Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [325]
They had left a ring, which someone recognised. The body displayed fingernails of unusual length, particular to the Duke; an ingrowing toenail, recently treated; an old wound; and a recognisable fistula on the penis which had proved so infertile these latter years. The Duke’s physician and valet expressed themselves soberly as convinced. Here lay the Grand Duke of the West. Beside him, his skull sheared across also, lay Jean de Rubempré, sire de Bièvres.
‘You are not shocked,’ said a voice in Portuguese. Master Matteo, wiping his hands.
‘I have too much else to mourn,’ Diniz said.
‘Well, perhaps I could prevail upon you to carry this bag,’ said the doctor. ‘It contains two extra cloaks, although marked, I’m afraid, with the Lorraine cross for security. I should warn you not to slip off, which in these dreadful circumstances would seem to be all too easy. You might not even be missed for some time.’
Diniz stared at the dark face. ‘What?’
‘Also,’ said the doctor, ‘you should watch out in particular for Burgundians wounded in battle who may not all have died. I am told that the tower of the Commanderie has not recently been searched.’
Diniz lost his breath. The doctor finished wiping his hands and set to repacking his bag. Diniz said, ‘How do you know? Why are you telling me?’
‘Men confide in a doctor,’ said Matteo. ‘Also, I told you, I have heard of you and your company. I did not tell you how.’
‘The Vasquez estates?’ Diniz said.
‘The Lomellini estates rather,’ said the doctor. ‘My sister married into the family. Slave-owning, of course, and appreciative of those one or two exceptional Africans they have come to know.’ He smiled. ‘Must I remind you? My name is Matteo Lope.’
‘Lopez. Umar,’ said Diniz. Tears rose.
‘He is dead, I know, but you and your company esteemed him for what he was. Let us call this a gift he would have wished to make. And let me give you a last piece of news. Your John is safe, and a prisoner. But, of course, he needs someone to ransom him.’
‘I see I shall have to make an effort,’ said Diniz, swallowing. ‘But you?’
The man smiled. He said, ‘Every Duke needs a good physician. It does not matter which Duke.’
MOST OF THE REFUGEES reaching Metz were in some way injured, or had white toes and fingers, or fevers. All of them were exhausted. They all brought the same news: the Duke had lost the battle, and gone. The reports of what happened then were so contrary that they weren’t worth listening to, if you were a doctor, and fairly exhausted yourself, from misery as much as fatigue.
The temporary hospital in the church of St Eucaire was cold, stinking and noisy, and Tobias Beventini had just risen, creakily, from examining a newly sawn leg when someone spoke his name, and he looked up and saw Diniz Vasquez.
He felt the blood flood through his skin. He said, ‘I didn’t know you were alive.’
In the olive face, Diniz’s eyes were enormous. He recited his answer as if he had learned it by rote, on the long, cruel, dangerous journey from Nancy. ‘I’m afraid Robin is dead. Astorre and Thomas as well, and their company. John le Grant ought to be safe: he’s a prisoner. So was I, but I escaped. I’ve brought someone with me. He wants a doctor.’
Behind him was a man on the floor, resting against the wall down which he had just carefully slid. ‘So that puts you out of court right away,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I don’t mind passing the time of day with another refugee. Are you all right?’
Tobie walked over and stood looking down on him. ‘Of course I am,’ he snapped. ‘So are all the men we brought with us. The only efficient arm, it seems to me, of the entire Bank.’
‘We?’ said Nicholas. ‘Don’t tell me that Julius is here?’
In an impatient manner,