Race of Scorpions (9 page)

Anselm Adorne settled back, with tranquillity, in his chair. ‘It has to do with business?’ he said. ‘Your interests are now Venetian and mine Genoese. On occasion, we shall be rivals, but honourable rivals, I hope. I don’t see that our friendship should suffer.’

Nicholas said, ‘I hope it won’t. That’s why I thought we should speak of it. You know that a Genoese tried to seize control of the Charetty company in Trebizond. You know how he chose to do it. The Doria family, which was his, are your friends, but I know you had nothing to do with it. I wanted to show, simply, that misunderstandings might occur. There is another matter.’

‘The alum project,’ said Adorne. His face was calm.

‘Yes. An Adorno cousin of yours signed an agreement with me about alum. The monopoly that provided my profit is over, since a new mine has opened at Tolfa. It isn’t a tragedy; but the new mine wasn’t discovered by chance. You and I and the Venetians knew it existed, and had a pact to conceal it. Someone broke the pact. And when they came upon Tolfa, they brought in Genoese experts to sample the alum.’

Anselm Adorne placed the tips of his fingers together. He said, ‘Yes. We should have this discussion. On the matter of Trebizond, I am glad you absolve me. My son Jan has a Doria for godfather, but I never knew the consul at Trebizond, and if I had known you were in danger from him, I should have told you. The alum is different.’

‘Is it?’ said Nicholas.

Adorne smiled. He said, ‘Don’t misunderstand me. Pacts should never be broken. I have to say I don’t know who did so in this instance. Certainly, my kinsmen and I knew there was an unquarried mine, but only you and the Venetians knew its location. You might
say that we, too, were profiting from the monopoly, although the Venetians were the chief beneficiaries. On the other hand, the Turks have overrun the old sources, and if war breaks out, will stop using Venice as agent. It would suit Venice then to have Tolfa discovered and perhaps have a stake in its management.’

‘You could say the same of Genoa,’ Nicholas said. ‘Are you saying what I think you are saying? Pacts will not be broken by you, but erring kinsmen can count on your silence, unless they propose actually to kill me?’

‘I fear,’ said Anselm Adorne, ‘that I am saying just that. Is it so terrible? You wouldn’t expect me to denounce my friends and family any more than, I suppose, you would do. You must hope, however, that I continue to carry out my intention of never knowingly harming my friends. I expect to have your limited confidence.’

Nicholas thought. He could take it no further. It had been worth attempting. Whatever they both did in business, it oughtn’t to touch Tilde and Catherine. ‘You have my limited confidence,’ he said, his face solemn.

‘Good. Then I shall tell your brave escort they can go. Will your trust go so far as to eat with us?’

‘When,’ said Nicholas, ‘did you know an ex-convict ever refuse a good meal?’

He watched Adorne leave, and was only aware that someone else had entered the room when a child touched his sleeve. He turned. A small girl stared at his face. ‘I know you,’ she said.

‘And I know you,’ said Nicholas. ‘Your name is Lewijse, and you want to see a guessing-puzzle in cotton.’

The child’s cheeks reddened and bulged. ‘It is!’ she said. ‘It’s Claes! The one that does jokes!’

Three other children pushed in, and he surveyed them all. ‘Well, now,’ he said. ‘What first? A joke or a puzzle?’

They wanted a puzzle, but he didn’t have thread.

He had wool. He lifted the crumpled rate card and, one by one, drew from their slots the soft yarns, dyed with the grains of the Orient. Then, pleating, twining and knotting, he fashioned a cord fit for Joseph. To celebrate, he tossed it into the air and made it snake and whirl like the Persian toy he had once sent home from Florence. Then he dropped it looping over his fingers and made it perform, while four intent pairs of eyes followed his movements.

He did not see Margriet Adorne come to seek him and stop, quietly drawn to one side by her husband. But he heard, when it came, the summons to dinner.

Instead of waiting three days, Adorne had hinted, he ought to leave Bruges immediately. It gave him no time to tidy the final, frayed
ends of his business life with the Charetty – but Julius, he supposed, would be willing to act as his agent in that. Tommaso Portinari would be annoyed, but then he had no sense of humour, or he would hardly have offered to help Nicholas batter his way into Spangnaerts Street. There were people he liked and hadn’t seen, like Colard Mansion the painter. Some he had caught sight of in passing, riding last night to the inn. A good many had avoided his eye, although he was then in a state of bereavement, not one of disgrace. The more senior inclined their heads but didn’t add to his embarrassment – or maybe their own – by coming forward. But some had slapped his knee and said, ‘Bad luck. Come and visit us.’ John Bonkle was one of those, and Jehan Metteneye, the innkeeper, who had cause to remember him. They probably meant it, and would still mean it today, when all Bruges knew what had happened.

