Race of Scorpions (85 page)

The paper addressed to himself was locked away in his box. It was the only one left, since Diniz now held the other two. Nicholas retrieved it rather slowly, and turned to where Tobie was watching him. Tobie said, ‘Why are you ill? Zacco sent wagons of food.’

‘It needed to be the right kind,’ Nicholas said. ‘And everything in the city was tainted. Also, I have been practising your trade. Dame Trotula of Salerno. You’ve been duping us for years. Medicine’s easy.’

‘He was a good doctor,’ said Tobie. ‘Abul Ismail, when he wasn’t burning the guts out of people. We thought we might get somewhere. On the sugar sickness, I mean.’

‘I don’t think we should have survived without him,’ Nicholas said. Then, since it seemed the subject ought to be mentioned by somebody, he said, ‘He nursed Katelina. She died thinking the relief ship had come. Chance. But God-given chance.’

Tobie’s voice was tentative, his face moist. He said, ‘You made friends with Diniz. And the lady too?’

‘Since the summer,’ Nicholas said. ‘Tobie? You and Godscalc know her son isn’t Simon’s. You gave your word to keep quiet so long as Katelina was alive. I have to know what you think now.’

Tobie’s face turned a deeper red. He said, ‘You want the child back?’

Nicholas sighed and sat down. He said, ‘No. We spoke of it. She wished me to have him, but it would have been wrong. I want Simon to continue to think the boy his. If I do, will you and Godscalc be content to keep silence?’

‘You don’t want him?’ said Tobie.

Nicholas could feel himself flush. He wound his hands hard together and said, ‘What do you think?’

When concentrating, Tobie’s eyes became pinpoints of pupil in two sea-blue pebbles. He said, ‘I think that’s probably the boy’s only chance of surviving. If the good lord Simon suspected, he’d kill him. On the other hand –’

‘I knew there’d be another hand,’ Nicholas said. ‘That’s why I brought you here.’

‘Why?’ said Tobie.

‘Because Katelina had the same thought. Somewhere, in case it matters: in case Simon dies and the boy is in trouble, there should be a record of who he actually is. And so she left me one.’

He didn’t want, when the moment came, to hand it over; but it was sensible. Tobie took it, and opened the covering sheet, and took out the paper inside. The writing was large, and not very black, because she had been so weak, but it was perfectly distinct. It stated that the child known as Henry de St Pol, son of Katelina van Borselen, was not the offspring, as commonly accepted, of the lord Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren, but had been conceived and born to Nicholas vander Poele, burgess of Bruges and presently of the House of Niccolò, Venice. The date of birth was inscribed, and the date on which the letter was written. She had signed it, and had it properly witnessed.

Tobie read it. He had become rather pale. At the end he said, ‘It isn’t wise. Simon may find it.’

‘He won’t find it if you carry it,’ Nicholas said. ‘Take it. If you like, give it to Godscalc if ever you get back to Bruges. I’d say send it, but it might not be safe.’

‘You don’t want it?’ Tobie said.

And Nicholas said, ‘It’s better in neutral hands. It’s better out of Famagusta as well. I want you to go to Nicosia and take Diniz with you. Whoever gets killed in a Mameluke attack, it shouldn’t be you or him.’

‘But you don’t mind getting killed?’ Tobie said. ‘You only think you don’t mind. You’re so low in health that you don’t know what you’re talking about, never mind being able to fight for anybody. Leave Astorre and get out of it.’

All the time they had been talking, he had been conscious of a racket outside: a banging, followed by voices. The door opened. ‘There you are!’ said Astorre. ‘Will you come back? He said to be back by dusk, and he’s murderous.’

Nicholas rose. ‘You see?’ he said to Tobie. ‘Wanted by everyone. I have to go. Take care of it. Go to Nicosia.’

‘Go to hell,’ said Tobias Beventini morosely.

Chapter 43

T
HE
C
ITADEL
that night was uncomfortable, jammed with jaded and irritable men to whom, in their weariness, it seemed that the surrender of Famagusta had made them masters of a festering graveyard. At the centre of it all, overtired and on edge, was Zacco himself.

