To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [28]
Jordan de Ribérac came to his door as evening fell. Nicholas heard the ponderous tread, accompanied by the footsteps and clank of armed soldiers. He rose as the key was put in the lock. For a moment, despite all his wealth in Venice, his power in Bruges, his growing influence in the Levant, Nicholas de Fleury faced again the fears of his boyhood: the emotions of more than ten years of confrontation and struggle against this gross man who had always despised him, had always proclaimed him to be none of his blood, but the bastard child of his son’s wife. For if he was not, Nicholas the Burgundian, the farouche apprentice of Bruges, would have to be known to the world as his grandson.
The vicomte never altered. His attire – the vast hat, the swathed scarf, the doublet and coat over the mighty shoulders – was of the same style as in the fifties. Whereas René of Anjou, slender, active, only two years the younger, led every fashion in dress and in art when not, as now, living in apprehension and mourning.
There was no trace of distress in the vicomte’s clean-shaven pink face with its ripple of chins. His brow was smooth except for the curling arch over each eyebrow; his brief mouth still owed its character to unbroken strong teeth. His eyes studied, dissected, recorded from bantering purses. ‘You don’t object? His Sacred Majesty is uncommonly busy. You and I understand each other so well that one brief conversation may well save King Louis an hour of the sandglass.’
‘He could have saved even more by not bringing me,’ Nicholas remarked. He had chosen to remain where he was, perched on the ledge of the window embrasure. At a sign from the vicomte, the soldiers withdrew smartly outside the door, and the vicomte lowered himself into a seat and smoothed out his sleeves.
‘But, Nicholas, you wanted to come. And you had taken care that your little treasure, your boy was well guarded. In Dijon, they say. How sentimental. Did you visit the deserted estate that you managed to ruin? Did you take him to the tomb of your first wife? Did you reverently show him the coffin of your poor over-liberal mother? Does he now understand some simple expressions, such as chienne?’
‘His name is Jordan. I expect he does,’ Nicholas said.
The fat man leaned back. ‘I remember now. You have learned to talk. There is this small store of insults, painfully accumulated through long years of dumb cowering. Perhaps, however, we should try to pass straight to business. What have you to tell me about Duke René’s intentions?’
Nicholas thought. ‘That he has tried to cancel The Creation in favour of the Mystery of St Vincent,’ he said. ‘It has caused a great upset.’
The fat man sighed. ‘Nicholas. Your present purpose is to manipulate the courts of France and of Burgundy to what you think is your best advantage. Otherwise you would not have come. Anjou’s plans are your bargaining counter. So bargain.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Nicholas said.
‘His plans for his grandson in Lorraine. His plans if his daughter wins England. His plans if she doesn’t. And his plans for the throne of Aragon, now his son John is dead.’
‘And in return?’
‘What do you want?’ said the fat man. ‘Pick from the stall. Money? A little manor house somewhere? Or a contract for something more permanent? A pension, leading to a little title, a big title even? Louis rules France. The lands of the Duke of Burgundy are certainly rich, but they may not stay with him long if he insists on provoking his overlords. You know, and I know, that Duke Charles is a conceited, impetuous dullard whose ambitions will probably wreck him. He is not spending his favours on you, but on that noble pilgrim, that merchant aristocrat Anselm Adorne of Bruges, who is already our rival in business. You should be working for France against the Vatachino and Burgundy.’
‘You would like me to bankrupt the Vatachino,’ Nicholas said. It was something he had frequently attempted himself,