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
HAD 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?’
Except for the way they were standing, one shouldn’t compare this in one’s mind – or elsewhere – with another embrace, outside Kalopetra. Katelina had possessed none of these arts: only passion, and instinct. In a thousand ways, Primaflora had been trained to bestow pleasure. He had been the instrument on which she played; the tablet on which she placed her bounty. In the cabin of his own purloined ship the Doria; at Kolossi; on the ship taking two sweet-natured men, father and son, to their parting on Rhodes. At sea, after Lindos and their marriage. And then Nicosia, and the bed to which he had returned again and again, denying Zacco.
He knew her arts, and knew also, with absolute certainty, when she lost her hold of them. The hands behind him were unsteady, as were his. It had been more than seven weeks, for seven weeks ago Zacco had made sure that he shouldn’t come to her as a husband. He knew how long, to a day, he had been celibate. She said, ‘Lie down. Let me sit beside you.’ Yet she held him fast, as if unable to free herself.
He said, ‘I thought it was forbidden to touch.’
She showed no alarm or confusion, but lifted to him the same intent, anxious gaze which had investigated his wounds. Her grasp relaxed, just a little. She said, ‘You must understand. You do. You live by the same rules. I have nothing. I have one profession. When a great man demands what I can give, I am afraid to refuse. But I also wish to practise my skills. It is unwise to tell you this. I should say that he threatened me. It’s true that I’m afraid, but he didn’t. I wanted to see if I could capture a king. Niccolò? Niccolò? Do you understand?’
‘So you leave me,’ Nicholas said.
She gave a laugh, and rested her head against him again. She said, ‘I’ve just told you. My profession feeds me, so I follow it. But often, despite it, I starve.’ There were tears on her cheeks. Below, the rounded haven of her body beat with his heart. She said, ‘Could I be near you, and not touch you? Whenever Zacco will leave me, I shall come to you. Do I not deserve something more than an embrace for telling you that?’
Lindos, and sunlight, and perfumed oil spilling over his body. He put her hands down, and his own arms close around her, and kissed her in the long, airless way which had been his contribution to their union, and which, on the rare occasions he used it, gave private notice of a slow sequence of acts also sparingly offered. As he began to draw back from the kiss, a knock fell on the door at his back.
Neither spoke. The rap came again, and was repeated. She put her finger to her lips, and drew him with her palms to the bed. Her face was white. The blood throbbed through his wounds, and his head. He stroked his hands down to her wrists and freed himself. ‘That will be Loppe,’ he said, and walked to the door and flung it open.
Loppe’s face was fixed; showing nothing of surprise or distaste, censure or apprehension. The sober grey-blue of his coat and doublet sat tidily on his great ebony frame, and his close black hair, perfectly groomed, held the tilt of his soft, folded hat. Across his palms, and unparcelled, lay a light object. On top of that was a packet. Nicholas said, ‘Come in.’ He turned. ‘You don’t mind? I asked him to help me home – well, to the villa.’
Primaflora stood by the bed. Sunlight, fountains, sweet scented oil. She looked as if her soul had been stolen, which was as it should be. Loppe said, ‘I’ll wait outside.’
‘First,’ said Nicholas, ‘Give her the veil. No. Put it on her.’
It was unfair to Loppe, but he hesitated only a moment. Then, laying the packet aside, he shook out the fine thing he had carried. A long linen veil, striped with embroidery and crumpled like tissue for, of course, what is soaked in river-water will not dry itself smoothly. He walked to Primaflora and then, glancing at Nicholas, laid the pretty cloth over her hair, and arranged it to fall from her shoulders. As she felt it she winced, but stood silent. For a moment there was a small tableau: the fair, gilded woman; the negro. Then she said, ‘A gift? It is beautiful.’ She had to breathe twice as she said it.
‘It is yours,’ Nicholas said. ‘You remember. You wore it once, at Kolossi. Open the packet now.’ Loppe had moved. He needed only a sign to walk through the door and close it gently. Nicholas watched him go, and then turned.
She had flung up a hand to the veil. Now she turned it into an ordinary gesture, drawing the linen aside and letting it slip to the bed. She said, her voice clearing, ‘Where did you find it? I left it with the Queen.’
