But Julius had wanted to go, and he had encouraged him. Then, of course, there was the army – the mercenary troop that had begun as a bodyguard for the Charetty money and goods, and ended as a marketable unit.
In the short term, the army was committed. It was returning to fight in the contest for Naples, this time alongside the leader Skanderbeg and his Albanians. The action would be in south Italy, and Astorre would lead his own company. The army’s doctor Tobias, on the other hand, had joined the camp of the Count of Urbino, who was fighting for the same cause in the north. It made sense. Nicholas couldn’t drag them all with him. He had kept Thomas, or Astorre had foisted Thomas on him. Astorre thought he was in no condition to look after himself, and had explained, speciously, that Thomas could protect his little step-daughters at Bruges. He might be right. Tilde needed a bodyguard. After Silla, Nicholas thought that he had proved he could manage quite well by himself.
On the way from the Château Damparis Thomas sang, now and then, and Nicholas wished he had got him drunk sooner. When they reached the outskirts of Dijon and began finding their way to the priest’s house at Fleury, he was disconcerted to find that Thomas, too, wanted to pay his respects to his late employer. Which he had a right to do. Thomas had been a senior Charetty mercenary while her future husband was stoking the dyevats.
So Thomas was there when the priest took his keys and led them off to the family church, and then down to the crypt. He had, however, the soldier’s good sense to let the first mourner enter alone. Descending into the crypt, Nicholas carried a lamp, but nothing else: in December, there were no flowers in Dijon. He went, as was right, to his usual place. After that, it was easy to see the new coffin. The light glimmered on brass, where the wreaths – old now, and dried – lay upon the shining lines of inscription. He drew them aside with scrupulous fingers. The plate said what he had expected it to say: 1420–1461: Marian, daughter of the late Berthélémieu of Louvain, and wife of Cornelis de Charetty, 1400–1458. It continued, as he had not expected it to continue: and of Nicholas, son of Simon de St Pol and Sophie de Fleury.
He sank back on his heels. After a while, he brought himself to think of all the ordinary, mundane implications of that brave proclamation of his parentage. The priest would have seen it, and the engraver, and even perhaps Thibault de Fleury. They presumably accepted it as a lie. Marian had wanted it said, and to please her they had engraved it to lie here in darkness. Even so, it was as well Simon de St Pol didn’t know that Nicholas was written down anywhere as his son, even ten feet underground.
Afterwards, there were papers to sign, and the priest led the way to his house. When he heard that M. vander Poele wished to endow the chapel, the priest had smiled, deprecating but amiable. The family had made arrangements. Then, receiving the papers from Nicholas, he had scanned them and reddened. At the finish he said, ‘… but not of course on this scale. On this all too generous scale. They will wish to –’
‘I would prefer that they didn’t communicate. Anything to do with the fund will find me care of my own