The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [46]
“That man?” said Monna Alessandra. “He is the son of a timber merchant! He spent his youth tying knots—ha!—in the woods; arching saplings for shipyards. But the Duke of Burgundy is not a man to be bent by another.”
Nicholas pursed his lips. “According to Gregorio, he is calling a Chapter of the Golden Fleece in the spring.”
“Where the well-born of Burgundy will dress in matched velvet, and feast and parade, but will do nothing. It is a club for men children, like all societies. Why do you speak of it? You don’t imagine some Burgundian army will arrive on your heels? Twenty years ago the late Emperor of Constantinople visited Florence. He appealed for help; he was the guest of your friend Cosimo de’ Medici himself; but Constantinople still fell. When he speaks to you, does the lord Cosimo mention God?”
“Sometimes,” said Nicholas.
“You smile. As a matter of form, you imply. But all his other talk, I am sure, was of trade and of money.”
“That is why I am here,” Nicholas said.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course. He would talk of what you understand. What does a rustic know of Aristotle, of Plato, of the great thinkers whose writings occupy the minds of men like my Matteo? He would talk of trivial things.”
“Of trade,” Nicholas said. “It enables thinkers to eat, write and sell books. I can bring you no news of exalted discussion, or politics, or the prospects for Lorenzo and Filippo. In my position, to pretend erudition would be foolish.”
“Many would not agree with you,” said Monna Alessandra. “If you called it aspiration, for example. But you are probably right. The victim in such cases is often the marriage. So. You plan a long absence, but you have no mission, that I can see. You are not a second Jason. Your mind is merely on gold and power and the delights of the flesh. I know this kind. Have you been to Mass more than thrice since you came here?”
“I don’t think Jason went to Mass either,” Nicholas said. “But yes. I have no mission to fleece the Orthodox Church or the Sultan. The lady my wife has a business. I would like to see it prosper. That is all.”
“For her sake?” said Lorenzo’s mother.
Nicholas paused. Then he said, “You know my kind: you must judge. Perhaps Lorenzo has an opinion.”
“Many people have. I know the gossip,” said Monna Alessandra. “If I were the Medici, I should want instead to know the facts. A good marriage is worth five per cent in the pound in the money markets. A bad one can be worse than tin money.”
“The facts?” said Nicholas. “It is a legal marriage, but only for business purposes. I inherit nothing beyond an agreed salary. The demoiselle’s heirs are her daughters.”
“Only for business purposes?” said Monna Alessandra. “You are a vigorous man. I heard differently.”
He stayed where he was. “I will talk about what will affect money markets,” he said.
Her pencilled brows rose, in the same Florentine irony he had seen in Cosimo. “A silly woman may affect money markets,” she said. “Your wife is old. She needed a man and a manager. They did not need to be the same person. So she had her reasons. Perhaps she was afraid you would leave. Perhaps she was afraid you would bed and marry one of her daughters. Perhaps she was afraid you would do away with her son…who indeed died abroad in your arms, so they tell me. Or perhaps she simply conceived an old woman’s craze for a boy. May and December. It is a cogent question, you see. Without an answer, the market cannot read your intentions or hers, or forecast the future of the Charetty company.”
“Why not open a book?” Nicholas said. “I didn’t know how lucky we were, that Monsignore Cosimo signed us with no further questions. I am a guest at your table, and should enjoy hearing your views on another subject.”
“Well enough done,” said Monna Alessandra. “But if you do not discuss her, you do not defend her. Myself, I would ask: is it fair to demand of a lusty man in the flower of his youth that he should be married, and chaste? Nature will speak in the end, and she will hear of it.”
“No,” said Nicholas. For years, he had never really known—had refused