But there wasn’t time to stay, for several reasons. There wasn’t time, for one reason in particular. He said to Thomas, returned to the yard of the inn, ‘All right. I’m free. I’ve got a pardon. We’re leaving.’

‘You can’t,’ Thomas said. ‘The Duke’s Controller is here. Pierre Bladelin. He wants to apologise, and place an important traveller in your care. It’s the lady. It’s the lady –’

Nicholas turned his horse in the opposite direction. ‘Primaflora. Tell them I’ve gone. Pack and meet me in Ghent.’

‘You won’t get out the gates,’ Thomas called. ‘She says the Queen …’

He didn’t listen. Let Thomas make what excuses he could. If he couldn’t get out, then he’d go to earth. In the end, he got rid of the horse and doubled back to St Donatien’s, where he knocked up Colard, and he and the painter got drunk together amid the inks and vellum and reeking tallow. He had, of course, been sober for a very long time. It occurred to him that he hadn’t managed to get drunk, even when he wanted to, since the news of Marian’s death. Perhaps the present blessing was due to Colard’s personality, which was violently self-centred, and the fact that he was not directly part of Marian’s world. Although it was through Colard that he had engaged the priest Godscalc. He thought he owed quite a lot to Colard for that.

December darkness fell early, and brought a vague inclination for food. With money from Nicholas, Colard sent a boy for a joint and more ale – and, an afterthought, for some news from the hostelry
Avignon
. Waiting, Colard said, ‘You heard the old Duke had a stroke? Son Charles rushed to his bedside, and the Duchess, to boot. After all those years in a nunnery. She’s been in Bruges. Surrounded by Portuguese. Vasquez included.’

João Vasquez was the Duchess’s secretary. The lord Simon,
whose name lay ten feet underground in a chapel at Fleury, had a sister married to one of the Vasquez. Nicholas said, ‘Don’t try it. I know that Simon’s in Portugal.’

Colard’s pouched eyes disappeared in a scowl. ‘He might come back to Bruges. Or Katelina.’

‘And his wife’s in Anjou. I don’t want to know, Colard. I’ve done with them.’

‘Have they done with you? Not that Katelina. Once women get an idea into their heads,’ Colard said, ‘then it’s goodbye to logic. You’re thin.’

Nicholas rolled over and snatched unsuccessfully at a sketch-pad. ‘You bastard. I charge for modelling time.’

‘Your face has got thinner. I could get Mabelie for you.’

‘And that would make my face fatter?’

‘Or Mabelie. Here’s the boy,’ Colard said. The room was no more than an attic, built over the cloisters. The wood of the steps creaked, and then creaked again. ‘He’s got someone with him. There won’t be enough ale.’

The door opened. ‘I have brought my own,’ said Primaflora of Savoy. ‘If I am welcome? By one of you, at least.’

‘Christ Jesus!’ said Colard Mansion.

Last seen in the snow south of Bologna, the lady who entered the room was no longer distressed or dishevelled. She thrust back her hood. Her hair, yellow as buttercups, fell in tendrils over her cheeks and, rippling back from her temples, was caught in a fall of intricate and tight-pleated loops, all threaded with ribbons. She wore no jewels, and her dress of fine wool was high-waisted and plain above pattens. Below her short upper lip, the curve of her mouth made you think of soft fruit, come to ripeness. Her skin glowed. It was impossible, in the same room, to feel nothing.

The boy, following her, laid down a basket and was given money, for which he returned an admiring smile as he left. Nicholas rose shakily, walked to the door, shut it and turned. Her eyes had remained on him all this time, pale of iris and lapidary in outline. She said, ‘If you wish to leave, your friend and I will share the basket.’

Nicholas indicated his friend. ‘Colard Mansion.’

Colard rose from the floor; a fairly minimal operation. ‘A Venus. I see why he fears you. Come in. I will paint you.’

‘Colard Mansion, a scribe, an illuminator, a translator, a drunk. Myself, the last only. I have only one word to say,’ Nicholas said. ‘I am not going to Cyprus.’

‘Those are six words,’ she said. ‘Your floor is dirty.’

‘There is a clean cushion,’ said Colard. ‘Nearer the light. There. You did mention ale?’

‘Ale and partridge, bread and chicken and cheese. Why is this man called Niccolò afraid of me?’