His temper, on the late return of Nicholas, quite suited Astorre’s description of murderous, and it took an hour of endeavour for the men around him, including Nicholas, to soften his mood. It was an example of the curious alchemy that drew men to Zacco no matter what his behaviour. They suffered his whims out of love for him. Whatever he did, he could count on that. Many times he did so, quite deliberately. The rest of the time it was unconscious. It was what made him fit to rule this particular land, rather than his sister Carlotta, who was probably more energetic, probably more gifted, certainly more intellectual. And because he was part of the charmed circle, and had done what he had with his ship and his army, and had shirked abnormally little of the hard work or hard play or his share of the fighting, Nicholas was aware that he was held in regard by the others. He was aware, too, that when the King’s immediate anger had died, Zacco remembered something. So, when Astorre was found tramping about outside the door, the King looked up from the drinking, companionable group that was talking him towards his bed, and said, ‘Ah, poor Nikko. We are unkind, when he is heartsick, and bereaved of his sad, Flemish lady. Take him away.’

Plodding up the stairs behind Astorre, Nicholas sat down and said, ‘You couldn’t do that every night? I’m going to sleep on the floor.’

‘No, you’re not. I’ve got good news. Master Tobie’s got the boy to agree to leave with him. They’re riding to Nicosia in the morning.’ The toe of his boot did some prodding.

Nicholas said, ‘I wasn’t asleep, and I’ll put myself into bed when
I feel like it. I’m glad to hear it. Astorre, tell Loppe to go with them. Where’s John?’

‘Holding your other arm,’ said John le Grant. ‘The sooner you get into bed, the sooner you’ll get big and strong and able to fight Tzani-bey.’

It was something Nicholas had given no thought to just recently. He swore; then, finding himself unexpectedly in a bed, went to sleep.

The next night, Tzani-bey rode up to the land gate. He had a small retinue with him, but made no attempt to bring them in, merely requesting leave to walk alone to the Citadel. He was given an escort and taken there. While he remained at the end of the drawbridge, one guard spoke to another, and a captain appeared and crossed to him. ‘My lord emir, the Commander regrets. After nightfall, entry here is prohibited. Since I cannot admit you, is there any message I might pass?’

‘It was not the Commander I sought,’ said Tzani-bey al-Ablak. ‘Although – may he be prosperous – I would wish you to convey to him my felicitations on his well-deserved and excellent appointment. I sought out my brother soul Niccolò, with whom I believed I had some business of consequence. I have waited to hear from him. But perhaps he does not care to come out?’

‘He is here, most excellent,’ Nicholas said. He crossed the drawbridge, taking his time, until he looked down on the emir. He said, ‘We spoke of a meeting. You have in mind a time and a place?’

‘In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful,’ said Tzani-bey. ‘Is it for myself, full of dross, to suggest it? For me, one day is as well as another. There lie before us auspicious days only. The evil days of this month – the Egyptian days – these are all now behind us with their curses. Whoso may wed a wife, he shall not long have joy of her. And who that taketh any great journey shall never come back again. And he that beginneth any great work shall never make end of it. And he that letteth him blood shall soon die, or never be whole. Such are the dooms of the Dies Nefastae, of which one, as I recall, is your Saint’s Day. But why should the ramblings of doctors disturb you? I would fight you on horseback, with sword and with mace, within two days from now. And for your greater contentment, let us make our sport in Famagusta. There is an exercise ground?’

‘There to your left,’ Nicholas said. ‘But would the emir regard it as fitting? The Commander’s orders are strict. The emir’s entourage would not be permitted.’

‘Allah the Best Knower has endeared his faith to me, and I trust you and him. I shall come alone. I shall agree to whatever you choose. The day after tomorrow? An hour after sunrise? You may
wish to hold festival; permit games; arrange other combats. It keeps men from wearying. It is not a sweet city at present, Famagusta.’

‘It is agreed,’ Nicholas said.

‘In token of which,’ said Tzani-bey, ‘I have brought you a gift. This soldier carries it. Open it when I have gone, and think of me when you wear it.’

He left. In the Commander’s room in the Citadel, Conella Morabit was waiting for Nicholas. He said, ‘Now we know.’

‘You had him watched?’ Nicholas said.

‘Every moment. It was the soldier. The soldier who carried the parcel. A message passed.’

‘You heard the pact?’ Nicholas said.

‘You meet to resolve your dispute in the training field, and he comes alone. What do you make of it?’

‘The same as you. All the garrison will come to watch, whether public games are fixed round it or not. While they are out of the citadel, someone will open the gate to the quays.’

‘And four hundred armed men will enter, take the Citadel, and kill the King. It agrees with what we know of him. Except that the emir risks his own life.’

