Race of Scorpions (44 page)

‘To be carried out by you, my lord emir?’ said Nicholas. At his back, another skiff was arriving.

‘By me?’ said the Mameluke. ‘Of course, I should have no objection, but it is usual, when injury has been done, for the injured party to take his own satisfaction. No, I am not your executioner. I have been ordered to take you to Kiti. King James waits for you there. For you, and your men, and your fellow-travellers.’

His eyes, full of malice, held those of Nicholas and then moved behind, to the boat just arrived at the jetty. Nicholas turned. In it, stiff-backed and stern, was the Grand Commander of Cyprus with Napoleone Lomellini seated beside him. In the forepart of the skiff lay Katelina van Borselen, her eyes closed, her face drawn with exhaustion. Primaflora knelt at her side, half supporting her. Behind, their faces pallid and anxious, were her serving-woman and her young nephew Diniz.

Nicholas turned back to the emir. He said in Arabic, ‘You exceed your orders. The King your
ustadh
has no concern with these ladies. And one is ill.’

‘You can read my lord’s mind from Salines?’ said the emir. ‘He has heard of the painted lady Primaflora. Have I not heard you claim that the lady belongs to him? And the other, as you see,
requires to be taken to shore. The journey below deck has discommoded her.’

‘But when she has recovered?’ Nicholas said. ‘Katelina van Borselen is a merchant, and related to princes. The King would be unwise to abuse her.’

‘As to that,’ the emir said, ‘no doubt the King will make up his own mind. If so valuable, she would seem a good hostage. Meanwhile the St Lazarus hospice may care for her. The boy and your other woman are summoned to Kiti. Do you presume, a dead man, to argue?’

Nicholas was silent. His bonds cut, he was pushed with Tobie and John to the horses, and saw Lomellini and de Magnac also mounted. While the cortège assembled, Katelina was lifted ashore. She was carried past Nicholas on a litter, her woman trotting beside. As the sick girl came abreast, her eyes opened. Nicholas said, ‘Get better quickly. We are not far away.’

Her lips were white. She said, hardly breathing. ‘You threaten me?’

Before he could reply, the litter had gone. Primaflora’s voice said, ‘Let her go. The nuns will care for her. Will you look at that fool of a boy?’ She stood, preparing to mount, and gazing behind at a tumult. At its core could be seen the hatless head and flailing arms of Diniz Vasquez, attempting to force his way after the litter. Before Nicholas could speak, a mailed fist was raised and the boy subsided, unconscious. ‘I have to say,’ said Primaflora, ‘that I have sometimes thought that force works better than words in that family. Now they will have to tie him on a horse. Where are they taking us?’

‘Not far. To a Lusignan castle at Kiti. The King is there. Don’t be afraid,’ Nicholas said. He tried to make his voice light and comforting.

She flushed. She said, ‘Afraid! The King won’t trouble a courtesan. At worst, he’ll use me as a means of taunting his sister. But you! What will you do? Whatever you say, Lomellini and de Magnac will swear you meant to fight for Carlotta. They will give you no chance to change to Zacco’s side. You must escape.’

‘And my men?’ Nicholas said. They had begun moving. He could see the emir turn his head and begin to ride over.

She said, ‘It is you I am thinking of.’ Then, after a moment, ‘Would they kill them? You think they would. And of course, you wouldn’t leave them.’

Nicholas said, ‘None of us can leave. Whoever escapes, the rest would be punished.’

‘And so?’ she said. The emir had arrived, and had taken her reins.

‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas said. He had no chance to console her,
even if he could have thought of something to say. The emir led her away, and he rode in silence to his meeting with Zacco.

By the second hour of their incarceration, Tobie had been five times to the latrine and even Astorre, most doughty of captives, had taken to pacing their prison; a room small enough for six persons.

Their arrival at the palace of Kiti had taken place after dark. Even Nicholas, Tobie and John, the first to dismount, had seen little more than a plank bridge, a small courtyard, and a dark building of several storeys. The ground was deep in mud, leading Tobie to observe that Noah’s great-grandson, after whom the place had been named, might have been advised to bring the Ark with him. Diniz Vasquez, the fourth to arrive, had seen nothing at all, being still bound to his horse, and half-conscious. Diniz shared their small prison. Where Primaflora had been taken, or the Grand Commander or the Genoese, they had no means of knowing.

