Race of Scorpions (8 page)

Of all the rooms in the house the office was, for him, the one Marian lived in: so close in style to the one he had known from his earliest days, when he had come to her desk to be sentenced for some escapade, or to be catechised, or, rarely, to be promised some treat. Only Marian had ever sat behind the desk in the office although, latterly, he had spread his papers on the opposite side and crouched to consider them, feet on the stool bar, knees under the chin, pen-hand dangling, while she argued and contradicted. All their relationship, all their real relationship, had been created and shaped in this office.

When he opened the door, he was reminded for a moment of the statue he had seen in the street. Fog, crimsoned by the low fire, lay like a cloud in the room and stirred as he entered. He shut the
door and, crossing, fastened the half-open window and closed the shutter over it. When he turned, he saw that of course Marian’s chair was empty, and his own stool replaced by a better one. By Julius, he supposed. There was a ledger laid on the table, bound in the Charetty blue. Not his colour now. He was colourless. He was a self-pitying ass. He looked around.

Everything in this room was Marian’s. The high settle, copied from one lost in the fire. The chest, well-locked, in which she stored her money. The cabinet where she kept the strong wine Henninc didn’t know she possessed. By the rate card were her scales. The merchant’s scales, with which Vikings used to be buried. Marian had not taken hers on her journey. Instead, she had taken something of his: a silver music box, they had told him in Burgundy. It was in her hands now.

He wondered what, if she were here, she would have wanted him to have. The porcelain vase, perhaps, from her bedchamber. In season, she had filled it with roses. A cushion. A ring from her finger. But Tilde would have those; and her keys. The insignia of her profession; the essence of Marian de Charetty.

The fog suddenly stirred. He must be going. In any case, he knew what he wanted. He crossed to the desk and picked it up, and saw as he did so that the keys were lying there too. He lifted them.

Yellow light flared, from a half-open door.
‘And we have you!
’ someone said. A man’s figure stood in the door, club upraised. Behind him, others pushed to get in. He could hear loud voices, and screaming. Someone had seen the mattress. Someone had warned Tilde. Silently, they had waited to trap him. Nicholas threw down the keys and sprang to the window. He took the first blow as he unlatched the shutter. Before he could open the window, a hand seized his arm and a stick glanced off the side of his head. He ducked, using his fists, taking blows, thinking fast.

He had no weapons, but he knew where the furniture was. He thrust one man against the hard settle, kicked the legs of another from beneath him and closed with the third, dragging him with him out into the passage. From one end, he saw another two of Tilde’s bodyguards rushing towards him. He turned to the other, which led to the kitchens.

It was blocked too, but with faces he knew. Bedmakers and laundrymaids; a pair of youths from the stables; Marian’s cook. Someone hissed ‘Claes!’ and the knot of people admitted him, and closed behind him: he could hear indignant shouts as Tilde’s men tried to follow. Shouts with pain in them. He remembered the clout Marian’s cook could deliver. He vaulted downstairs to the kitchen and fled to the door. It was open. It opened wider just as he got to it. Outside was Tilde, a cloak over her nightgown. And beside her was the town guard, with their swords drawn.

Chapter 4

H
E SPENT THE
night in prison, his bruises stiffening in the cold. It was nothing new. He had not been the most docile youngster in Bruges, and had landed up in the Steen several times, with someone’s stripes on his back. What was new was the attitude of reserve among his fellow-inmates. He was no longer Claes, but a rich man called Nicholas who seemed to be interfering in the lives of his step-daughters. Once, he would have worked hard at setting this right, but now it seemed easier to retire into sleep.

Before that, Thomas had appeared, gibbering, and Nicholas had calmed him, and sent him off with a message to Godscalc.
Do nothing. There is nothing to worry about. Whatever happens, Tilde must feel she can depend on you all
. But of course, they knew that already, or they would have prevented his arrest on the spot.

He did spend some time puzzling out why the town had taken Tilde seriously. They might have resented his marriage to Marian, but there had never been any doubt of his honesty. And the most bigoted would allow that a man might expect to visit his house at least once before he left it for ever. Moreover, it was no secret that he now had a great deal of money, and the emotion of jealousy had never prevented a Bruges man from scenting a profit. They ought to have welcomed him. Instead, they had made sure that he would leave.

