Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [126]
‘That is a fair assessment,’ said the Patriarch kindly. ‘But have no fear. They will be severely chastised for it.’
‘Will they?’ she said, rather pleased. They were sitting in a private room in the Abbot’s guest-quarters. The Patriarch, in appearance vaguely unwashed but perfectly vigorous, had made no apology whatever for having abandoned them on their way here. She said, ‘Nicholas believes it will adjust itself soon. Apparently the case is being affected by local politics.’
‘You could say that,’ the Patriarch said.
‘What local politics?’
‘What? Oh, the Tartar Governor for Caffa has died. The Tartars are divided over which of two men should replace him, and the Genoese are in two camps as well, being well bribed for their support by each party. You could say the Russians are caught in the middle.’
‘And me. I want their money,’ said Anna. She was smiling. ‘I hope Nicholas can get it for me. Will you wait for him? I wish I knew where he went.’
‘To beg off the Russians, I imagine,’ the Patriarch said. ‘Earn their gratitude. Get their complicity. He wouldn’t want you to be there. You don’t want to hear the names he’ll be calling you.’
‘In the cause of business,’ said Anna rather blankly.
‘Oh, yes. Mahir, King of the Monkeys. You know the Abbot thinks you are called Countess Onna?’
‘It was a mistake,’ Anna said. ‘Wasn’t it?’ She watched the Patriarch preparing to laugh, and held her tongue. She was naturally patient, and had had practice, with Julius.
NICHOLAS ARRIVED a good deal after that, and expressed no surprise at finding Anna retired, and the nuncio of the Pope and the Emperor Frederick still sitting at ease in the guest-parlour, the remains of a frumenty frosting his gown. Instead, he threw his satchel into a corner, poured and drank off some wine and, holding the half-empty cup, walked backwards and forwards, sipping occasionally. He looked like an actor conducting a mental rehearsal.
‘You are angry, I take it,’ said the Patriarch. ‘So sit down and tell me what you wish you had said. And make sure that door is closed. Mameluke stewards do not sit or drink in my presence. Nor do decent Christians, but you are never going to be that.’
Nicholas was angry, largely because it had been impossible to say what he had wanted to say. Since it was reasonable, indeed essential, that the Patriarch should know, Nicholas delivered a curt résumé. Guided by one of the monks, he had reported, on behalf of his mistress, at Constantine’s Tower, where the Genoese consul was interviewing the would-be kidnappers. He had seen some of them dragged away.
‘Well beaten, I imagine?’ had said the Patriarch dryly.
‘Naturally. But alive, so far as I could see. A former guide of ours, Petru, was among them.’
‘A spy?’
‘A sympathiser, at least, with the Russians. The soldiers had broken both his arms. Then I was questioned over the complaint about the furs, and the credentials of the Gräfin, and they brought in the agent, Sinbaldo di Manfredo, who had imported the furs, and finally hauled back the leader of the Russians …’
But he needed more wine while he considered that. The men who had tried to waylay Anna had not been a band of common thieves. He had the impression that they were not even permanent colleagues, although they lived in the same quarter. They were simply a group of small merchants and their servants; men who had contracted with a German-Polish company to buy a consignment of furs for them in Moscow. Then, when on their way to Caffa to deliver the goods, the pelts had been stolen and they were now being asked to refund their value.
The case had been stated fairly enough by Sinbaldo the agent and by himself, and had been endorsed by the prisoner, through his swollen mouth and broken teeth. His name was Dymitr, and he was Ruthenian, his family being that of the Wiśniowiecki, the lords of Cherry Village. Mishandling could not disguise his athleticism: the man was long-limbed and chestnut-bearded, with glowing black eyes spitting fire. At present,