By the time their hundred soldiers arrived, the moon had risen behind racing clouds. The news that the men were here, housed and settled was brought by Astorre and Thomas when they in turn were marched into their chamber. By then, Diniz was awake, pale and frowning, but restored enough to put up a fight when armed men burst through the door and herded them off, without speech, to a bath-house.

It seemed curious, as Tobie said, that the Bastard required them to meet their God purified. Being men of war, they made nothing, as Diniz did, of being stripped and thrown into hot water. When they emerged, they were given clean drawers, nothing else. Then they were returned to their prison, which had once been a place to house valuables, possessing barred windows and doors, but nothing of comfort except a brazier. John le Grant said, ‘Of course, if Nicholas could talk, he could tell us what to expect of this Zacco.’

Nicholas, whose normal high spirits could elate a platoon marching over a cliff-top, had been perplexingly dumb since Salines. On the journey, speech had been discouraged. Since, he had sat, hugging his knees and keeping his own rigid counsel. The situation failed to please Diniz, the ache in whose head was compounded by feelings of fear and inadequacy. He stopped pacing the floor and went to stand, his arms folded, over Nicholas. He said, ‘She was sick, and you did nothing to save her! You took your own woman and left her!’

Nicholas said, ‘You did all you could. Your aunt couldn’t have travelled. They have no use for her, Diniz. They’ll let her go. The monks will see to that.’

‘Who feeds the monks and defends them?’ the young Portuguese said.

‘The Lord God of St Lazarus,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or so I should like to think. For the rest, you will have to rely on me. As well as I can, I shall protect her.’

‘As you protected my father,’ said Diniz.

‘With you, I succeeded,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let me say one thing only. I have met the King before. When he summons us, let me speak. When I finish, say whatever you please, if you’re not satisfied.’

Diniz said, ‘Why should he listen to me, when he’s heard what you have to say?’

‘Why?’ said Nicholas. ‘Because he has eyes, like the Mameluke.’

No one spoke. The boy, flinching, lowered his eyes. Astorre coughed. You bastard, thought Tobie. How do you know? How do you know how to get your own way? In the corner, Thomas scowled, as he usually did when matters went beyond his understanding. Only John le Grant remained looking at Nicholas and Nicholas, feeling his gaze, lifted his head and returned it. The engineer said, in his ordinary voice. ‘Someone is coming to fetch us.’

The professionals jumped to their feet: Astorre with his puckered scars and teak belly and muscular calves; Thomas with his carpet of hair, throat to belly-button. Pink as marzipan, Tobie was slower, his fuzz of hair dispensing slow teardrops. Le Grant waited until Nicholas stirred, and then rose at the same time. With them both rose Diniz, perforce, with the grasp of Nicholas under his elbow.

The door opened on a glitter of arms, but all that entered were clothes. Conveyed on a succession of legs there arrived shirts and pourpoints and doublets, hose and slippers, hats and robes. Last to promenade was a man in the robes of a chamberlain. He said, ‘The High Court requires that all who attend be fittingly dressed. Prepare yourselves for the summons.’

A suitable remark rose in Tobie’s throat and evaporated at a look from Nicholas. No. If the King wanted puppets, he should have them. But at least, he would get puppets with voices.

They dressed, with dry jokes, prosaically exchanging what fitted less well for better. Nicholas, the largest of all, was best suited with a mantle that might have been made for him. But then, the King had met Nicholas. That was why they were here. Tobie said, ‘I need –’

‘You haven’t time,’ Astorre said. ‘They’re coming for us.’

On this occasion, the doors opened only on soldiers: a double file lining a passage, and established on the stairs beyond that, where sconces flickered on feathers and steel. At their head was the Mameluke emir. He smiled. He said, ‘Now is the appointed time. The King waits. You will follow.’

They had not far to go. The castle had once been more extensive,
and the repairs had been inexpensive and hasty. They passed blackened walls, where the wind moaned and wailed through distant fissures, and the torch-flames caught their breath and burned yellow, rippling. Once a breach opened black at their feet, the broken flags marked by a guard rail. But the hall doors, when they reached them, were intact, although the timbers were cracked, and the coat of arms bruised, as by a mallet. Tzani-bey struck the doors and they opened. Blinding light fell upon Nicholas and, dazzled, he paused.

