Race of Scorpions (89 page)

‘The emir did it,’ said the doctor. ‘Found out somehow the Arab betrayed him. They’re a mad race, but he was a good doctor. I suppose they fight it all out in Paradise. I’ll be off.’

The negro said, ‘Master Tobie. If Master Nicholas is with the Franciscans, they will care for him. And Master John is still there.’ He used formal speech, as he always did, but Diniz was surprised by a glance which, quick though it was, was less than formal. Loppe added, ‘I don’t suppose there is news of the prisoners? The men who arrived on the
Adorno
?’

The doctor stopped and frowned at Diniz. He said, ‘Well, I might as well tell you. Yes. Crackbene brought back the
Adorno
prisoners.’

Diniz said, ‘And Simon my uncle is with them?’ He felt sick. Simon was probably here. By now, Simon would know that his wife Katelina was dead.

‘No,’ said Tobie. ‘Not Simon. It’s that shameless great bladder that gave Nicholas the scar on his face. Your grandfather, Jordan de Ribérac. And stay away from him, boy. You had your chance with the axe. You’ve blabbed enough as it is about Nicholas.’

Diniz felt himself flush. He said, ‘No, I think I could help.’

‘You can,’ said the doctor. ‘By staying away.’ He touched the man Loppe and, turning, made for the door. The negro glanced back once as he left, although Diniz couldn’t read his expression. But later, alone in his room, he heard a tap on the door and found Loppe waiting to speak to him.

He had never considered who or what Loppe was. As major domo of the villa, as manager, so they said, of the sugar estates, he was clearly a person of more consequence than he appeared – a former Guinea slave, a negro, the member of an inferior race. But he was also, he had found, a member of the Bank of Niccolò; a voice, if a quiet one, in its deliberations, and a friend of vander Poele whose personal association with him went back for several years. Now Loppe said, ‘Master Tobie has decided to stay. It is better. Sometimes Master Nicholas is offered more help than he needs. If he requires any now, it is in another direction.’

Jordan de Ribérac. Diniz said, ‘If I could see my grandfather, I might be able to explain what has happened. Otherwise he will blame Messer Niccolò.’

‘It is what I wondered,’ said the negro. ‘I could have you taken to the Palace. I cannot tell if M. le vicomte would see you. Would you come?’

He went, and met total failure. The name of Niccolò vander Poele was known throughout the Palace. Diniz learned where the prisoners of the
Adorno
were held, and saw the guards, and arranged to be admitted to the locked room where his grandfather was. The guards disappeared to speak to his grandfather and returned. He had braced himself in vain. His grandfather refused to entertain him.

He didn’t believe them, and sent them back. They returned, lashed by the Ribérac tongue, and told him to go away. He insisted.

That was a mistake, for it caused a disturbance, and finally some other guards came and he was locked in a room until someone checked who he was. He sat nursing a headache of the kind he now shared with Niccolò, and which Abul Ismail had said would disappear. It got worse. He expected, when the door opened, to see the captain of the palace. It wasn’t. It was a beautiful woman. It was Primaflora, the wife of Niccolò whom, under normal conditions, Niccolò said he wouldn’t have married.

Long ago, Diniz had thought her the fairest woman on earth. He continued to think so even after he had found out she was a courtesan, and was helping Niccolò, and was prepared to allow him what Diniz himself only dreamed of. After his father died, Diniz had ranged himself against vander Poele on account of Primaflora as much as anything.

And then had come her long absence in Rhodes, and his service in the dyeyard, and the act of his that was meant to kill the man he blamed for all his misery. The treacherous act, for which he had been punished. After that, the reality of Primaflora had faded, and he had escaped to Famagusta without seeing her again, and had met Niccolò vander Poele, and had found that, after all, he could trust him. Even when told of his marriage, he had felt no jealousy, except on Katelina’s behalf. And he had no doubts now about the quality of Niccolò’s commitment to Katelina, before or during her illness. Or indeed to his fellow men. No one who was merely a trickster could have behaved as he did, week after terrible week, when their lives, their relationships, their souls seemed transparent. After Famagusta, all the strivings of everyday life appeared paltry.

Now, seeing Primaflora, his first thoughts were still with Katelina, and the promise he had made. He said, ‘The vicomte de Ribérac is my grandfather. Can you help me to see him?’

