Race of Scorpions (29 page)

John le Grant gripped the uprights on either side of him and swung down to the plank just below. Without touching it with his feet, he performed a couple of somersaults and then let himself swing back and forth, his legs in their muddy boots held straight out in front of him. He said, ‘Catch me,’ and dropped. Astorre, nearly overturned into the sea, staggered, caught him, and slammed him down on the paving before him. He said, ‘If they’ve got any sense, they’ll brick you up in that thing. Did you hear what I said? Nicholas has come in from Kolossi. With a woman.’

‘I didn’t hear you say that,’ John le Grant said. ‘Well, good for Nicholas. Where is he?’

‘With Carlotta. That bitch Simon’s wife was waiting for him with Louis de Magnac. Suave and sweet to his face, but he’s under guard.’

‘You don’t look worried,’ said the engineer. He took off his felt cap and wrung it out.

‘He came. There’s nothing to worry about,’ said Astorre. His puckered eye gleamed through the scar, and his beard broadened its base. ‘The woman’s the one Thomas trailed all over Italy. Thomas got all upset when Loppe told him.’

‘Lopez,’ said John le Grant. ‘He’s with Nicholas?’

‘That’s who told me,’ said Captain Astorre. ‘And I’ve news. Loppe thinks it’s Cyprus we’re going for.’

John le Grant put on his cap. He said, ‘That’s all I needed: a death sentence. Come on. If I’m not going to build it, I don’t see why I need to get wet.’

Captain Astorre looked up at the tower and the scaffolding. He said, ‘What did you say to that fellow? To hold something?’

The engineer followed his eye, swore, and yelled up an instruction. The man, scowling, dropped what he had been holding. It slithered down, bringing a course of stone with it. A block dropped at his feet. ‘Wall you up, if you’re not careful. I told you. I thought you’d be interested,’ said Astorre. He climbed down to ground level. ‘Not that I got much from Loppe.’

‘Lopez,’ said le Grant.

‘Lopez. He had to go down to the harbour.’

‘Why?’ said the engineer. He wiped his hands on his hide coat and opened the door of the hut where his flask was.

‘I don’t know,’ said Astorre. ‘But I saw him down by the Florentine ship. The one from Constantinople. It had some alum on board.’

‘I didn’t know we’d left any,’ John le Grant said. He wiped his mouth and passed the wine to the other.

‘We didn’t leave much,’ Astorre said. ‘But it’s good, heh? He came. Now we’ll see something.’

Chapter 15

I
N A SNOWY
farmyard south of Bologna, the Queen of Cyprus had recommended her cause to Nicholas, and had sent Primaflora to persuade him. That had been a year ago. Now, her plight was more serious, and the Queen’s recommendations were about to become rather more forceful. This Nicholas saw, the moment he stepped from the hospice in Rhodes and witnessed the size and degree of his escort. Beneath the curled plumes of their helmets the soldiers’ manner was nothing but courteous. His negro servant on foot at his stirrup, he found himself drawn at great speed through narrow ways lined by white Levantine houses, their walls overlooked by dripping palm trees. His cavalcade trotted through markets crowded with mules and camels and people, passing between stalls of hung game, of copper, of medicines; and beside carpets of herbs and grain and trussed fowl.

It wound among forges and bread ovens, and up streets thick with the sawdust of woodcarvers, or lined with the trestles and kiln-fires of potters. It passed innumerable shrines, and many small churches. It rode through gusts of heat, and air heavy with yeast and goat dung, mutton and incense, lemons and carobs and blood. It traversed streets sloping upwards, downwards and sideways and the only streets it never climbed and never crossed were the streets of the Knights, built of marble, which, he had been told, lined the height to the Grand Master’s Castle. He wondered why.

They stopped only twice. Once, a line of horsemen in black appeared at a far-distant junction, and the Queen’s cavalcade paused until they had vanished. The second time, their way was impeded by a stationary mule at a junction. Low in its saddle, sandalled feet semaphored, rode a bulky man in a cloak. Below it, he wore the white-girdled gown of a Franciscan.

Nicholas recognised him, with a groan, as belonging to the same snowy battle at Siila. He remembered a curt conversation, during which he claimed to have escaped from Carlotta. He remembered
the derision in the monk’s ferocious eyes. It was there again now. The man looked up, and the rain beat upon his blue bristled tonsure and jowls.

‘Brother Ludovico da Bologna,’ Nicholas said with resignation.

