The Unicorn Hunt (98 page)

‘Twenty-five per cent in the hundred,’ said de Fleury. His face was like a hand-coloured woodcut.

‘Oh, that,’ said the Patriarch. ‘Certainly that. You’ll notice that I’m not appealing to your better nature, not being sure that you have more than one. But if you still want a look at the boy, then you’ll get it. You do your work, and the mother will bring him to Venice at the time of the conference. Can you wait three months for that, or have you a bladder that can’t hold its anger?’

‘Like the widow’s cruse,’ de Fleury said, ‘I seem to have constant
cause for replenishment. The answer is no. She will cheat, or you will.’

‘She won’t,’ said Ludovic da Bologna. ‘I’m a priest. She fears God, even if you don’t. She’ll do it.’

‘Good,’ said de Fleury. ‘But you would break any vow for God’s sake.’

‘You noticed,’ said the Patriarch. ‘That’s true. I have sold myself, and God has bought me. But I’ll keep my word. It’s been a useful lever, your matrimonial tiff, but I don’t flatter myself I can use it for ever. You’ll make up, or get tired of the battle, or maybe even decide to get rid of one another. It can happen.’

He let the silence develop. De Fleury said, ‘You were prepared even for that?’ Now the room had warmed, moisture showed at his temples.

The Patriarch said, ‘It was risky. I thought I guessed right. If you came down from that mountain at all, you had three months more of fighting left in you both. A lot more perhaps. And she fears God, I told you. How old are you?’

You could see he wanted to think. Instead, he said, ‘Why?’

‘Because you’ll find yourself taking some decisions if you go through with this; and Venice will be the place you’ll have to do it, I’ll guess. You’ll be thirty soon?’

‘In December.’ He was still full of fury, but tired. The Patriarch, who had ridden thirty-four miles himself, felt little sympathy.

‘And your birth sign is Sagittarius. Centaur, bowman and hunter. So is the girl’s.’ The Patriarch took the rejected flask, poured some water and pushed a cup across to the other, who took it without thinking. He drank.

The Patriarch prompted. ‘The Sersanders child will be seventeen on St Catherine’s Day. Time for her to marry.’

‘She expects to,’ said de Fleury. ‘And her uncle will bring you the news if I rape her. What decisions do you think I might be old enough to take when I get to Venice?’

‘Are things happening too fast for you?’ said the Patriarch. ‘If all goes well, if all the powers agree and an alliance is made against the Grand Turk, you could spend the rest of your life in the East. On the other hand if your mind is set on family matters, you’ve laid the groundwork for a very nice little empire in the West: trading and fighting for or against Flanders, Burgundy, France; not to mention the Magnificent Lords of High Germany and the Tyrol. And once the English have stopped killing each other, the Kings of Scotland and England will come to your door.’

‘Do I have to choose?’ de Fleury said.

‘East or West? At twenty, no. Range the world. At thirty you choose, or stay rootless. There’s an Arab name for the state. And before you think of saying it –’

‘I know,’ said de Fleury. ‘You’re rootless for God. Have you seen my son?’

The Patriarch considered. A fly had dropped into the honey. He let it drown. He said, ‘I think he exists.’

There was a silence. ‘And that is all?’ the other man said.

‘My mistake,’ said the Patriarch, astonished. ‘Of course I have seen him. He sits on my knee. I have taught him to pray for you daily. I thought you were old enough to expect the truth.’ He waited. He said, ‘If I thought he did not exist, I should have told you. In any case, one way or the other, Venice will solve that for you. Do what I ask, and you will see him in Venice. Or you will know the truth, once and for all: that I promise. What is your answer?’

He agreed, looking strange. The Patriarch thought it might have been achieved more quickly, but didn’t complain. M. de Fleury would, of course, require to return immediately to Nicosia and report to those with whom he would now be working. ‘You had better,’ remarked the Patriarch, ‘acquire a fresh horse.’ He did not offer to ride back immediately himself. Some things were best left to Nature.

A horse to take him to Nicosia was easily come by, although not of the quality of the one which had brought him; and the journey took five hours instead of just over three for that reason, and also because he was stopped after the first twenty miles by a squadron of the King’s guards, sent to arrest him for stealing the King’s horse and saddle.

It was a return, after a little too long, to the conduct Nicholas associated with Zacco, the young lion of Cyprus. He resented it enough to resist, and broke one man’s leg and nearly killed another before they got him subdued; and that largely because, as ever, Zacco had forbidden his soldiers to wound him. As ever, it was the soldiers who suffered and, as ever, the soldiers adored him.

