Race of Scorpions (90 page)

Diniz said, ‘The manager helped me escape. Bartolomeo Zorzi.’

Above the veil, the woman’s eyes were intent. The fat man said, ‘He saw what was happening? He was sorry for you?’

‘No,’ said Diniz. ‘He worked me as hard as anyone. He was amused by anything that might embarrass Messer Niccolò. When I hit him –’

Nicholas moved, but too late. Diniz stopped. Behind the veil, the wheezing voice said, ‘When you hit whom?’ Under the broad, elaborate hat, the brows of Jordan de Ribérac were raised, also, in polite enquiry behind which, one could swear, was a gleam.

Diniz said, ‘The supposed accident with the axe. It wasn’t. I struck Messer Niccolò with it. You can’t precisely claim, can you, that we were lovers!’ His black hair, disordered, clung to his hot face.

The King’s mother said, ‘Lovers have tiffs. Messer Niccolò neither punished you nor reported it. Why was that? And why did you strike in the first place?’

‘I was angry,’ said Diniz. ‘I thought he had put me in the dyeyard to shame me. Afterwards, I saw I was wrong. But it was Zorzi who suggested I should finish what I had started and kill him. He said his elder brother wouldn’t like it, but his elder brother needn’t know. I think he wanted the dyeyard,’ said Diniz. The King’s mother stared at him. So did Nicholas.

The vicomte de Ribérac said, ‘I had no idea you had inherited the family temper. My congratulations. You tried to kill your tormentor, just because he put you in a dyeyard?’

‘No,’ said Diniz. He hesitated.

Nicholas said, ‘Tell everything.’

Diniz said, ‘I thought he had killed my father. I was wrong. Carlotta arranged it. Carlotta and someone else.’

‘Wait,’ said the King’s mother. ‘Why should the lady Carlotta have your father killed? Who told you? And who was the other person involved?’

Nicholas said, ‘Forgive me. If this is to continue, honoured lady, would you allow me a seat?’ It was not Primaflora who brought it, but a page.

Diniz, oblivious, waited fidgeting to make his reply. He said, ‘I had it from the demoiselle Katelina van Borselen. She told me the Queen – that Carlotta – wanted Ser Niccolò in her service, and was trying to remove all impediments. She had designs on the demoiselle,
and didn’t care which of the party was injured. She said she didn’t know who had arranged it.’

The King’s mother said, ‘It was known, M. de Ribérac, that the Flemish lady held some grudge against Messer Niccolò, and was bent on harming him. Forgive me if I speculate, but perhaps your own poor opinion of Messer Niccolò has grounds in the same family quarrel? Perhaps you even hoped the poor girl would act as your agent? Certainly, you made no effort to ransom and remove her.’

‘There is no harm, Highness, in speculation,’ said the fat man’s mellow voice. ‘If the gold did not come, it was simply because I was financially pressed. And my son, whose proper task of course it was, was abroad at the time. I would point out, however, that if I did not ransom the demoiselle Katelina, then neither did Claes. He did not wish to buy the young lady who disliked him. He bought the boy.’

Nicholas said, ‘The demoiselle would have been free by the autumn. It was arranged with the King. Serenissima, do you wish to hear more? All these matters are finished with.’

‘Certainly they are finished with,’ said the vicomte de Ribérac, removing a hair from his lapel. He clasped his ringed hands. ‘So is Katelina van Borselen, my son’s wife. How strange, that she ends in Famagusta as Diniz did. How strange that you find your way there. How inevitable that when Famagusta is freed, she is dead. Of course, your acolyte here will say you didn’t kill her.’

The King’s mother said, ‘Acolyte, M. de Ribérac? We have just heard how he attacked his supposed abductor with an axe and fled to a town under siege to escape him. If Ser Niccolò caused the young lady’s death, then surely you can rely on your abused grandson to tell us?’

‘Ah,’ said the fat man. ‘But they are not enemies now. They are now seducer and victim. Does it not tell you something, how their eyes meet? How they stand together, bonded against opposition? Against the boy’s own family? Our friend Claes suggested a moment ago that the boy should not be forced to choose. But he has chosen. It is apparent. Let us ask him. Diniz, have you taken any steps to get away from this island since receiving your freedom?’

‘No,’ said Diniz.

‘And are you coming home?’ said Jordan de Ribérac.

Diniz said, ‘Ser Niccolò has urged me to go back to Portugal. I should prefer to stay here.’

There was a short silence, during which the fat man sank a little back in his chair. The woman said, ‘You have made your peace with each other?’

