Race of Scorpions (35 page)

He realised he was lying in a mess of pulped olives. It would ruin his gown. He found he was smiling, and stopped. He was a doctor. A man lay dead behind at this moment. To want to hunt down his killers was natural. One should not, however, start to enjoy it. Tobie frowned, shifted, and prepared to make another contributory dash in the darkness. Then he stayed where he was.

A horse was approaching from the pine grove at a gallop. With it streamed light from a pitch torch. The rider, veiled, wore the flying white muslin of Guinevere. The horse fled across the flat ground to the byre. Trough, well, farm buildings stood illuminated in flickering gold. For an instant Tobie saw the byre window, with the archer standing, bow bent, aiming from it. Tobie rolled, flat on the ground, into shadow. While he was moving, he saw the first barbs pierce the rider. They struck without cease: veil, gown, the horse itself. Transfixed, the animal whinnied and reared. The torch, no doubt meant for the thatch, dropped to the ground and was extinguished. In the sudden darkness, little could be seen but the threshing bulk of the dying mount, and the shreds of white cloth lying under it. Tobie began to rise to run forward, and stopped, as his wits returned. Whatever had been on that horse, it wasn’t Nicholas. But seen for a single menacing second by the men in the byre, it was good enough to look real. The bowmen would
assume one of their pursuers was dead. And they were the poorer for a great many arrows. He watched, entranced, as the drumming of hooves heralded a second horse.

This time, the rider wore Astorre’s glittering helmet but carried no brand. The unseen archer shot again, and the figure rode for a while, and then toppled. Its helmet rolled off. The horse swerved, hesitated, and cantered away. The sound of its hooves receded, leaving silence behind. Tobie rose and, forsaking the trough, crept to a position nearer the byre. He was close enough, now, to see the horseblanket stuffed into Guinevere’s dress. He was aware, too, of the glutinous smell of olive oil from the pulp stuck to his boots and his clothes. It made him feel hungry. He remained where he was, awaiting whatever Nicholas and Astorre were going to try next. While he waited, he received another whiff of the oil, this time from his right. The trough was not on his right. Someone else, therefore, had stepped on the olives.

The thought had just struck him when he heard a creak from the direction of the byre. One of the doors must have opened. A man’s voice, speaking in Greek, said, ‘Takis? There is only one left. We will take him between us.’

His voice broke off in a scream. Astorre must have been standing beside him. Tobie heard the sounds of a struggle, and saw the two figures, entwined, stamping backwards and forwards. Tobie began to run, peering through darkness for Nicholas or the mysterious Takis. Now he could see the heads of the struggling pair at the byre door, the bowman’s helmeted and Astorre’s grizzled and bare. He caught the glint of a dagger in the hand that had been holding the bow. It rose, and remained rigid as the man’s wrist was held by Astorre. Tobie saw Astorre’s right fist swinging back, with his sword in it.

If the captain remembered what Nicholas had demanded, there was no sign of it now, any more than there was a whisper of protest from Nicholas. Astorre’s sword came down with a whistle and took the other man clean in the neck. He fell, killed on the instant. Astorre looked round. Tobie, hesitating, began to move forward again, straining to see through the darkness. He experienced, once again, a whiff of oil that did not come from his own person. Then someone took hold of his arms, and wrenching them hard behind him, held something tight at his throat that both glinted and cut. A voice at his back shouted in dreadful Italian. ‘Gentlemen! Lukas is a fool, who doesn’t know a man from a dummy. I am one man against three, and I am not afraid. I have a knife at the throat of a bald man. Do as I say, or he dies.’

Tobie stopped struggling. The man behind him was big. Tobie could feel the thick leather jack he wore, and winced at the strength of his grip. Astorre’s voice said, with admiration, ‘There was one of you outside all the time! A nice trick.’

‘Mine,’ said the man. ‘I have the brains. Lay down your sword and get me the last horse. Where is the third man?’

‘Behind you,’ said the calm voice of Nicholas. ‘You cut the throat of the bald man, and I’ll take your head off with my sword. We can do it at the same time, if you like. If you don’t like, drop your knife.’

He dropped it. He thrust Tobie sprawling in the same movement and, whirling round, drew sword on Nicholas as if he were not outnumbered three to one. For a moment, Astorre was too far away to help him, and Tobie immobilised. Nicholas said, ‘Don’t be a fool!’ and parried a wild sword-thrust, frowning. The blades clattered. Nicholas parried again, and again. Astorre said peacefully, ‘That’s enough,’ and stepped forward.