‘He’ll be in the field with me, when it happens,’ Nicholas said. ‘He can always use me as buffer. In fact, he’s got to keep me alive till it’s over, which I find rather cheering. I’m not entirely confident of killing Tzani-bey with a mace at the moment.’

Morabit was silent. He said, ‘But when he finds he is trapped, he will turn on you. No. The King may not allow this.’

‘Then he must have a poor opinion of my wits. Tzani-bey will be the one who is surprised, no one else. Besides,’ Nicholas added, ‘it’s what you might call a matter of honour, and the fount of honour must be James of Lusignan. I have promised myself this for a long time. In fact, when I came, it was a condition of service.’

‘I see,’ said Conella Morabit. ‘I am sorry to hear it, but I shall not, of course, try to persuade you. What, then, is the gift he has brought you? Something offensive?’

Wrapped in linen, the parcel was modest in dimensions and limp in character and innocent of any obvious threat. Nicholas opened it.

Inside was a beautiful cloak, lined with satin. When he lifted it out, it hung to the ground from his fingers, not ponderous as a fur mantle usually was, but weightlessly supple and silken, made by a master from thin, fine perfect skins pieced together with infinite artistry. Their colours glowed in the lamplight: smoke and silver and black, cream and tortoiseshell, orange and butter.

Nicholas loosed his hands as if holding a plague shroud. It fell and slid from his sight. ‘Burn it,’ he said. ‘Get your servant to burn it.’

Conella Morabit stared at him. ‘If you wish,’ he remarked. ‘But it is a thing of great price.’

Nicholas gave the statement some thought. He said, ‘And that is very true. I doubt if you can imagine what it has cost, and what it is still going to cost, before I have finished.’

The following day, Astorre came into his own. The King, torn between anger, and foreboding, and love of glorious danger, had been brought to agree to the piece of theatre which his Nikko demanded, and which might or might not prove the focal point of a Mameluke rebellion. Markios had no objections. Rizzo, departed suddenly for Nicosia, had not been present to give an opinion, and William Goneme, after praying briefly for everyone’s welfare, seemed to think that God had made a commitment. Pesaro seemed disapproving, but not Sor de Naves and his brother.

Most seemed unconvinced that the Mameluke attack would take place. All were optimistic, so far as his own prospects went. ‘If you’re right, your contest will hardly have started before the Mamelukes come, and we snare them. If there’s no revolt, all the better. The King has said he’ll have the duel stopped.’

‘He’ll have to work hard at that,’ said Nicholas to Captain Astorre, who had volunteered to teach him how to use a mace. ‘I’ve waited a year to get hold of Tzani-bey al-Ablak, and I’m not about to give him up to anyone.’ Astorre, who loved a challenge, was the right person to say that to; and John le Grant didn’t waste his time trying to stop him. Nicholas spent a day filled with bursts of furious activity in the training field, and crashed on to his truckle bed early that evening aching in every stretched and ill-nourished muscle.

Astorre said, ‘Well, you’ll need your wits about you. But that’s a good horse. Your sword is first-class, and your mace was got off one of the best fighters I ever knew, until I got hold of him. Also, you’ve fought with Muslims and against them. You know their tricks better than most. So when the Mamelukes come, pin him quickly. He won’t know you’re expecting it. He’ll be watching his men.’

‘If they come,’ Nicholas said. ‘What if Abul Ismail was wrong, or the emir guesses? Then he’ll attack hard from the beginning, because he won’t be waiting for anyone.’

‘So what’s wrong with that?’ said John le Grant. ‘A fair fight, face to face. I thought you asked for it. Gallant Knight to eminent Mameluke?’

Astorre looked indignant. ‘Except he’s not fit for it. Look at him! Putty!’

‘Thank you,’ said Nicholas, suddenly tickled. On occasion, Astorre’s tactics gave way to his truthfulness.

John was looking less serious, perhaps; but still thoughtful. John said, ‘That’s true. The man’s got you at a disadvantage. You’re entitled to some compensation. Make the big chivalrous gesture, but take any concession that’s going; that would be my advice. The fellow’s a weasel.’

He sounded unsympathetic, even exasperated. All right: Tzani-bey had been rough on the way back from Rhodes; had treated Nicholas badly on his trip to meet Zacco; had used brutal tricks when campaigning. To fight him for it in John’s book was childish. But then, John didn’t know what had taken place in the monastery set among vipers, and on the road between there and Nicosia. Cropnose and Zacco and Markios did; and Tzani-bey and most of his Mamelukes. When exacting payment in public for that, your mind didn’t run on concessions.