Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
‘That isn’t true!’ Katelina said.
René smiled. ‘Pray go on. My lord Jordan?’
‘About the bastard? Nicholas vander Poele, he calls himself,’ said the vicomte, folding his heavy arms and contemplating the ceiling. ‘An unfortunate youth with a talent for numbers. He married his employer, killed all his nearest relatives, and made a great deal of money bringing Venetians and gold back from Trebizond. It is said that the Queen of Cyprus intends to recruit him.’
Katelina sat up.
‘Indeed?’ said the King. ‘On what grounds have you formed this expectation – Ah! The gossip from Sor de Naves’ Sicilian carrick in Nice?’
‘Your grace is percipient,’ de Ribérac said.
‘My grace has finished,’ said René. He laid down his brush, wiped his hands, finger by finger, and turning, rose. So did everyone else. The widow Spinola, who cared for the royal jewels, said, ‘A masterpiece, my lord king.’ The man called Lomellini agreed. There were a lot of Genoese in Anjou. There were men of many nationalities. Perrot, the King’s own confessor, bore a name well known among merchants in Bruges. The King employed also a Scotsman whose son was an Archer in France.
She heard King René asking about the man Roland Cressant, and the fat man replying. He was familiar with the Archer bodyguard of Louis of France. To secure the King’s goods, Jordan de Ribérac was permitted on occasion to borrow their services. They were all young and stalwart and Scottish and took the place, she supposed, of his own disappointing heir. She didn’t suspect him of vice. As she had reason to know, his tastes ran to women, not men. And to food and drink, she supposed. About his private life, she was glad she knew nothing.
The King’s painting was exquisite, and they had returned to it. De Ribérac, straightening, exclaimed in his sonorous voice. ‘Masterly. By every standard, delightful. His grace has been more generous with one wing of the angel than he has with the other.’ He raised his eyes to King René, who smiled.
‘I have met one man who is not a sycophant. M. le vicomte, you are right. To you, and you alone, I entrust the task of making both angelic pinions identical. Perhaps your lovely good-daughter will aid you. So I can hope for no practical help from that noble jouster, your son?’
‘From Simon?’ said Jordon de Ribérac. ‘Whatever side he joined, it would lose. Whereas from me you will extract angelic feathers, from Simon, you could hope only for lead.’
‘My lord exaggerates,’ said Katelina.
‘Do I?’ said Jordan de Ribérac. He had bright, cold eyes, set in a face coloured and smooth as a child’s. He said, ‘Then perhaps you will persuade him away from his ledgers. I can offer no other hope.’
‘Why, my lord Jordan!’ said the King. ‘Is your family sterile of warriors? What of the bastard grandson in Flanders? He at least has frightened your son.’
She wanted, this time, to shout a denial. Unshakable in his hatred, Simon was not afraid of Nicholas vander Poele. Like his father, he despised him. Jordan said, ‘The youth Nicholas? Bastardy does not, fortunately, make him my grandson. If he were, I would control him. Nicholas, according to my latest information, is indeed going to Italy. Unhappily, he proposes to fight against Duke John of Calabria, not for him.’
King René appeared struck. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I thought you said he was going to Cyprus.’
‘The Queen has invited him. I cannot tell if he will accept. Certainly he is on his way to take part in the Naples war first.’ Jordan de Ribérac paused, and in his face Katelina thought that she saw a new mildness. He added, ‘If they meet, your honoured son has my full permission to kill him.’
King René considered, the velvet drape from his hat falling gracefully upon one slender shoulder, the bows of silver and gold sparkling on the breast of his coat. He said, ‘There would be a dramatic nicety about such a thing. I see that. Better still, of course, if it were to be his cuckolded father who killed him. My lady here should tempt my lord Simon from Portugal. He would listen to her. The Heart as Love’s Captive. The theme of my book, my lady Katelina.’
He smiled, sweeping past her. He was, in fact, genuinely amused. René of Anjou relished these encounters with Jordan de Ribérac whose brain, of all others, he suspected to equal his own. The
vicomte came to Anjou for many reasons. This time one of them had to do, the King suspected, with the little lady called Katelina. It was interesting, too, that the conversation had turned so insistently on this improbable young man from Trebizond. It was clear that the fellow incensed the dear vicomte. It was also a recognised truth that the best way to be quit of a man was to set a woman upon him.
