Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [254]
As the intransigent months gave way to spring, outside news began at last to trickle in. In Venice (Gregorio wrote), Doge Mocenigo had died, worn out by his ten Turkish concubines rather more than by his exploits at sea. The Sultan of Turkey had recovered from his sickness of gout, the Queen of maladies, and the Turkish armies were moving westwards again: the governor of Albania, Francesco Contarini, had been killed in the fighting. There was plague in Rome. Despite or because of it, the Pope had imposed a punitive crusading tax on tentless Burgundy, and Jan Adorne, defiant in celibacy, had found himself unable to leave for the coming birth of his brother’s offspring in Bruges.
Her uncle, Kathi noted, was not stricken. As burgomaster of the councillors of Bruges, Anselm Adorne had little time these days for anything but the management of the city, and perpetual journeys abroad as its representative. After entirely friendly exchanges between Scotland and Flanders, he had given up his post as Conservator of Scots Privileges in Bruges, opportunely for James of Scotland, who was to make political capital out of it. On the list of appointments routinely reviewed on the King’s attainment of his majority appeared the name of Anselm Adorne, divested of his Conservatorship ‘partly on the grounds that he was an alien.’
Brought this news by her husband, Kathi had been rendered thoughtful. ‘Do I detect the hand of David de Salmeton somewhere in this?’
‘I don’t know,’ Robin had said. Firmly happy, confident in his marriage and in his work, he carried still, as she did, a cache of painful misgivings. He jogged the baby, who hung over his shoulder, and added a casual question. ‘Your uncle didn’t tell you who the next Conservator is to be?’
For once, she misread him. ‘No, but I expect we shall hear. Not you, or Archie, or Sersanders, because you’re all connected with Adorne. A Scot with good connections abroad. John Bonkle? Too naïve. Thorn Swift? Not too young, but possible. Same with Haliburton. John Napier? Too important to travel so much. Andrew Crawford, or perhaps even Richard?’
‘I meant, the new man’s been chosen,’ said Robin. ‘That’s him puked. Will I put him down now?’
‘It depends who you’re talking about,’ said Kathi, taking the child. ‘So who is the next Conservator?’
‘Andro Wodman,’ Robin said.
Kathi put the child down. It turned red. ‘Andro …? He doesn’t qualify as a Scot!’
‘He does,’ Robin said. ‘Family from Aberdeen. Brother an abbot. Fine connections with Flanders and France.’
‘Friend of de Ribérac and his son, who want rid of Nicholas. Robin!’
‘They’re in Portugal,’ Robin said. ‘And that’s over. Wodman has worked for Bel, too. And your brother thinks enough of him to have suggested him. Your uncle agreed.’
His son screamed. Kathi, sitting down, felt like doing the same, but restrained herself, because Robin looked so harassed as well.
Then, next day, it was swept from her mind by Dr Tobie, banging on her door on his way to a patient, and throwing himself into a seat in her parlour, his box and his man left outside.
‘News at last. By Russian trader from Moscow to Novgorod; German dealer from Novgorod to Reval; amber official from Reval to Lübeck; fish merchant from Lübeck to Antwerp …’
‘Tobie?’ Kathi said. She said it quite politely, and he laughed and gave up.
‘Nicholas is safe, and out of the Crimea. Some Russian fur traders got him to Moscow in December. It seems he’ll have to stay for a while, but he could travel anywhere he likes after that.’
‘Except the Crimea,’ Kathi said. She let herself down at his feet. ‘Was he alone?’ She looked up.
‘Ludovico da Bologna was already in Moscow. They’re together.’
‘Thank God,’ said Kathi, ‘for quite large blessings, if doubtless in rather poor Latin. You haven’t told me about Julius and Anna.’
‘They’re in Moscow as well,’ the doctor said. ‘But not in the same place. Nicholas and the Patriarch, I am told, are in prison.’
Kathi stared at him. Her whole face, gradually