The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [183]
There was a contemplative silence. Then the Greek said, ‘Tell me. How did he fail? Or how have others offended?’
‘It is really hard to say,’ Gelis said. ‘In any fashion, that is, that would be helpful. Sometimes all a man has to do is to die.’
He said, ‘Or a woman, I suppose. You have been helpful, as it happens. And I would do something for you in return. This was purchased by my cousin after the funeral of the artist. I have redeemed it. I thought it should be where it belongs.’
It was a drawing on vellum. It had never been sprayed: a haze of chalk fell from the scroll as she opened it. Inside, the tones of the study were blurred, but the deftness of line had survived: the work of a maestro, though an old one. It showed a youth dropped to one knee, one hand raised, his face turned, with its open, innocent eyes smiling up at the artist. The young man was explicitly, charmingly nude.
In the corner, the artist had put his name, and a single word in Italian. She had heard it before. In the trembling hand, it looked wistful.
She became aware that her thumbnails were white; and the vellum had stretched taut between them. She calmed herself and looked up.
Nicholai Giorgio de’ Acciajuoli, brother of Bartolomeo Zorzi, had risen and gone. She knew, however, how to reach him.
It was unfortunate, perhaps, that Tommaso Portinari’s visit occurred the same morning.
Tommaso himself, preparing to call on Gelis van Borselen, had changed his dark managerial gown (trimmed with beaver) for a fluted doublet in damask with twisted buttons of gold, and hose whose embroidery did not conceal the interleaving of sinew and muscle between dainty ankle and thigh. An osprey feather from his hat mingled with his clinging black fringe, and his well-bred nose and high cheekbones carried the unmistakable lustre of success.
He was forty-four years of age, and his career was at last attaining its peak. He was manager for the Medici in Bruges. He was the favourite merchant and banker of Duke Charles of Burgundy, and served on his council. His pompous brother Pigello was dead; the other was manager in Milan, and Pigello’s sons would perpetuate the Portinari association with the Medici. Messer Piero had promised it.
He had got to Florence before Messer Piero’s health became worse and had obtained from his swollen hand the renewal of his partnership contract, securing him, for an input of four hundred pounds groat, a percentage of twenty-seven and one half on all future profits in Bruges, an increase of two and a half.
Best of all, there was no doubt that Messer Piero was going to die and his petty restrictions would perish with him – unless something wholly ridiculous happened in England. And buried with Messer Piero would be his threat to disband Tommaso’s two precious Burgundian galleys.
Further, to perpetuate Tommaso’s association with the Medici … he had been offered a wife, and had met her.
It was no hardship, therefore, to be home in Florence, at the height of the season, dressed as befitted one’s station, and calling upon a member of the well-connected van Borselen family.
Tommaso stood on the threshold of Gelis van Borselen’s chamber and bowed with great charm, and then, advancing, kissed her hand in court style and, stepping sideways, took the seat indicated as her house-servant withdrew and the lady Gelis sat in her turn.
She looked older. Her hair, drawn back and veiled, revealed good enough bones, but there was a self-possession one did not look for in a woman of – well, of course, she was old. Twenty-four. A first child at that age could unship a woman’s figure for life, and no one would know until the buckram came off in the chamber. Birthing was best begun young. And what led up to it. Youth. Unsullied virginity. That passion to learn and to please. That kitten-like, boneless agility …
His hostess said, ‘Are you well?’ and he laughed, dabbing his temple.
‘It is warm. I hurried. It is such a pleasure to see you.’ He did not, these days, need to envy Nicholas.
He had several things