At the Palace, Nicholas was locked in a room which possessed, at least, the luxury of a feather bed. He lay down to think, and awoke to lamplight and Jorgin, the King’s servant, accompanied by pages bringing a tub of hot water and fresh garments.

Jorgin, six years older, did not smile and Nicholas made no approaches. The arrest had been nothing, an impotent gesture; Zacco needed him as he needed the Venetians, and probably hated
him quite as thoroughly. Overlaid by the new, the old wounds throbbed as he lay in the bath-water, constituting a history, that was all. He had already reviewed, many times over, his conversation with Ludovico da Bologna, and had identified how he had been taken, step by step, to his final – his interim decision, and led away, equally, from the thing that had happened so quietly, so cruelly, in front of the fire. Not consoled, or conciliated. Just led away.

He thought that Beelzebub probably looked like Ludovico da Bologna, but that equally the Patriarch owned that penetrating, unsentimental form of insight which permitted him, if allowed, to nick the Achilles’ tendon of the soul, and twist the remains to his purpose.

He was also an adequate horseman for his age, having, it seemed, ridden last night at least as far as Nicholas had. Otherwise Zacco would not have been able to snap, as he did now when Nicholas, clean, was brought to his chamber: ‘I was told you had gone to take ship from Famagusta.’

Thank you, Beelzebub. The lamps were low, but the room smelled of yesterday’s scents. It was a seduction scene Zacco had abandoned half planned, although the bedchamber in its own right was enchanting. Its loggia hung above gardens, and Zacco, watching him from its balustrade, had stripped to shirt and hose under a loose-girdled bedgown. The silk was Caspian, the embroidery Venetian, the jewels no doubt obtained through Squarcialupi or Benedetto Dei from the Orient.

The King said, ‘You raise your eyes a great deal for a merchant, not to mention your steel. Where did that come from?’

He held the little box by its cord. They must have taken it from his room while he slept. He remembered wrenching it from his neck when they locked him in, and then throwing it on the floor, along with his soiled, ceremonial cloak.

Nicholas said, ‘From the monks at St Catherine’s, roi seigneur. I am sorry about the horse. I had a visit to make, that was all. I have decided that my company can agree to take part in the plan the Venetians have suggested.’

‘The plan I have suggested,’ said Zacco. His colour had risen. He flung the box, and Nicholas caught it. ‘You should take better care of it. You are going to Rhodes, I am told; to Rome; to Venice. Afterwards your home, of course, will be here.’

‘I have no property here,’ Nicholas said. ‘Nor do I want any.’

‘You are wrong,’ Zacco said. ‘There is a list on the table of what you own.’

It lay under the lamp: his eye had fallen on it already. The vineyards were all good, and there were two sugar estates. Zacco said, ‘Of course, Venice will not like it, but they can deny you little now. And if nothing else attracts you, there are the three pretty ladies from Naxos who are certain to visit. My father’s wife, the lady Fiorenza, for example.’

‘I thought you called the lord Andrea your father?’ Nicholas said.

‘I forget which is which,’ Zacco said. He unhitched from the balustrade and sat. ‘There is wine on this table.’

‘So long,’ Nicholas said, ‘as you don’t ask me to taste Fiorenza’s sweetmeats. I don’t want this property.’

Zacco said, ‘Be careful.’ It was a warning. He had whitened.

‘I don’t need to be careful,’ Nicholas said. He had not touched the wine, or approached.

‘You think I need you?’ Zacco said. ‘You?’

‘You need the Venetians.’

‘And you are afraid of them? You think they would get rid of you?’ He paused. ‘Sweetmeats?’

‘A figure of speech,’ Nicholas said. ‘Monseigneur, I must go. I have to report, and to speak to my people.’

‘I threw them out,’ said Zacco carelessly. ‘When I thought you had gone, I found I needed the villa. The girl is at the Clares’.’ His eye fell, in turn, on the document under the lamp, and his lip suddenly twitched.

All the wayward charm was still there. It was hard not to smile back, until one remembered how dangerous he could be. Nicholas said, ‘The Venetians will no doubt take in Dr Tobias, and me too.’

‘You have a talisman against poison?’ said Zacco. ‘I could find a use for you.’ He stood. ‘You will stay. Refuse me, and I will never forget it.’ He picked up and held out the sheet. When it was not taken, very slowly he opened his fingers and let it drop to the floor.