It distracted Nicholas for a moment. He turned his head, still frowning, and said, ‘No!’ The killer’s sword flashed towards his exposed body. Tobie exclaimed. And Astorre, with the speed of a veteran, sprang forward, sent the man spinning, and before he could be stopped, plunged his blade in his throat. Nicholas looked at him, gasping, and swore.

Astorre withdrew his sword, wrenched some grass up, and wiped it. ‘He would have killed you,’ he remarked. ‘What did you want him for? A long, nasty trial and a hanging?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas.

‘I could have saved the other fellow for you, then, if you’d reminded me,’ said the captain reproachfully. ‘I just got carried away.’

‘He didn’t want to remind you,’ said Tobie.

Nicholas was staring at him. Nicholas said, ‘I was tracking olive oil all over the yard, and had just found this fellow about to cut your God-damned wimple. How could I yell without giving away where I was?’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Tobie. ‘I think you got what you wanted.’

‘Well, you know best,’ Nicholas said. ‘Three positive kills and two blunders: I missed Katelina and Diniz. Never mind. By now, Loppe will have finished them off.’ His voice was bitter.

Tobie stood motionless. Astorre gave a cackle, bending to pick up his helmet. ‘Lost your sense of humour, Master Tobie? The boy saved your life for you, there. Not but what you did a good job. Quite a good job. It did us a bit of good, having you with us.’

‘I suppose it did,’ said Nicholas, relenting suddenly. ‘Oh, come on, Tobie. Danger stirs everyone up, you know that. Let’s get back to the others, and you can prescribe something to sweeten our tempers.’

They brought the bowmen back on the last horse and met, on the way, a detachment of cavalry sent to help them. Remounted,
they turned and rode back to the valley together. By then, the Knights had already found the ravine, and brought victims and bereaved to high ground. Laid on shields, the body of Tristão Vasquez was set to make its last journey on horseback. Beside him his son, his swollen foot bound, dumbly shared a horse with his uncle’s wife Katelina. Around them, torches blazing, the rest of the searchers were assembling for the journey back to their fort and the City. Primaflora watched Nicholas come, her eyes and her face speaking for her. Katelina, her face bleak, addressed him. ‘You didn’t find the men who murdered Tristão? Or you found them, and they were dead?’

‘We killed them,’ said Nicholas. ‘Before they could tell us who had paid them, or where the other two are.’

‘I thought you might,’ Katelina said. ‘Are you satisfied?’ The boy, sitting before her, turned his head.

Nicholas mounted. Without his dress, he had nothing to wear but hose and boots and a light sleeveless jerkin. He looked dirty and cold. He paused for a moment, his hands holding the reins and the pommel, before he lowered himself in the saddle. He turned his face to the boy. He said, ‘Diniz? None of us harmed your father, or tried to harm you. You will be told otherwise. You must take what precautions you wish, but that is the truth.’

The boy stared back at him. Was there a likeness between Nicholas and the youngster? Black and brown; dark-skinned and fair: surely not. Katelina put her hand on her nephew’s shoulder. It was a defensive gesture, not a maternal one. She said, ‘You will never get near him again.’

‘As you like,’ Nicholas said. He and the boy were still looking at one another. It came to Tobie that Nicholas, alone of them all, knew what he was doing. The boy, in his heart, was not afraid of him. If Nicholas took him in his arms, the boy would break down and weep, as he must.

But that was the last thing Katelina would allow. The boy stayed in her grasp, an object of pity, but not of understanding. And, clenching his teeth, he didn’t break down. Then they were moving, and Primaflora brought her horse close and spoke to Nicholas. ‘They should thank you. Without you and Lopez, the boy might not have been found. You risked your life to follow the murderers. Are you hurt?’

Nicholas rode without answering. Then he said, ‘We all took scratches. You, too.’

She said, ‘I wouldn’t have missed it. I didn’t know you, before. When can we meet? Niccolò?’

It was softly spoken, and Tobie supposed none but himself had overheard it. Nicholas said, ‘When the Queen lets you come. She will. We are affianced.’

Primaflora said, ‘I want a bond stronger than that.’

Through the dirt, one indentation appeared. ‘Soon,’ he said. She looked at him and then, with discretion, drew a little apart. Nicholas spoke again, without raising his voice. ‘Tobie: the boy would be better with you.’

Tobie said, ‘I thought of that. The demoiselle wouldn’t allow it. What is it – fourteen miles, fifteen? He should manage.’