Nicholas said, ‘In Famagusta, madame, there is no room today
for petty matters. He is my good friend and I am his. No more, but that certainly.’

‘You said,’ said the woman, ‘that you did not kill or cause to be killed Tristão Diniz?’

‘No, honoured lady,’ said Nicholas.

‘But you have no proof. You maintain that you did nothing to hasten the death of Katelina van Borselen?’

‘No, lady,’ said Nicholas.

It was not true. Because of him, Diniz had gone to Famagusta and Katelina had joined him. Aphrodite. He heard, after a moment, the voice of Diniz in passionate affirmation. A wave of dizziness swept over him, leaving him cold but collected again. Diniz spoke still. He saw the fat man’s eyes on his grandson, hooded and motionless in the overfed face. The last time he saw Diniz, his grandson must have been lithe and brown and burnished with vigour, as when Nicholas had met him first at Kolossi. Yet for the hollow-faced youth now before him, with the deep-set eyes and the thin arms and the low and passionate voice the vicomte showed no feeling of pride, or of pity or of shame. No, not shame. He could not believe, no man could believe what he had said of Diniz.

Something of the same thought must have struck Diniz, but not for himself. He looked across at his grandfather and said, ‘You knew Katelina. You knew her in Bruges, surely, and in Anjou. You saw her in Brittany. My father said she helped you escape the old King. Don’t you even want to know where she is buried?’

And the fat man stirred and said, ‘A moody child of no great intellect but with a certain aptness of build. No. Her place of committal doesn’t interest me. I should judge that she made sure it was as remote as was practicable from any haunt of her reviled servant Claes.’

Diniz opened his mouth, and there was no way Nicholas could think of to stop him. Then he closed it again, without speaking. For a moment, thinking about that, Nicholas lost the thread of what was happening again. Then he saw that the King’s mother was also looking at Jordan de Ribérac. She said, ‘Well? Are these all the complaints you wished to make? I have heard them. It seems to me that they have little bearing on the conduct of this kingdom, and that in the absence of proof, it is unlikely that you will quickly satisfy yourself before the time, I hope soon, when your ransom will be paid and you will be permitted to leave for home. The boy, of course, may leave or stay as he wishes.’

‘The ransom,’ said Jordan de Ribérac, ‘has been assessed by a clerk with no knowledge of the world or hold on simple reality. Your royal son will, I hope, be brought to realise this in the interview I plan to hold with him. I shall tell him what has happened. I shall tell him how I have been treated. I shall suggest
to him ways in which he may avert what will undoubtedly be the displeasure of France when I return and when I make these facts known. As for the boy, he will wait until I am ready to go, and then will leave with me, whether he wishes it or not. The future of this family rests in the hands of two weaklings: a child of three years, and Master Diniz Vasquez, unmarried at seventeen, and with a history that will fetch him no well-dowered heiress. His duty is at home, with his family company.’

The indulgent gaze, removed from the King’s mother, turned on Nicholas. The fat man said, ‘Which, of course, he is no more competent to run than that unfortunate mediocrity, my son Simon. Although he is learning. He almost made a success of his Portuguese venture, he was so determined to purloin your market. You are a remarkable stimulant, Claes, in your beef-brained fashion. And you can pay for trained intelligence, whereas Simon believes he has enough under his beautiful hair. Tell me, Claes. Are these clever minions of yours behind this firm of meddlers called Vatachino?’

Proportion came back to the world. Nicholas said, ‘Is that why you sailed? To find that out?’

‘You are afraid to tell me?’ said the vicomte. ‘Or no. I speak of a common disease?’

‘Consult the Knights Hospitaller, the Corner, Carlotta. We are all suffering, my hired brains included. If you find out who they are, we should all be obliged to you.’

‘Should you? Do I gather that you propose to continue your sugar concern? How very unwise,’ said the fat man. ‘But the magnificent lady is not interested in business.’

‘I sell eggs from time to time,’ said the King’s mother. ‘I follow reports. I assumed you both knew that an envoy for the house of Vatachino was in Nicosia at present? To find out who employs him is, I presume, merely a question of asking him.’

Diniz was smiling, and Nicholas felt like doing the same, if his face would obey him. He said, ‘Lady, the walls tell you secrets. Where can he be found?’

‘At this moment? He is with the King, I believe,’ said Marietta of Patras. ‘But I do not suggest that you disturb either of them. M. le vicomte, you may leave.’

The fat man rose, and the lights in the room seemed to dim. He said, ‘I have been honoured. I am told, gracious lady, that you have given a home to the wife of my friend here. Might I know which she is?’