‘My lord,’ Nicholas said. The box cut into his palm. ‘My lord, that is why I am refusing.’

He had thought, after he left the room, that they would try something else: that the King’s mother would have him sent for, but she did not. He did not even go back to his bedchamber, but recovered his horse from a stable where no one spoke to him. Then he went and found Tobie at the house of Andrea Corner.

Corner embraced him on either cheek, gripping his shoulders and finding out several bruises. Tobie heard him out when they were alone in the guest-chamber. He told him all the salient facts,
except for Famagusta. At the end, as was to be expected, Tobie was having trouble keeping his temper. He dragged his hat off and aimed it into a corner. ‘Right. You know where the gold is, and you’re giving it up in return for certain rights. You have committed the company?’

‘On my own personal whim? Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘To my services. Until the turn of the year.’

‘When the plans and figures come to be discussed in detail in Venice. Do you mean to do all that on your own as well?’

‘Julius and Moriz will be there,’ Nicholas said. ‘Cristoffels. You, if you want.’

‘Yes, I want. Poor Diniz. He ought to know what has happened to his half of the gold. And John. Don’t you think John might want to have a say in the way the company is going? Even where you are going?’

‘I have no objection,’ Nicholas said.

‘You would leave me to arrange it? You don’t want me in Rhodes.’

‘No. But what about the girl?’ Nicholas said. He was aware of a certain vagueness.

‘You’re thinking like a sponge. The girl doesn’t need me: she has to wait for her uncle. Adorne. Remember the good Baron Cortachy? Forestalling you wherever he can, along with the rest of the Vatachino. Do you think they’re going to let you become the accredited middleman for all this without some very nasty opposition indeed?’

After a while, Tobie added, ‘Nicholas?’ and stopped marching about and sat down opposite.

Nicholas realised he hadn’t answered.

Tobie said, ‘Listen to me. You thought you could track down the child, but now you say that you couldn’t: Gelis knows how to outwit the pendulum. Or I think that’s what you said. So how do you know you won’t commit yourself to all this, only for her to mislead you in Venice as well?’

‘Because Ludovico da Bologna made her promise,’ Nicholas said. He perceived that he shouldn’t have said anything.

‘You didn’t say you’d met Ludovico da Bologna,’ Tobie remarked. ‘Where? Nicholas, where have you been?’

He would find out. When Tobie wanted to, he always found out.

‘Famagusta,’ Nicholas said. ‘She left a little of the gold there, and the box led me to it. Made of the same gold, I suppose. I thought it was going to be the child, but it wasn’t. I gave some to the Franciscans, and brought some for Diniz.’

He paused and added, ‘The Patriarch thinks that Ochoa’s probably sailing the seas under strict supervision as a master in the Hospitallers’ galleys. Licensed piracy. But he did try to tell us, through the parrot.’

He saw, this time, that it was Tobie who had been stricken dumb. He found he wanted to continue. ‘The Patriarch was using us both. Gelis and myself. He knew that gold alone wouldn’t take me to Cyprus, but that I might follow a clue to Mount Sinai; especially if I found Anselm Adorne was competing. And he persuaded Gelis to go there and wait for me. I don’t suppose she needed much persuasion. She wished me to go to Cyprus as well, and left the box – you were right – just as he left some gold to prove it existed.’

He paused. He said, ‘I was bound to try and find her, you see, after what happened in Cairo. And she was bound to try and force me to Famagusta. From the Patriarch’s point of view, he had time to put off before Uzum’s Envoys were due to reach Cyprus. He may have hoped the Mount of the Lord would achieve miracles, in which case he was wrong. At any rate, he says he has stopped intervening. He expects Gelis and myself either to halt of our own accord or kill one another.’

He waited again. Tobie’s extraordinary, incoherent distress brought him a positive resurgence of calm. Nicholas said, ‘So do bring everyone to Venice. It’s going to be something worth watching.’

In a few days he had departed, with the Persian delegation, for Rhodes. Tobie sailed from the same port for Alexandria; and found the Florentine agent, Mariotto Squarcialupi, travelling with him.

The Patriarch of Antioch, a practical man, paid a pastoral call on the convent of the Poor Clares, Nicosia, and held a friendly conversation with Katelijne Sersanders, whom he had previously encountered in bed, when seeking the fellow de Fleury.