Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [108]
And then, the gambit that had worked so well round a hundred conference tables: How could the Prior be blamed, when his mind dwelled, as it should, on higher things? Perhaps a little help was what was required, rather than an adverse report to the Lords and Commissioners. What if a lumberman were employed, to patrol or even live in the forest? What if the alms were to be given outside, rather than inside the wood? What if …? The timber expert, consulted, produced a few sensible, inexpensive ideas which the Prior, now supported by his senior religious, believed he might well recommend to the commune.
Surprisingly, wine was brought. Unsurprisingly, when Gelis, gracefully expressing her gratification, turned the conversation harmlessly to the pious work of the monastery, the Prior was relieved and happy to answer her questions.
Almost, Tobie had forgotten why they had come. It was, therefore, with something approaching a shiver that he heard Gelis say, ‘And Lord Cortachy mentioned, I think, that an old friend of my husband’s was here. It was my other reason for calling. I believe we owe a great deal to your care of M. le vicomte de Fleury?’
She was clever. She sat, pure as an angel, with her throat and hair veiled, and the silken fall of her hood caught at her breast with a reliquary brooch worth more than a few Montello oak trees. The Prior said, ‘The name of my lord your husband is known to us, of course. We have often wondered whether there was some kinship.’
‘A distant one only,’ Gelis lied. ‘But Lord Beltrees has always interested himself, of course, in the old gentleman’s welfare. You may not even have been aware of the source of the payments. They continue satisfactorily?’
The Prior looked at his bursar, who coughed. The bursar said, ‘We would not wish to complain.’
Tobie let out his breath. Gelis said, ‘If it is inadequate, of course you must tell me. This is a personal matter, and has no bearing on our business arrangements.’ Her voice was almost normal. Until he heard it, Tobie hadn’t realised the strain that she, too, had borne until now. The old man was alive. He was here.
Then the Prior said, ‘I am sure there is nothing that cannot be simply adjusted. But day and night help is expensive. His own servant, however devoted, is no longer young, and deserves relief.’
‘Who could refuse that?’ Gelis said. ‘We shall talk of that soon, and in detail. But first, I should like to meet and thank the servant you speak of. And perhaps, on behalf of my husband, to look upon my lord the vicomte himself, however briefly?’
If they knew that her husband was no longer in Venice, no one mentioned it. The lumber expert, full of wine, was allowed to depart. Tobie followed Gelis and the Prior out of his quarters and across the immaculate domain to where, against the encircling walls, the cabins of the monastery’s own little infirmary clung to the slope of the hill with its well and its plot of tilled ground, in which flowers and vegetables seemed to be growing together. There were juniper bushes, and some lavender, and a sturdy vine arbour for shade, with a few stools and a small table within, and a litter, with someone sleeping on it. The cicadas shrilled, and you could hear a hum as of bees: the prayers drifting up from the church. There was no sound from the cloisters.
A man in the robes of a lay brother rose and came forward, bowing, and waited. The Prior said, ‘This is Brother Huon, to whose tender care M. le vicomte undoubtedly owes his life. Brother, the lady is Egidia, wife to my lord Niccolò de Fleury, a kinsman of the vicomte’s, and his protector. You have heard of the Banco di Niccolò. And this is Master Tobias Beventini da Grado, physician and nephew of your great hero of Pavia. I leave you together.’
He left. The monk looked from the lady to the doctor, his straw hat gripped in his hands in an attitude of uncertainty, even wariness. His tonsured scalp gleamed, smooth and rosy above a face browned by sun and withered by years, which yet