Cropnose signed. Primaflora moved into the light, like a thing of pale gilt and fine porcelain. She stood gravely collected, while the vicomte surveyed her. At length, he spoke. ‘Whatever trade you have, my lovely lady, be sure not to discard it. You have married a husband whose life will be short, and who will keep you in bare
feet and darned clothing.’ He smiled, his eyes vanishing, his chins widening. ‘Next time, seek a rich man. A rich man who husbands his wealth, no matter what his appearance. I have no difficulty in keeping my bed warm.’

‘I shall remember,’ said Primaflora. She spoke automatically, her face rather pale. The fat man bowed, and walked with ponderous dignity to the door which hastily opened, as no doubt all doors had always opened, before he reached it.

The King’s mother said, ‘I have a matter to put to Messer Niccolò here. None of you need remain except Primaflora. Boy, you can hope for no favours now the truth about your axe-blow is known. Go to Portugal now, if it irks you to wait for your grandfather.’

Diniz said, ‘You have heard him and seen him.’

‘Then perhaps your mother needs your help,’ Cropnose said. ‘Am I speaking in a language you cannot understand?’

Diniz flushed. Nicholas spoke to him directly. ‘If the lady permits, I think you should return to the villa.’ And as the boy hesitated he said, ‘They will find an escort for me.’

The door closed upon silence. Primaflora stood behind the high chair, her eyes avoiding his. The parrot rasped a foot on its perch, and the brazier spat. He sat, sealed in a posture from which he could not readily move, and waited. The King’s mother said, ‘You have been told, I suppose, that the King’s sister has given her lord a dead son. The marriage has not produced heirs and her husband Luis is to be away for some time, settling his considerable debts in the West. It seems fitting, therefore, that James of Cyprus, my son, should renew his search for a bride who will bring him both heirs, and the support of a well-disposed power. These matters take time, and meantime he has begotten many daughters, but few male children that live. I would see him provided in this interim with many strong natural sons, and handsome women to bear them. His eye has fallen on one.’

The parrot ruffled its feathers. ‘She is fortunate,’ Nicholas said.

‘You think so?’ said Marietta of Patras. ‘Her husband is less so.’

‘And what of the lady herself?’ Nicholas said. ‘Does she have both fortune and happiness?’

Primaflora lifted her head. She said, ‘You know I must be the woman. I have found Apollo in the island of Apollo. Forgive me, Niccolò. I would have followed him had he been all that the vicomte threatened me with. Barefoot and in rags, I should follow him. Do I need to tell you? You love Zacco also.’

He did not even glance at Primaflora, although he addressed her. He said, ‘So I have lost you? Or do we share, for appearances’ sake? Once you proposed we should share in another way.’

And the King’s mother, at whom he was looking, replied. ‘She
should be married, but not to you or the King. Your vows were hurriedly taken; they can be dissolved, and the papers returned to you. Her husband requires to be a man of no prominence, with whom she will form no attachment. You would not wish to share her with the King?’

‘No,’ he said. His head moved, at least. He said, ‘The King did not feel able to tell me?’

The veiled woman said, ‘He plans to inform you tomorrow, and, if you are wise, you will receive it as news. I have told you now, to help you prepare for it. For the same reason I shall allow you now to meet this lady for the last time alone. You will say what has to be said, but you will not touch her. She belongs to the King.’

‘I understand,’ Nicholas said. He got himself to his feet, wondering how he would walk without touching her. But after he bowed, Primaflora slipped her hand under his elbow and walked with him through the door, and along to her chamber for the last time.

Chapter 46

H
AD HE DISCOVERED
it anywhere in the world, Nicholas would have known that the room he was taken to was Primaflora’s. The mirrors, the cushions. The lute and the manuscripts. The table heaped with the objects she loved to gather around her, as well as the precious vials and flasks she used for her art. The scents, mild and sensuous. And the bed. He wondered how much of it ever held Zacco’s fierce, erratic attention, apart from the bed.

Perhaps she had followed his gaze; perhaps not. Pressing shut the door at his back, Primaflora turned to face him. She lifted her hands and examined him; touching his bandaged arms, his shoulders; tracing the place beneath the silk where his side was strapped. He made no effort to stop her. She used her smoothing hands to draw herself closer; to gather him into a deepening embrace until no further movement was possible. Her scent and her weight settled against him; he felt as if sunk against wax. His breath caught in his throat, despite everything. Below him was the warmth of her hair, near enough to touch with his lips. Her eyes were two closed shutters of lashes; the lips below were painfully smiling. She said, ‘Seven weeks. Seven weeks, and you come to me a cripple?’