Watched from every quarter, the war for Naples renewed itself, and soon the antagonists were locked in their annual struggle. In high summer, Nicholas rode into Urbino, and unsurprisingly found it was empty. The Count had been south for weeks, on campaign in the duchy of Sora. The Albanian army, with Astorre, was further south still. Nicholas rode south. Three days later, he approached Urbino’s encampment.
Once, briefly and insignificantly, Nicholas had seen action under the Count of Urbino. Federigo da Montefeltro was of that breed of landed mercenaries who fought under contract for money. Then, when each winter came, he took his fee back to Urbino to spend it on matters truly close to his heart: on beautiful buildings, on paintings, on manuscripts; on his people, his lands, his côterie of poets and scholars. Nicholas could see why Tobie wished to study this prince. He himself had, at that point, no thought of depriving Urbino of Tobie.
The sun was still high when he picked his way down to the Chiento valley, and making his business known, was escorted into the encampment. A wait followed. The place, he observed, was in a state of fevered activity. As he watched, a tent was deflated. They were marching then; in which case Urbino might well be too pressed to see him. He sat at ease, without especial impatience. He was still waiting and watching when Tobie emerged from a hospital tent.
The physician stopped. The Duke’s secretary, who was walking behind him, stopped as well, and followed his gaze. ‘A dealer of some kind, from Bruges. Do you know him? He wants to have words with the Count.’
‘Nicholas vander Poele,’ Tobie said. He dragged his black cap off his crown and then slapped it on again, as the sun struck his bald head. ‘Trebizond. The Charetty company.’ He stared through the dust at the distant figure of Nicholas, who was not looking at him. Some tailor had cut him a light-weight doublet in dun-coloured silk that set off his height and reduced the bulk of his artisan’s build. Or his physique had altered, as had his face. In profile, it was firmer on its large bones, with a line or two where there had been no room before. His skin had kept the even mid-brown which it had acquired in the East, and which never grew
deeper. At that point, vander Poele turned his head in his direction, and the two familiar pockets appeared in his cheeks, although he neither shouted nor waved. The secretary, whose name was Paltroni, said, ‘I take it the Count ought to see him?’
‘I suspect so,’ said Tobie. ‘I suspect he might be going to get a lot of money, and maybe a useful small army. Shall I find out?’
‘You do that,’ said the secretary. ‘I’ll warn the Count.’ He peered, with interest, at the distant man. ‘I thought he was somewhat younger.’
‘So did I,’ Tobie said. He left Paltroni, and walked off to Nicholas. To vander Poele. He thought of him as vander Poele.
Nicholas said, ‘You’ve warned him not to see me on any account. Are we still speaking to one another?’
‘I’ll do it in sign language if you like,’ Tobie said. ‘It was your company. You had a right to break it up. What do you want here?’
‘To make an investment,’ Nicholas said. ‘I suppose the Count can do with some help.’
Tobie scowled. ‘So you’ve had a slow look round us all, and it’s Astorre you’re going to amuse yourself with. Why not leave him alone? Why not go back to Venice and give Gregorio some reward for his trouble? It was Gregorio who set up the Bank for you, and got kicked in the teeth for his efforts.’
Nicholas thought, his lips in the kissing position. ‘You don’t think the Count of Urbino needs money and troops?’
‘I’d be a fool to say that. You’ll be in his tent in a trice, with your heels smoking.’
‘But you don’t want me to re-enrol Astorre.’
‘It depends on your reasons,’ said Tobie. ‘Here’s Paltroni to call you. I told you. You have a buyer.’
It was the Count’s secretary, to call him to his tent. Nicholas half turned to the doctor. ‘Shall I see you?’
Tobie opened his marble-blue eyes. ‘If you stay, how shall we avoid it?’
He stood, shaken by an absent-minded volley of sneezes, and watched Nicholas go.
The interview with Urbino took place in a crowded tent, where the Count himself occupied the only stool, before a table littered with papers. The Count said, ‘Ah. Niccolò the merchant. Have you come to buy or to sell?’
Nicholas looked down at the notched beak of a nose and remained thoughtful. ‘To invest, my lord. I had a fancy to buy in Captain Astorre’s contract, if he would let me, and develop the company to the benefit of the league against Anjou. I thought, before I went south to join him, that I might help you in passing. I have some skill with devices.’
‘Trebizond,’ said Federigo of Urbino. ‘You’re the man who got the Venetians out of Trebizond. With Astorre. And that fiend of an engineer.’
‘John le Grant,’ Nicholas said. ‘He’s in Venice. You have heard of us?’
‘Well, get him out of Venice. And any other experts you have. Of course I’ve heard of you. I’ve got your doctor here, Beventini. You’re not getting him back.’