But of course, there were quite a few people, when you thought of it, who didn’t want Nicholas settled in Bruges. The friends of my lord Simon and his wife Katelina. The friends of Carlotta of Cyprus. The Genoese, who thought of him as a Venetian rival. The officials, dependants and family of Duke Philip of Flanders and Burgundy, who also knew that his funds were in Venice. The Duke was a friend of Milan, and Milan had grave suspicions of Venice. Himself, he didn’t blame them. He was taken out in the morning, his hands tied, to appear before the nearest magistrate.
The magistrate, of course, was Anselm Adorne, and the place of his hearing was Adorne’s beautiful house by the Jerusalemkirk.

He had been judged by Adorne before, always fairly. Born of Genoese stock, the family had through the generations filled the highest offices in Bruges, and were known for their wealth and their piety. Anselm Adorne had been a child when his father and uncle had built the Jerusalemkirk, in celebration of their return from the Holy Land. He was now thirty-seven and a man of great comeliness, with a slender build which could yet carry off prizes at shooting and jousting; a clear brain which increased his wealth and brought him the confidence of the city, and an easy manner which made him both a good drinking companion and the happily married father of an increasing number of small children. He and Margriet his wife had been among the few who had sustained Marian de Charetty in her wish to marry her junior apprentice: the wedding had been held here, in the Jerusalemkirk. And since, as he had heard, they had supported Tilde and Catherine, Marian’s daughters.

Of course, Anselm Adorne was still, in his heart, Genoese. It was unlikely, from what Nicholas knew of him, that he had connived at yesterday’s experience, or would take seriously the accusations against him. But whether he did so or not hardly mattered. Before him lay a meeting with the persons who had known Marian best.

He came carefully, therefore to Adorne’s door, his guards behind, and did not speak when he saw that Adorne himself was awaiting him. Adorne looked past him and said, ‘I have guards of my own. You have no need to enter. Come back in half an hour when I have judged the case.’

In his cabinet, which was empty, Anselm lifted a knife from his desk and cut his bonds. ‘Sit by the fire. Why not come to me in the first place? I would have taken you to the house.’

Nicholas sat, one hand nesting the other. ‘Then I wish I had,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps better not. Tilde still trusts you.’

‘Sometimes she listens,’ Adorne said. ‘You made her a gift of a very good team, and she respects them. Only in some things she is stubborn.’ He paused. ‘I find it difficult to speak of her mother. If it was hard for Marian, it was even harder for you. To be away when she was in need: to hear the news of her death in such a way. To come back to Bruges and find this. I can only say that, had she known, she would have altered nothing. Her marriage brought her great happiness.’

‘Thank you,’ Nicholas said. ‘I have been to Fleury. I met the lady of Damparis who sheltered her.’

‘So did Tilde and Gregorio,’ Adorne said. ‘She was well cared for. Margriet has spoken to Tilde, and will tell you more.’

He didn’t want to hear more. ‘Tilde thought I would steal from her,’ Nicholas said. ‘It seems odd.’

‘Does it?’ said Adorne. ‘Then it will seem even odder when I tell you that she is afraid for her life. All the world knows that if Tilde dies unmarried, you inherit. Behind all this agitation, of course, is something quite simple.’

‘I’m glad,’ Nicholas said.

‘It has been shocking, I know. Especially considering the sad pilgrimage you have made. But what Tilde fears is your influence. You must know that. She was your shadow for years.’

‘So whom is she going to marry?’ Nicholas said.

‘No one,’ said Anselm Adorne. ‘It is you who must marry. Then she will cease to feel threatened.’

‘It doesn’t seem very simple to me,’ Nicholas said. ‘And, by the way, I have nothing to do with a lady called Primaflora. She is by way of a bribe.’

Adorne smiled. ‘We wondered,’ he said. ‘We had been told she was going to Brussels, but it’s unlikely Duke Philip will see her. Meanwhile she is sweetening the daily existence of the Duke’s Bruges Controller, and conferring frequently with the Knights of St John at the Hospital. Your friend John de Kinloch is enchanted.’

‘I shall make no effort to frequent the Hospital,’ Nicholas said.