‘Your
grandfather
?’ she said. ‘But of course I shall help you. Were you stopped? Diniz, how you have suffered! All those months in Famagusta, you and the sad lady Katelina. You were strong, and survived. That is courage. You made your peace with Niccolò, too. You know he is wounded?’

‘I heard. It’s about that. In a way, it’s about that,’ said Diniz. ‘If I can’t see my grandfather, I think Messer Niccolò should be warned to stay away until the vicomte has gone. My grandfather will blame him, you see.’

‘For what? For your father’s death? But you know now that Niccolò had nothing to do with it?’

‘He will think he had. He will think he killed Katelina. Katelina warned Messer Niccolò. She said one of the family would come looking for vengeance. She said that unless one of us could get to him first and explain, he should go into hiding.’

‘Niccolò?’ said Primaflora. She smiled. ‘I know he will want to do whatever that poor lady wanted, but I don’t think he should stay locked up in Famagusta for ever. Suppose I take you to your grandfather now? The guards will let me in.’

‘They were prepared to let me in,’ Diniz said. ‘The vicomte won’t see me.’

‘Ah,’ said Primaflora. ‘Then perhaps we should wait, and I shall try. Go back to the villa. If the vicomte consents, I shall send for
you. After all, he is only one fat and elderly man. I don’t really think he could succeed where a Mameluke emir lost his life. Leave it to me.’

He felt some uncertainty. But she spoke with conviction, and he thought that, from curiosity, his grandfather might very possibly see her. And, of course, she could defend her husband better than he could. He left, and found and told his story to Loppe, who received it with almost no comment. Then he waited, but Primaflora didn’t send for him. He was planning to go back to the Palace when, the following morning, vander Poele and John le Grant rode in, on either side of the Patriarch of Antioch.

Hooded and cloaked against rain, their shapes and condition were hardly discernible. But the doctor stood still, saying nothing, and after a moment dragged off his cap, presenting his scalp to the rain. He said, ‘Jordan de Ribérac’s here. Get down. There’s a bed made up. Has anyone seen you?’

‘Nothing,’ said vander Poele, ‘compared to the numbers who are about to see me. I have to go to the Palace. I’ve just to change.’

‘Who says?’ said the doctor. His face had turned red.

‘The King’s mother, apparently,’ vander Poele said. ‘The Patriarch is to take me.’

’Take you both, said the priest. ‘You and the boy.’ He bent an undisturbed scowl upon Diniz. ‘Are you thanking me? I saw your father’s corpse off from Rhodes.’

‘I would thank you,’ said Diniz, ‘if you took me to see my grandfather.’

‘Done!’ roared Ludovico da Bologna. ‘And I’ll take a good dinner off you in payment. He’ll be in Cropnose’s chamber by now, and itching to see you and your battered friend here. It was Cropnose’s idea. A nice family reunion. Be sure to thank her.’

‘I suppose,’ vander Poele said, ‘the Lusignan know all about nice family reunions. Are you coming to this touching occasion?’ His voice was amused, but he stood as if his bones were welded together, and his skin was the colour of beeswax.

‘Me?’ said Ludovico da Bologna. ‘I, thank God, am not a St Pol or a Vasquez or a Lusignan. By the way, you don’t need to pay me for lodging. I got that in advance from the Palace.’

He turned away. Niccolò let fall his cloak and said, ‘Diniz. You tried to see your grandfather? Who else did you talk to?’

His face must have changed, because before he could answer, vander Poele said, ‘Never mind.’

Since the
Adorno
arrived, it had been evident to Nicholas that some such meeting was about to take place, although he had thought (as he always tended to think) that he would be confronted by Simon. He had known that he would be unfit, but not that he
would be strapped in so many places with bandaging. Finding clothes to accommodate it all had been a nuisance, and tiring, but he had faced magistrates before in a shakier state. He had faced Tzani-bey, and defeated him. But Tzani-bey was not related to him, which had made it simpler.

The apartment they were taken to was the one to which he had been brought, fettered, sixteen months ago. As before, the walls were hung with silk and with carpets; the service table laden with silver; the red and blue bird shifted from leg to leg on its perch. The woman called Comomutene, or Cropnose, sat as before in her high chair of state, watching him with black, kohl-painted eyes from above her whistling veil, while her ladies stood, their hands gracefully folded, behind her.