‘I don’t imagine he wants to come back. Or John le Grant,’ Nicholas said. ‘I simply thought –’
‘You’ve given up merchanting?’ Urbino said. ‘Or starting a new sideline in wars?’
‘I simply thought,’ Nicholas said, ‘of turning Astorre’s troops into a much larger, better-armed company with some knowledge of cannon and hand guns and some first-rate engineers. I might be able to train some of your men. Mechanics interest me.’
Urbino’s single eye was positively luminous. ‘And what do you want of me then?’ he said.
‘A little experience, before I go south. As I said, you might find a use for devices.’
‘If,’ Urbino said, ‘you can contrive to blow up Sigismondo Malatesta at a range of thirty-five miles, you can replace me as commander. I can give you experience, but not in artillery of which I at present have none. I am about to launch an action. I am not, however, prepared to lose my best engineers to another force.’
‘My lord, you are too modest,’ said Nicholas. ‘No one would leave you for me.’
‘If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t let you stay for a day. You can stay. Don’t get in the way. See my officers and get yourself a tent and provisions. We march in four hours. You needn’t expect to leave until both the march and the battle are over. For all I know, you may be an enemy agent. Venice wants Malatesta to win.’
‘My Bank doesn’t,’ said Nicholas smiling. He didn’t know whether it did or not, or if he had a bank. He didn’t care, he was so pleased to be here. He took his leave from the tent without even finding out where he was marching. Urbino had assumed it was immaterial.
In fact, it was back north, the way he had travelled. Tobie, whose tent was still upright, sent for him; poured him some wine in an accusing manner and then allowed him to sit, as if they were speaking to one another. Tobie said angrily, ‘I suppose you know what is happening? The Pope’s dearest enemy, Malatesta of Rimini, has been bribed into the war by Piccinino. He’s in the north now, collecting troops with John of Calabria’s money. Little condottieri from the Romagna; a large number of French-loving Genoese
bastards turfed out of their city. Rumour says they’re all mustered and about to march down to the Abruzzi.’
‘And Urbino goes north to intercept them?’ Nicholas said. ‘You’ve got a better line in wine than you could ever afford in my day.’
‘I get paid more,’ said Tobie. ‘Malatesta is sitting outside Sinigallia, on the coast between here and Urbino. He’s scared, and pretending to negotiate. The Count’s plan is to force-march north, beginning this evening, to be within bowshot by first light on Wednesday.’
‘Thirty-odd miles? The Turks could do it in half –’
‘So what’s the attraction?’ said Tobie. ‘You enjoyed fighting the Turks, and want more of it? Or are you passing, taper in hand, reactivating all your favourite fireworks? How is the Charetty business?’
‘I thought I would buy my way into a fight,’ Nicholas said. ‘No other interests. No ulterior motives. If no one else wants me, I’ll ask Piccinino.’
Tobie stared at him. Then he said, ‘I almost believed you, you bastard.’
‘Never,’ Nicholas said. He sat on Tobie’s campaign chest and tried not to look hungry.
Tobie swore and, getting up, sent a man for some food. He came back and threw himself on the ground beside the box with his cup on it. He said, ‘Nothing hasty about you, at any rate. You’ve taken ten months to decide this. Astorre knows, I suppose?’
‘I forgot to ask him,’ said Nicholas. ‘What’s Skanderbeg like?’
Tobie put down his cup. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t get mixed up in that.’
‘In what?’ said Nicholas. The food came, and he took what he was offered, his large eyes mild.
‘You know what. Albanian heroics. Father and saviour. George Castriot, captured by Turks as a child and escaped to fight against Turkey for his native land of Albania. The new Alexander, and hence nicknamed Skanderbeg, since Levantines make shibboleths of their exes. Sailed his army across the Adriatic to help the Pope and Ferrante in the Abruzzi. You’ll join him,’ said Tobie grimly. ‘I know you. You’ll look for a father-figure, and join him.’
There was a brief silence. Nicholas smiled. ‘I have a father-figure,’ he said.
Tobie’s sun-pinkened face grew ruddier. He said, ‘I didn’t mean that. But since we’ve mentioned it, where is friend Simon?’
‘In Portugal,’ Nicholas said. ‘And Katelina is in Anjou; unless she has already joined John of Calabria’s army. Do you think they will guess where I’m hiding?’
Tobie was still uncomfortable. ‘They know you’re crazy,’ he
said. ‘But not so mad as to come here again. At least they won’t think of looking for you in Sinigallia.’