The friar turned from the captain, approached Nicholas and, as the cavalcade moved, put the mule to a trot at his instep. ‘Not precisely. You may say
Father
,’ he said. ‘Or Monseigneur, of course.’ His voice was earthy, and rumbled. ‘The Venetians made me a priest. You’re not surprised?’

‘That the Venetians made you a priest?’

The Franciscan hawked and spat, conveying amusement. ‘To see me here. You are addressing the Patriarch of the Latins in Antioch, and that’s Antioch over your shoulder, give or take a sea passage and a few hundred miles. The Levant is my parish. I thought you would try for the sugar. You did well by the Queen in Bologna. You won’t be sorry.’

‘You’re with Carlotta?’ Nicholas said. ‘Still? Again?’

‘I don’t discriminate,’ the Franciscan said. ‘Black or white, man or woman, dolt or traitor or zealot. I’m with anybody who’ll stop that foul dog the Sultan from snapping at Christians. But don’t let that bother you. I’ve seen boys like you, mad for land and money and titles.’

‘And women,’ said Nicholas.

‘And women. You’ll get them all. They won’t cool you in hell.’

‘That’s all right. I was going to refuse them,’ said Nicholas. ‘Anything else?’

Ludovico da Bologna examined him. He said, ‘And what makes you such a cheeky young bastard? The Grand Master got hold of you? Or the Genoese? Or this charming young boy-taster Zacco? You were in the brothels of Trebizond. There’s nothing about the Emperor David that’s novel to me.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Nicholas said. ‘I thought his tastes ran to something younger. Is it worth going on, or should I just turn and go home?’

They had stopped before a set of high gates. The monk’s face, like a misshapen tuber, remained close to him. Then da Bologna said, ‘You don’t suspect you might be going to get a surprise? You’re a sharp fellow; but you don’t know Carlotta. Enjoy yourself.’

He turned. Nicholas said, ‘You’re not coming in?’

The friar laughed. ‘I’ll hear what happens,’ he said. ‘I’m sailing for home in a few days. My business is starting wars, my boy, not playing the peacemaker.’

‘So I’ve noticed,’ Nicholas said. The monk left. Loppe, who had vanished, reappeared at his side, saying nothing. The gates opened upon a courtyard planted with palms and hung with ceremonial
cloths of wet silk. As he rode through, trumpets sounded, and a man in a French hat and a heavy furred gown walked forward and held out his hand. ‘Ser Niccolò? Descend, and be welcome.’

At the
Ser
, Loppe’s chin trembled and Nicholas scowled at him as he dismounted. The trumpets sounded again, bouncing off the walls of an adequate mansion which must, in its time, have been owned by a nobleman of some taste and wealth. Now, dressed with painted devices, it was the temporary home of the monarchs of Cyprus, who appeared (considered Nicholas) to be taking a great deal for granted.

Nicholas walked through double doors, preceded by the personage in the French hat who held a wand. In the vestibule the personage turned and snapped his fingers. A page appeared, bearing a bale of blue cloth. The bale, unfolded, proved to be an extremely good indigo mantle with embroidery all over one side in Cyprus gold thread. The personage, who turned out to be Montolif, Marshal of Cyprus, addressed him. ‘The rain has damaged your cloak. Their graces wish you to replace it with this.’

Nicholas bowed; was divested of one cloak and invested with another and bowed again. He began to feel strongly like one of his own mechanical toys. He avoided Loppe’s eye, walked through a door and climbed a stair at the top of which another trumpeter was stationed. His ears ringing, he walked into a hall.

Although not of the grandest dimensions, the timbered chamber with its arched roof and handsome windows was not a mean setting for the Queen of Jerusalem, Cyprus and Armenia and her consort and cousin, King Luis. Below a baldachin at the end of the room they sat side by side upon a low dais, with their personal household grouped standing beside them. On either side of the room, there stood ranked against the long walls some fifty men of obvious standing. Those against the windows wore, uniformly, the same blue mantle which had been given to Nicholas himself. Those on the opposite side were dressed in styles which derived from France or Savoy more than Cyprus. Surprisingly, two or three wore the black and white cloak of the Order. But then, of course, the Order owned land in Savoy, and had allowed its Savoyard brethren to come to the aid of King Luis.

