peered at her balefully, and
turning to the brothers he sighed and said:
“Gentlemen, you must forgive me my daughter. The wench is mad.”
He shook his stick at her and she retreated, harlequinned by crisscross shadows, pursued by the conspirators scurrying on tiptoe, twittering, to the stairs, where the little man in the plumed
hat waited among other, vaguer enigmas. All bowed and turned, ascended slowly into the gloom, and vanished.
Professor Brudzewski impatiently bade the brothers good day—but not before he had invited Andreas to attend his lectures. Grey rain was falling on Cracow.
“What?—spend my mornings listening to that old cockerel droning on about the planets and all that? Not likely, brother; I have better things to do.”
*
Nicolas arrived in Torun at September’s end. The house in St Anne’s Lane received him silently, solicitously, like a fellow mourner. Old Anna and the other servants
were gone now, and there was a new steward in charge, a surly fellow, one of the Bishop’s men. He followed Nicolas about the house with a watchful suspicious eye. The sunny autumn day outside
was all light and distance, and above the roofs and spires a cloud, a ship in air, sailed gravely at the wind’s pace across a sky immensely high and blue. The leaves of the linden were
turning.
“Build a fire, will you. I am cold.”
“Yes, master. His Grace your uncle gave me to understand that you would not be staying?”
“No, I shall not be staying.”
Uncle Lucas came that evening, in a black rage. He greeted Nicolas with a glare. The Frauenburg Precentor had been crass enough to die in an uneven-numbered month, when the privilege of filling
Church appointments in the See of Ermland passed by Church law from the Bishop to the Pope.
“So we may forget it, nephew: I am not loved at Rome. Ach!” He beat the air vainly with his fists. “Another week, that was all! However, we must be charitable. God rest his
soul.” He fastened his little black eyes on Nicolas. “Well, have you lost your tongue?”
“My Lord—”
“Pray, do not grovel! You took no degree at Cracow. Four years.”
“It was you that summoned me away, my Lord. I had not completed my studies.”
“Ah.” The Bishop paced about a moment, nodding rapidly, with his hands clasped behind his back. “Hmm. Yes.” He halted. “Let me give you some advice, nephew. Rid
yourself of this rebellious streak, if you wish to remain in my favour. I will not have it ! Do you understand?” Nicolas bowed his head meekly, and the Bishop grunted and turned away,
disappointed it seemed with so easy a victory. He hoisted up his robe and thrust his backside to the fire. “Steward! Where is the whoreson? Which reminds me: I suppose your wastrel brother is
also kicking his heels in Poland waiting for me to find him a soft post? What a family, dear God! It is from the father, of course. Bad blood there. And you, wretch, look at you, cowering like a
kicked dog. You hate me, but you have not the courage to say it—O yes, it’s true, I know. Well, you will be rid of me soon enough. There will be other posts at Frauenburg. Once I have
secured you a prebend you will be off my hands, and my accounts, and after that I care not a whit what you do, I shall have fulfilled my responsibility. Take my advice and go to Italy.”
“It—?”
“—Or wherever, it’s no matter, so long as it is somewhere far off. And take your brother with you: I do not want him within an ass’s roar of my affairs. Well, man, what
are you grinning at?”
Italy!
* * *
O n Easter Day in 1496 Canon Nicolas and his brother marched forth from Cracow’s Florian Gate in the company of a band of pilgrims. There were
holy men and sinners, monks, rogues, mountebanks and murderers, poor peasants and rich merchants, widows and virgins, mendicant knights, scholars, pardoners and preachers, the hale and the halt,
the blind, the deaf, the quick and the dying.
turning to the brothers he sighed and said:
“Gentlemen, you must forgive me my daughter. The wench is mad.”
He shook his stick at her and she retreated, harlequinned by crisscross shadows, pursued by the conspirators scurrying on tiptoe, twittering, to the stairs, where the little man in the plumed
hat waited among other, vaguer enigmas. All bowed and turned, ascended slowly into the gloom, and vanished.
Professor Brudzewski impatiently bade the brothers good day—but not before he had invited Andreas to attend his lectures. Grey rain was falling on Cracow.
“What?—spend my mornings listening to that old cockerel droning on about the planets and all that? Not likely, brother; I have better things to do.”
*
Nicolas arrived in Torun at September’s end. The house in St Anne’s Lane received him silently, solicitously, like a fellow mourner. Old Anna and the other servants
were gone now, and there was a new steward in charge, a surly fellow, one of the Bishop’s men. He followed Nicolas about the house with a watchful suspicious eye. The sunny autumn day outside
was all light and distance, and above the roofs and spires a cloud, a ship in air, sailed gravely at the wind’s pace across a sky immensely high and blue. The leaves of the linden were
turning.
“Build a fire, will you. I am cold.”
“Yes, master. His Grace your uncle gave me to understand that you would not be staying?”
“No, I shall not be staying.”
Uncle Lucas came that evening, in a black rage. He greeted Nicolas with a glare. The Frauenburg Precentor had been crass enough to die in an uneven-numbered month, when the privilege of filling
Church appointments in the See of Ermland passed by Church law from the Bishop to the Pope.
“So we may forget it, nephew: I am not loved at Rome. Ach!” He beat the air vainly with his fists. “Another week, that was all! However, we must be charitable. God rest his
soul.” He fastened his little black eyes on Nicolas. “Well, have you lost your tongue?”
“My Lord—”
“Pray, do not grovel! You took no degree at Cracow. Four years.”
“It was you that summoned me away, my Lord. I had not completed my studies.”
“Ah.” The Bishop paced about a moment, nodding rapidly, with his hands clasped behind his back. “Hmm. Yes.” He halted. “Let me give you some advice, nephew. Rid
yourself of this rebellious streak, if you wish to remain in my favour. I will not have it ! Do you understand?” Nicolas bowed his head meekly, and the Bishop grunted and turned away,
disappointed it seemed with so easy a victory. He hoisted up his robe and thrust his backside to the fire. “Steward! Where is the whoreson? Which reminds me: I suppose your wastrel brother is
also kicking his heels in Poland waiting for me to find him a soft post? What a family, dear God! It is from the father, of course. Bad blood there. And you, wretch, look at you, cowering like a
kicked dog. You hate me, but you have not the courage to say it—O yes, it’s true, I know. Well, you will be rid of me soon enough. There will be other posts at Frauenburg. Once I have
secured you a prebend you will be off my hands, and my accounts, and after that I care not a whit what you do, I shall have fulfilled my responsibility. Take my advice and go to Italy.”
“It—?”
“—Or wherever, it’s no matter, so long as it is somewhere far off. And take your brother with you: I do not want him within an ass’s roar of my affairs. Well, man, what
are you grinning at?”
Italy!
* * *
O n Easter Day in 1496 Canon Nicolas and his brother marched forth from Cracow’s Florian Gate in the company of a band of pilgrims. There were
holy men and sinners, monks, rogues, mountebanks and murderers, poor peasants and rich merchants, widows and virgins, mendicant knights, scholars, pardoners and preachers, the hale and the halt,
the blind, the deaf, the quick and the dying.
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