Silence fell. On his other side, Astorre frequently talked, addressing his neighbours; rehearsing some recent or long-ago fight. Sometimes he drew Tobie into the conversation, until Tobie’s monosyllables annoyed him too much. Nicholas said nothing at all until they were past Phileremos and could see, very distantly, the glow in the sky that spoke of the City of Rhodes.

Now, the cavalcade was much smaller, reduced by the Knights who formed the garrison on the Mount. For the first time in a long while, Nicholas spoke. ‘Where are le Grant and Thomas?’

Tobie looked round. In the uncertain light, he saw several of the Knights who had set out with their party, but the two men of their own were not visible. He said, ‘They’ll have gone back on their own.’

‘Without reporting?’ Nicholas said. ‘Look again.’

Tobie looked. The cavalcade still stretched before and behind, obscured by the smoke and the darkness. Closer at hand, its nature had changed. Where Katelina and the boy had been, there were now well-armed horsemen quite strange to him. Captain Astorre trotted still at his shoulder. But beyond him were two other well-accoutred Knights of the Order, and behind him, Primaflora’s protectors. Primaflora herself had been drawn out of sight. There was no sign of Loppe, or of any other faces he knew.

Tobie said, ‘What was it you said? Incantations, cauldrons and mirrors?’

Nicholas turned. With whatever effort, the weariness had been banished, to be replaced by a view of one dimple. He said, ‘You remembered. If you hadn’t, I’d have made a small wager. Our standing has changed, as I said it would.’

‘We are about to go back to prison?’ said Tobie.

‘Or worse,’ Nicholas said. ‘We foiled someone’s plans; so probably worse. Tell Astorre. We make no resistance. We make no excuses. I do all the talking. We shall probably be met at the gate. There you are. We are being met at the gate. Do you see anyone you know?’

Tobie was abruptly put in touch with his last meal. Only Nicholas did that to him. Only Nicholas could orchestrate this kind of disaster. Ahead, flushed with light, stood the great drum towers of the entrance. There was a squadron of soldiers beneath, their spears flashing. He could see the Grand Commander of Cyprus,
and the Treasurer of the Order, and a man in black, wearing a broad-brimmed black hat over the cowl of his cloak. The man in black had crossed teeth and was smiling. So was Nicholas. Tobie didn’t like either smile.

‘John de Kinloch,’ Nicholas said. ‘A Scottish chaplain from Bruges. He knows the demoiselle Katelina.’

He looks happy to see you,’ said Tobie.

‘He is,’ Nicholas said. ‘I kidnapped him in Cyprus to stop him telling the Vasquez who I was. To stop him telling the Knights who I was, for that matter. If Katelina doesn’t have me hanged for killing Tristão, then that fellow will.’

Chapter 19

T
O RECEIVE THE
judgement of the great prince Pierre-Raimond Zacosta, Grand Master of the Order of the Knights Hospitaller of St John of Jerusalem, it was necessary to march through the gates of the Castello, the inner town of the Religion, and by climbing between the tall Inns of the Knights with their pointed doorframes and marble-grid windows to attain the austere Gothic arch at the top. There, beside the loggia and the church, stood the fortified Palace of the Grand Master, in whose courtyard the Court of King Arthur ought to have displayed its martial prowess two days before.

Nicholas walked to his appointment between two files of armed men, and with him were all four officers who had set out on that abortive joust; for John le Grant and Thomas had been put under restraint like themselves immediately on their return from Kalopetra. In the two days of their confinement, Nicholas had spent most of his time with Astorre’s men. Barring a few new recruits, they all knew him – either as the wild Charetty apprentice, or as the husband of Marian de Charetty who employed them, or as the man who took them to Trebizond and brought them back again, richer than they had ever been before. And since then, of course, as the future patron who had fought with them in Italy, before he turned up in Rhodes.

They knew him, and they trusted Astorre, so that they believed that there was nothing, in the long run, to be anxious about. For two days he worked to impress himself on them, and also to get to know them again in his turn. With some it was easy to revive the old camaraderie. With others he brought out the whole battery of bawdy talk and good-natured roughhousing, of reminiscent exchanges, of gossip and long, deep talking late into the night. He could never go back to the techniques of his boyhood – they had to respect him, as well as enjoy his company. Judging men was an art at which he excelled, and he enjoyed practising it. He could have
done with more than two days, but it was enough to carry them with him, when eventually he talked of the immediate future.