There were no women present but for the Queen and her ladies of honour. They were set on her right, and among them he saw Primaflora. She stood, eyes downcast, in her heavy court gown as if she had never planned to thwart or escape from her mistress. Of Katelina there was no sign whatever. Then the Marshal declaimed. ‘Serenissima; serene lord King: the lord Niccolò vander Poele, commander, banker and merchant of Venice.’

One did not approach on the belly as at Trebizond, or kiss the ground, or the shoe, or even the hand. But Carlotta was Byzantine,
as that court had been, and was due the high style of the ceremonial. He took his time, pacing the ground from the door to the foot of the dais, and thought it another irony that the person who had trained him should have been Violante of Naxos, whose sisters’ husbands worked for King Zacco.

He had seen Carlotta in Bologna and Venice, and thought she looked little changed, though now encased in narrow, high-waisted brocade with a fringed diadem on her hairline. Perhaps the vivid face was more worn; the painted eyes more ready to frown. She looked like a fierce, withering flower about to spit its thorns into the wind. Daughter of a Lusignan father and a Paleologa mother, she seemed wholly Greek.

And Luis, consort and cousin, son of the Duke of Savoy and of another violent Lusignan mother? At thirty-two, seven years his wife’s elder, Luis was broadshouldered and tall with an air of uneasy petulance. On the dais, his foot tapped. In the sandy face the lips and chin had a small life of their own, as if munching words in some remote, disagreeable dialogue. His clothes, rich enough, were not perfectly ordered and his nose was swollen with rheum. Once, Luis of Savoy had been betrothed to a Scottish princess, and Savoy was still paying for breaking the contract. You would guess that Katelina, who had married a Scot, would have something in common with Luis. But Katelina, worryingly, was not here.

The Queen said, ‘My lord Niccolò. Cyprus called you, and you have come. It is not, we know, a decision easily reached, and we honour you for it. We honour you for the brave band of men you have sent here, whose reputation has preceded them: who have already fought the Turk in the East. We honour you for the gallantry of your behaviour in Italy, when you saved our precious cargo at the risk of your life. You saw then what a base-born blasphemer will do, when he sets men to attack his own sister. You have rejected the unholy union of Zacco and Muslim. You have paid court, as was due, to the brave Knights of Kolossi, but have decided that their war is not yours. You might have sailed to Famagusta and sold your sword to those stalwarts, the Genoese. You did none of these things. You sailed to Rhodes, and appear before us. In doing this, you do more than the great kings of the West have done. In vain have we begged for an army. None would listen. None can see, as we can, the dripping fangs of the Turk at our door; hear the screams of the Mamelukes devouring our subjects in Cyprus. You and your force have come to do what they would not do, and this we wish to mark by our special favour. Land and wealth you will have: that we have promised you. A contract you will have: we are not without friends; money will be found for you and your captain. But first, we have something else to offer you. Kneel.’

Someone brought a stool. He knelt on one knee, rearranging from habit the sword that was no longer there. The Queen was standing and so, after a moment, was Luis her consort. An abbot, of Bellapaïs he assumed, came forward and handed a long object to the king. There was a baldric attached, which trailed on the floor. An equerry darted forward and looped the thing up. The object was a sword.

Luis said, ‘Well, take it.’

Nicholas looked at the Queen. The Queen said, ‘Let us give it him together,’ and put out her hand, and led her husband down the steps to stand before Nicholas. She said, ‘When the Holy Land fell, many knights vowed to recover it, and many orders of chivalry were created. Ours is more than one hundred years old. It was founded by Peter our ancestor to honour those who gave their swords to the cause: it is called the Order of the Sword, and this is its emblem.’ She turned, and drawing the blade, touched Nicholas with it once on each shoulder. She said, ‘And thus, you are made one of its Knights. Take this sword and wear it. Take this collar, which the lord King will place on your shoulders. Take this badge, and abide by its motto:
C’est pour loïauté maintenir
. Then by this kiss, seal the affirmation of your service.’

The bitch. The clever bitch. Someone came for the stool, and he rose. She stood before him, her scented cheek turned. Her eyes, delicately painted, were averted. Nicholas stood for a moment, the swordbelt tight over his chest, the collar of links pressing his shoulders, the silver badge glittering over his heart. Then he leaned forward and gave the Queen, with firm precision, the kiss of fealty she asked for.

Then her eyes turned, sparkling, and she said, ‘Luis, my husband. Give him your hand, and let us lead him to the feast. He is our newest Knight, who is about to save Cyprus. And here is Primaflora our lady, to whom we will bind him in fruitful and sanctified matrimony.’