Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [40]
It had not occurred to her until then that what Julius said was true. The Claes of Bruges had gone. Or perhaps, translated to a wider arena, the charming attributes were now more clearly seen for what they had always been. Then the trumpets blew, and the tree full of birds was wheeled on, drawn by child-cherubs.
She and Gregorio had seen it prepared. There had been no time for a great artefact, one of the hand-carved witty devices which had absorbed Nicholas in Bruges and even in Trebizond, she had heard. It was simply a tree, with its branches laden with sparkling birds of every variety, made of feathers and plaster and paper. Set down, it began to revolve on its base, emitting sweet, trilling music. Speckled light, bright as ducats, swept over the coffered ceiling and the splendid doorways and the smooth painted faces of the women, rousing the facets from their jewels. They began, politely, to applaud even before they noticed its cause. Every bird on the tree wore an eyeglass.
Nicholas clapped his hands, and stepped forward, smiling. Tilde’s face, looking at him, was glowing and young. Primaflora, thought Margot suddenly. The way he knows how to hold himself, how to choose the fine hose, the tunic, the shirt that became him; the way he uses his voice. Of course he knew how to judge what was called for this evening. He married a courtesan. All her arts are his, now.
He spoke for no more than a moment: enough to thank them for their presence, and for all they had done to make him welcome in Venice. He hoped, in token of it, that they would accept a frivolity, and if the design was not wholly pleasing, that they would bring the lenses to the Casa Barovier at Murano, where there were as many again to exchange them with. That the glasses served any practical purpose went wholly unmentioned.
The musicians, who had been silent, began to play. Cherubs tripped through the room, bearing ribboned trays spangled with spectacles. Ringed hands hovered, and dipped. The guests, their hands to their faces, ducked their heads up and down and moving, bumped into one another and laughed. They peered at objects and, detaching the lenses, held them at arm’s length to look through. They exchanged sets, and gathered round Nicholas, amused, asking questions. Godscalc stood silent, watching. Julius stood, his mouth slightly open, and then turned to Gregorio. ‘What it’ll have cost him!’
‘Seed corn,’ Gregorio said. ‘They will all come to Murano, and buy.’ Without the lappets, his face looked naked and drawn beneath a hat with a roll.
Margot said, ‘Who is that?’
A red-haired man, powerfully built, had appeared in the doorway, with other men dressed in black standing behind him. He looked about, taking his time, until his gaze fell on Nicholas. Then, signalling the others to stay, he began to shoulder his way through the room.
He was noticed. The guests were too well-mannered to turn, or to fall silent, but few missed his journey to where Nicholas stood, and although those beside Nicholas moved accommodatingly to one side, they were not out of earshot. The man said, ‘Vander Poele? Nicholas vander Poele of the House of Niccolò? Your Negro didn’t seem to know where you were.’
Chapter 7
BESIDE MARGOT, Gregorio started to move. The priest Godscalc also began to walk quickly over to Nicholas. For a moment, Nicholas looked down at the man without speaking. Then he said, ‘I am Niccolò vander Poele. As you see, I am not precisely in hiding although not, I’m afraid, with leisure to talk to you. They should have told you so at the door.’
It was true. There had been no message from below; no outcry even. At the doors of this chamber there were no servants to be seen, only the companions of the man who was speaking, dressed in the black robes of lawyers.
The man said, ‘One makes one’s arrangements. In cases of fraud, there is a temptation, perhaps excusable, for those accused to try to abscond. My name is Martin, and I speak on behalf