Among them was Primaflora. He had forgotten – how could anyone forget? – the precise oval of her chin, and the short curling lips with their pleats. Her small ears, with the golden ringlets falling before them; the fine arch of her brows, and the pale, clear eyes under. She wore a gown he had never seen, embroidered with pearls he could have afforded, but had never had time to find for her. She wore a necklace he could not have afforded. Her gaze, making nothing of his stiffness or his pallor, was concerned only with his mind. He let her see what she wanted to see, but nothing more. Her lids slowly dropped, as if in submission. He turned to the King’s mother and bowed as well as he could, while Diniz did likewise. Then he looked fully to one side of the chair where, this time, the hulking figure of Markios was not present. Instead, in a heavy seat fit for his bulk, Jordan de St Pol, vicomte de Ribérac, stared at him.

Tobie had called him a bladder, but the King of France’s financial adviser was not a figure of fun. The vicomte de Ribérac was a broad-shouldered man of great size, which he exploited, as now, to suggest the quality and scale of his riches. He was heavily bejewelled. Beneath the extravagance of his headgear his large-featured face rested upon several chins; in a cloak of innumerable sables he filled a large room with his presence. His eyes, sharp in their pouches, scanned first Nicholas, then every inch of his young grandson’s body. He was not smiling.

The King’s mother said, ‘There is the lord Niccolò vander Poele, whom you accuse. There is your grandson, who has worked as a serf in his dyeyard. Ser Niccolò, you know whom you face. He has laid charges against you. He accuses you of the killing of his daughter’s husband Tristão Vasquez on Rhodes. He says he has proof that in Famagusta you and an idolatrous doctor, since murdered, brought about the death of his son’s wife, Katelina. He claims that you and your manager contrived that his grandson Diniz Vasquez, bought by you and committed to serfdom, should be
encouraged to escape so that he would find himself locked and starving inside Famagusta. He says that his son’s wife and the boy were initially captured and brought to Cyprus by your agency, and their ransom ignored so that you might do them harm. He asks for your death. Boy, go to your grandfather.’

Nicholas said, ‘Excellent lady?’

The veil turned. Nicholas said, ‘They are of one blood. The boy should not have to choose. Let him leave us.’

‘To
choose
?’ said the King’s mother. ‘Between whom? Between you and his grandfather?’

Diniz stood without moving. He said, ‘It isn’t a question of choice, but of justice.’

The King’s mother looked at the vicomte. He spoke to her, although his eyes didn’t move from the boy. ‘It is as I warned you. I require medical endorsement, for which I am willing to pay. You see where the child has taken his stance, at the side of his seducer. He knows how his father died; who killed the wife of my son. But he will not say now. He has chosen.’

Raw to the marrow, Nicholas heard him, and drew a hard breath. He had cause to know Jordan de Ribérac’s cruelty. He had not been prepared to see it unsheathed to discredit a worn, bereaved boy. Beside him, Diniz had turned first red, then white. Nicholas said, ‘You say that of your grandson in public? In public? Even if you believed it is true, and you don’t? Will you do even that to get rid of me?’

And Jordan de Ribérac said, ‘Remove yourself, Claes. That will stop me.’

Nicholas turned to the chair. ‘My lady: let the boy go. This man is a captive. He has no rights here. He should have justice, but he cannot demand it. By process of law, if he has a complaint he may put it, and the courts in his own country will hear it. But why am I brought here to listen to him?’

De Ribérac looked at the chair of state. He said, ‘Forgive me. There speaks the voice of privilege, or one who claims it. Have I been misled as to the position this fellow holds in your country? Is he known for these forms of depravity? Has he perhaps climbed to high position because of them?’

The veil blew, reflectively. The King’s mother said, ‘He holds high position because he has performed commensurate services. He is right. Whatever wrongs have been done you, it is not a matter for our jurisdiction. I shall mete out no punishments. It is my concern only to safeguard my son the King. We place trust in Ser Niccolò. If he has erred, I should like to be told of the circumstances. You call him Claes?’

‘His name in the dyeyard,’ said Jordan de Ribérac. ‘But he called himself Nicholas when he thrust my grandson among the stinking
vats in Nicosia. He paid his ransom himself in order to keep him. Ask where the boy lived. In the villa! Ask whether he knew his master’s bedroom – he slept there. And ask how the boy got to Famagusta. Did you choose even that, Diniz, rather than continue to suffer? Or did he tire of you first, and release you, knowing where you would fly?’