Colard looked up, his arms in the basket. ‘Don’t you know him?’

Nicholas sat on the floor. ‘Don’t be stupid. We met for two minutes during a fight near Bologna. Carlotta of Cyprus wants me to take Astorre and some money and help her.’

‘Why not? You would get away from Katelina,’ said Colard. He carried the ale back to his mattress, leaving the food where it was.

The woman, kneeling, began efficiently to unpack and serve it. She said, ‘Who is Katelina?’

Colard drank. Nicholas, finding chicken before him, picked up a leg. ‘A woman in Anjou,’ he said.

Colard wiped his mouth. ‘He don’t answer questions,’ he said. ‘But I do.’

She sat down on her cushion. She sat like Loppe, with a natural grace which, in her case, had been carefully fostered. What he had told Thomas was true. She was – in whatever guise she appeared now – a courtesan by profession. He assumed Colard knew it. He didn’t know what Colard was up to, and was happy not to care. She said, ‘All artists love truth. So tell me. What is Niccolò?’

‘From what angle?’ said Colard. ‘That, for instance.’ The lamp shone on the sketch-pad. ‘That is the Nicholas that you see. Nicholas lost, with no mistress.’ He glanced over, his face full of evil delight. ‘Or that.’ Another paper, pulled from a shelf. The light, shining through it, showed a drawing made long before, in this room, on another cold day in winter. Himself, with Felix, Bonkle and Anselm Sersanders. Made the year Felix died.

‘Who is that?’ said the woman.

‘Claes,’ said Colard. ‘The bastard dyeworks apprentice who became servant to his employer’s son Felix. Protector and servant. He went to Louvain University with him, and learned more than Felix, didn’t you, Nicholas? He served under Julius, and even Julius noticed that he had a flair for numbers. Then his employer noticed that he had a flair for several things.’

‘That’s enough, Colard,’ said Nicholas.

Colard did not even turn. ‘I hear you,’ he said. ‘So. At nineteen, Nicholas married the widow and took her best men to set up an outpost at Trebizond. At twenty, he fought the Turks and withdrew from the Black Sea with two shiploads of refugees, treasure and alum. At twenty-one, what is he now? A happy drunk on the floor of Colard Mansion.’

She was drinking ale, pensively, from a cup she had wiped clean with her kerchief. ‘And who is Katelina?’ she said.

Colard glanced over again, and their eyes met. He turned back to the girl. ‘I do not think,’ Colard said, ‘that I had better tell you. You
want
Nicholas? He has a bad left profile and those are the Devil’s fingermarks in his cheeks.’

Nicholas let himself down on the floor and gazed up at the
warped and charred rafters. If he closed his eyes, they might all go away.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want him. But I have no money. And the Queen is my mistress.’

The astonished silence reached even under his eyelids. Colard said, ‘I could name five nobles in Bruges who would lease twenty years of you.’ Nicholas smiled.

The girl’s voice, when she spoke, had the same smile within it. ‘You speak your mind.’

‘I know a professional when I see one,’ said Colard. ‘So what can the Queen do?’

‘Have me killed,’ said the girl. Nicholas opened his eyes.

Colard said, ‘You won’t lure him to Cyprus that way.’

‘I don’t want to lure him any way,’ said the beauty called Primaflora. ‘I don’t want him. I don’t want to go back to Cyprus. I want to get away from the Queen. I thought he might help me.’

‘You’ve made him sit up,’ Colard said. ‘I didn’t think he was sober enough.’

Nicholas said, ‘Say that again.’

Her pale eyes met his without flinching. ‘You know my instructions. To join you, and bring you to Cyprus. I need help to escape her. All the knights of St John are her spies. I want to disappear. Maybe to Italy. I would find patrons there.’

There was a silence. Nicholas said, ‘How long were you with Ansaldo?’

Her face, he guessed, could not afford a change of expression. ‘A year.’

‘I had less,’ Nicholas said. ‘The Queen’s plan is no more of interest to me than it can be to you. I have some money. Take it and disappear.’

‘I have to leave with you,’ she said.

‘Then leave,’ Nicholas said. ‘The only possible drawback is that I haven’t decided yet where I am going.’

‘Yes, you have,’ Colard said. ‘To Italy. To the Naples campaign. To join your army and slaughter Duke John of Calabria. You can’t take a courtesan there.’

‘You heard him,’ Nicholas said.

Primaflora smiled. Instead of dimples, she had pleats that curled round her mouth. She said, ‘What kind of courtesan should I be if I hadn’t found a rich sponsor long before he catches up with his army?’