‘You falter?’ said the emir. ‘You hear the sound of the saw, of the pincers heating? Take your courage. Think of your men. Step to meet your fate bravely.’ He had spoken in Arabic. Smiling still, he pushed past Nicholas over the threshold and, advancing, took his stance upon a square of Turkey carpet. He bowed. ‘My lord King. Niccolò vander Poele, Knight of the Sword of Carlotta, and his mercenaries.’

It was too late to be affected by malice. It was too late for anything he could count on, and certainly too late to remember the moment when he had promised himself that he was no longer a member of a community. When he had told himself he had taken charge of an arsenal in – what was it? –
the opening moves of a perfect war game
.

He walked into a small hall which had lost its timbers, but whose brilliant lights fell on costly wall-hangings, and on the deep-dyed velvets and silks of the courtiers who stood on either side. He knew some of their names. There was Rizzo di Marino, ridden ahead as his harbinger, still carrying the cloak he had worn at Salines. Beside him stood a man in Archbishop’s robes: William Goneme, the King’s wily Cypriot counsellor. Here surely was Conella Morabit, the other Sicilian knight. And men the Venetians had told him of: Zaplana and Galimberto; Salviati and Costanzo. And even, at the foot of the throne, the page Jorgin, who had helped tend his hurts from the last time he had found himself in Mameluke hands, by Zacco’s orders. Without raising his eyes, Nicholas stepped the required number of paces and stopped short of the throne, as his friends halted behind him. He heard someone – le Grant or Tobie – draw a short breath. In Astorre’s shadow, the boy Diniz was silent.

Nicholas looked up at the King, and the remembered eyes looked into his.

He had prepared none of his companions for the beauty they would see on the carved seat on its dais. They looked up as he did to a golden king in the flower of his youth, the splendid line of his body wrapped in sable and velvet and gold. Above the robes, the brown, careless hair was now schooled under a hat bound about the brows with fine velvet. Next to its ruby-pinned fall, the fine skin kept the glow of high summer, and the glow of the autumn
showed in the clear hazel eyes. Showed, then died. James de Lusignan said, ‘Kneel.’

He was not looking at Nicholas. After a moment, the emir Tzani-bey, at his side, sank to one knee. His face was blank.

The King’s eyes turned to Nicholas. The King said, ‘You have been ill-treated?’

Nicholas looked at Tzani-bey. ‘No, my lord,’ he said. He heard Diniz move sharply behind him and felt, rather than saw, Astorre grip the boy’s arm.

The sunburned face of the King remained perfectly still. The King said, ‘But your eyes say,
Not yet.
’

Nicholas waited. Then he said, ‘And my intelligence also, my lord. We have set out to serve you, and have been told to expect torture and death. I will not beg my life from a Mameluke. I would lay it, with my explanation, at the feet of the King.’

No one spoke. Slowly, the King turned his head, his brows rising. The kneeling emir lifted his voice. ‘My lord. While on the ship they were bound. You desired it. Once on land, they were freed. You required it. They have been housed, bathed and clothed, as you requested. More than that you did not ask.’

‘Why,’ said the King. ‘Do you not know our mind, even from so far as Salines? You carried out my instructions, you say. Did we instruct you to warn them of my anger?’

The dark face of the emir conveyed humility. ‘The man Niccolò, my lord, leads a considerable army. Unless chastened, he might have attacked us. Further, had I been mild, the Queen’s men on the ship would have turned on him. You asked especially, my lord, that he should appear in good health.’

The King lifted his gaze and ran it over Nicholas. ‘We see,’ he said, ‘that he has a self-inflicted wound to the head. Shall we seek corroboration? We understand Messer Napoleone Lomellini is in the castle. Have him brought.’

A servant left. The room remained in absolute silence. The King allowed his eyes to travel over the faces of the strangers before him. He did not give the emir leave to rise, or look again at Nicholas. There was a pause. Then the broad figure of the Genoese entered, wearing again the rich clothes and rings of his land costume. He held himself stiffly, and bowed.

‘Messer Napoleone,’ said the King, his voice sweet. ‘We have met. You have heard, perhaps, that we are not always lenient, but we try to be just. You are captain of Famagusta, a city which is in arms against us. Were you not in our grasp, we have no doubt that you would return to that city, and would immediately continue your campaign of resistance against us. Are we right?’

‘I am a citizen of Genoa,’ said Lomellini. ‘And Famagusta belongs to the Republic. Yes, I should return to my duty if freed.’