Niccolo Rising Read Free Page A

beard. And above all, my friend, leave the boat now, before you make the acquaintance of the man you call some silly gallant .
    No one took Julius by the arm. Fate, which had a better idea, let him conquer his pang of jealousy and recognise that before him on the quay was a fair-skinned man of quite striking good looks, wearing a silken tunic as brief as a shirt-tail. Between cap and ear, the fellow’s hair was bright as church gold. Between high brow and cleft chin, his expression was one of impatience, mixed with ineffable scorn.
    From the badge of his henchman he was of consequence. The henchman held, with some care, the leash of a muscular hound with an identical crest on its back-cloth. Hand on sword-hilt, his master was posed like a painting, one shapely limb flexed in its blue hose, the other stalwartly straight in its white. His gaze, idly scanning the onlookers, discovered the stare of a serving-girl. The nobleman lifted his brows and the girl, hugging her pail, coloured brightly.
    Claes, transfixed beside Julius, allowed his feather to wander. Julius sneezed without ceasing to gaze at the paragon who, in turn, had caught sight of the bathing basin. It seemed to amuse him. Snapping his fingers, he acquired the leash of his hound and began to stroll up to the lock, throwing a remark, as he went, to the lady. He looked as if he might snap his fingers for her as well, Julius thought, but he didn’t. And although she looked after him, she didn’t follow.
    The well-dressed magnifico came closer. He was not as young as you might think, at a distance. Thirty-three, thirty-four. His blue taffeta was French cut, and so was the one-shouldered cloak and the tilted plate of a hat with its ruby. In his two years at Bruges, Julius had never seen him before. Felix had. Felix, his fingers plucking his own atrocious pinked velvet, spoke in a voice of unwilling awe. “That’s Simon,” said Felix. “Heir to an uncle in Kilmirren, Scotland. They say he’s neverhad a refusal. The rich ones think he’ll marry them, and the poor ones don’t care.”
    “What?” said Julius. Claes said nothing. His feather had come to a halt.
    Felix said, “The rich …”
    “Never mind,” Julius said. Simon of Kilmirren came to rest on the bank just beside them. The underwater sluice gates had opened. The water they were floating on began to crease a little and swirl, and a line of wet appeared on the lock wall. The lock-keeper came up.
    The man called Simon said, “My poor man, you take your time, you Flemish clods, don’t you? I saw some beer.”
    His Flemish was very good. The lock-keeper had no trouble accepting insults from gentlemen, especially if he saw a profit in it. He said, “It’s a custom, my lord. Beer during the passage to Bruges, and the dues paid on the way back. My lord is going to Bruges?”
    Julius wondered how anyone, even a lock-keeper, could imagine he saw a promise of beer in that smiling face. The Scots noble called Simon continued to smile. “My lord has a thirst,” he said. “Waiting for this rubbish to pass down the lock. If you have beer, I’ll take it.”
    “Excuse me,” said Julius.
    It could have been that his voice was not loud enough. Certainly the water, by now, was swirling outside the lock as it emptied, causing the waiting vessel to joggle. The lighter on which Julius stood was now sinking steadily, so that his eyes were level with Simon’s trim waist. Simon did not turn his head. Only his dog, attracted by something below, straightened its forelegs, steadied, and leaped lightly down beside Julius, dragging its lead from Simon’s grasp. Felix said, “Oh no, you don’t!” and grabbed its collar, separating it from the rabbit-bag. The Scotsman turned then, with surprise, and looked down at them.
    Julius said, “I’m sorry, my lord, but the beer represented part of our dues. To be fair to the man, you would have to pay him for it.”
    The charming face stared at him. It inspected, in turn,