‘So what will you do?’ said Adorne. ‘I imagine the possibilities are infinite. You know your good Gregorio has set up your Bank. You have a new home in Venice, and better connections than most with the merchant centres of Europe. You have the friendship of the Medici and Milan. You have been honoured by Venice. You know all the secrets of trade from the days of your army, your couriers. You have a grasp of Levantine affairs, and a galley and a round ship with which to exploit them. You have learned in Bruges and in Trebizond how to run a business, and some of the tricks of exchange banking. What you don’t know, Gregorio and others will teach you. And, of course, men will seek to employ you. You appear to have had offers already?’

And that was true. They had begun in Venice, the day after he landed from Trebizond. Queen Carlotta’s had been one of the earliest. He said, ‘Oh, there is no lack of choice. Rhodes or Venice, Cyprus or Albania. I could establish an agency for almost anyone in the Levant. Even the Franciscan Observatines have hopes of me. I sometimes think of rejoining my mercenaries.’

Adorne had a quality, which he shared with Father Godscalc, of sitting still when weighing news of importance. He said, ‘I see. The Naples war again?’

Nicholas said, ‘Yes. Astorre fought for King Ferrante before, along with the Papal forces and the Count of Urbino. This time,
they’ll have Skanderbeg’s Albanians to help them when the season begins.’

‘And you are personally interested in helping Ferrante to become undisputed monarch of Naples?’ Adorne said.

Nicholas smiled. ‘I could make out a case. The sooner he is, the sooner the Pope and everyone else can concentrate on other things. I don’t particularly want to see John of Anjou and his French friends in Naples instead. Perhaps, like Astorre, I’ve begun to think of Duke John and his mercenary captain as a convenient enemy. Astorre likes fighting Piccinino.’

‘I think I knew all that about Captain Astorre,’ Adorne said. ‘I must confess I hadn’t expected the glamour of battle to enchant your mercantile soul. That is for the boy you once were. But, of course, it’s not the glamour.’

‘It is a simple bolt from my responsibilities,’ Nicholas said. ‘I thought it as well to warn you. If I do go, I shall leave my affairs in good order. Catherine is taken care of. I know I can rely on your good offices.’

‘Of course. I take it you have not mentioned this,’ said Adorne, ‘in the hope of being dissuaded, so I shall save myself the effort of trying. I shan’t pretend I am not disappointed. But it is a failure of fate, and not yours. Tell me, where is Tobias, your doctor?’

‘He went to war, with Urbino,’ Nicholas said. He and Tobie had quarrelled. He and Tobie had had an unforgettable quarrel.

Adorne appeared to know nothing of it. He said, ‘Then Master Tobias, at least, should be pleased. He advised, I hear, against your returning to Bruges. He thought you might be tempted to retreat to the peace of the dyevats.’

Nicholas was well aware of that fact. ‘I might, if I could get at them,’ he said.

Anselm Adorne looked at him thoughtfully. ‘There may come a time when it is possible. It is certainly barred to you now. We have wandered, I suppose, from the reason for your being here. Before we go any further, let us dispose of it. You don’t wish to say that your former colleagues invited you into the building at Spangnaerts Street?’

‘They didn’t.’

‘No. The mattress and the rope were put there by an unknown confederate. You entered the house, unwilling to disturb the girls further, because you had learned you must leave Bruges immediately, and wished some memento of their mother.’

‘I was found with her keys in my hand. An odd memento,’ said Nicholas.

Adorne rested an elegant hand against his cheekbone. ‘You were moved to touch something of hers. Had you wanted to steal, you would have gone straight to the chest when you entered. In any
case, the chest, even if full, probably contained only a fraction of what is owed you by the Charetty company for the last consignment of alum alone. Is that not so?’

‘I suppose so,’ Nicholas said.

‘And further, although you were stripped, you were found to be carrying nothing that did not belong to you. Except, of course, this.’ From a drawer, Adorne drew out a folded rectangle of cardboard and set it upright on the table before him. It was filled with columns of writing in Marian’s meticulous hand. Beside each price was a tuft of fine wool, dyed in good, solid Charetty colours; dense and fadeless and reliable. ‘Put it away,’ Adorne said. ‘There is clearly no charge to answer.’

It lay on the desk, creased now and blemished by other men’s handling. Nicholas said, ‘Thank you.’ He did not immediately take it. Instead he said, ‘Before I go, I wished to ask you something. In view of your kindness to me, and to Marian’s family, I find it difficult.’