‘Carlotta,’ he corrected her. He said kindly, ‘Open the packet. It was to be given to you when I was dead.’
If I survive a second time, I must revise it. He had written it in December, on the night of the Feast of St Nicholas. There was nothing he wanted to add. He watched her as she read it, leaving unopened the personal thing he had also left her. He found a seat and descended carefully into it, still watching. At the end she said slowly, ‘Small men are suspicious like this, and see treachery everywhere. You made love to me, and to Zacco, and all the time this is what you were thinking?’
‘Recently,’ Nicholas said, ‘I haven’t made love to anyone. But Zacco gives freely – and takes – although his mother usually determines the victim. What had happened was obvious, anyway, from the time Zacco came from Kyrenia. I remember the gowns you wear; I have cause to. There were too many others.’
‘You have refused nothing he has given you,’ Primaflora said. She walked away from him and back, and threw the letter down on the bed, before coming to stand, looking down on him. She said, ‘As for the rest, it is nonsense.’
He said, ‘When it was written, I didn’t know Katelina was ill in Cyprus. Did you contrive that she went to immolate herself in Famagusta? She heard, from Carlotta she thought, that Diniz was trapped there and starving. But Carlotta has had very little, hasn’t she, to do with all this?’
‘You didn’t tell me the city was starving,’ said Primaflora. ‘You said it could hold out until spring.’
‘And you told Zacco,’ Nicholas said. ‘You were meant to. Otherwise he would have sent no food, and hoped for a quick surrender. You and the King’s conscience, because of you, were what brought those relief wagons that night.’
He fell silent under her stare. She said, ‘You used me?’
And Nicholas said, ‘Give and take: I play games for a living. Zacco doesn’t; you will have found that out already, perhaps. He can be ruthless, and so can his sister. Katelina and her family threatened me and the Cypriot sugar trade, at a time when Carlotta wanted both. Would she have gone to such lengths without you as her agent? The attack on the Portuguese that killed one of them, and brought Katelina there and very close to her death – didn’t it matter that Diniz was sixteen, and adored you?’
She said, ‘I was with you at the time! How could I have arranged it?’
‘You hired killers,’ said Nicholas. ‘Do you want me to tell you what agents you used? I might not have found out if I hadn’t followed Katelina to Rhodes to warn her about you, and made friends of Persefoni and her kinsmen. Katelina might be living today if I’d stayed with her until she left Rhodes, but I thought all I had to do was remove you.’
She backed slowly and sat on her coffer. She said, ‘You lov
e schemes, don’t you? I wasn’t an agent of Carlotta’s. She asked me to spy on you, after the death of Ansaldo. When he died, I hated you and I hated her for expecting me to forget him. I didn’t know Zacco’s Venetian friends were going to trap both of us, or that you would refuse Zacco until you had overtaken your army. Carlotta was powerful. How could I have told her on Rhodes that I would never spy for her, or admitted that I had given myself to you, and not just my body? Do you think I do for any man what you have experienced? Do you, Niccolò? And when she sent you to Kyrenia, I followed. She forbade me, Niccolò, but I followed. You seemed glad.’
She was weeping, her face held immobile. Nicholas said, ‘I didn’t know, then, that Katelina was on board. I thought I had separated you. But of course, it was all right in the end. Zacco sent you back to Rhodes.’ He felt his face crack in what was supposed to be a smile. He said, ‘At that time, he wanted no rivals.’
It dried her tears, that reminder. She said, with a spurt of anger, ‘And after? What designs could I or the Queen have had after Zacco employed you? She was more likely to encourage Katelina to kill you.’
‘I expect she did,’ Nicholas said. ‘But she had to reckon with Cropnose, who had other plans. And, like Cropnose, you wanted me safe, for a short term, which gave you several good reasons for disposing of Katelina. Carlotta, you saw, was now never going to recover her throne. To get back to Cyprus, you needed me. Until, at least, James of Lusignan had noticed you. The King was always your goal, failing Carlotta. You knew he was young. You thought he was vulnerable. And if he wasn’t at least you had a patron for life in your husband.’
With an uncharacteristic gesture, she put her hand to her body. She gathered herself. ‘And that, too, was inside your mind while we lay together? That I could kill you, if it happened to suit me?’
Race of Scorpions Page 71
