Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [78]
His train was big. Henri of France, ashamed perhaps at last of the treatment d’Aramon had received at home in return for long and painstaking service, had made him a Gentleman of the Bedchamber before he left and had given him two of the best-equipped galleys in the fleet, with Michel de Seurre, Knight of the Order, to accompany him in his galliot. Besides his own relatives and his captains, there were several noblemen, several Gascon gentlemen, the King’s secretary, and three men who knew the Eastern Mediterranean as well as he did; of whom one was Nicolas de Nicolay, royal cosmographer to France and de Villegagnon’s friend.
It was just before the famous dinner that the French Ambassador, courteously supervised into aseptic seclusion, called de Seurre and de Nicolay to him and said, shutting the door, ‘I am a little mystified by what has happened here. We are not to be allowed, it seems, to ask questions in Birgu, and I will not ask M. de Villegagnon or his friends to betray their vows. But M. de Villegagnon has with him an independent observer, a Scotsman named Crawford.’
‘I know him,’ said de Seurre equably. ‘He has a reputation in Scotland. A man of eccentricity.’
‘I thought you had met,’ said d’Aramon, relieved. ‘M. de Villegagnon tells me that this Scottish gentleman is at present in hospital. The reason is not clear. It may even be,’ said the Ambassador without stress, ‘that the patient is not sick and does not wish to be in hospital. However that may be, it would be fitting if you were to visit him.’
‘Would we be admitted?’ The geographer’s elf-like face jammed freakishly into ruts of perplexity, and he ran his hand through his short, rough grey hair.
It stuck up, and M. d’Aramon eyed him thoughtfully. He had chosen M. de Seurre because he knew from de Villegagnon that he had been on the Scots campaign, and because he was a Knight of the Order of St John of an absolute integrity. He had chosen the geographer because he knew Scotland, because he was endlessly inquisitive and a shrewd judge of character, and because he was the kind of innocent enthusiast who could get himself into (and out of) any corner he chose.
The Ambassador opened his mouth; but before he answered, Nicolas de Nicolay struck himself on the chest—an appalling blow, for he was a very little man—and reeling briefly in a circle with his knees bent, fell on his spine to the carpet with a thud that made his chair jump. As the others leaped to their feet, he lifted his head like a handle and said, ‘I perish, mes amis. There is one hope only. The hospital!’
‘You fool,’ said de Scurre impatiently. ‘They’d find out in five minutes. Get up. We are not children.’
‘You are not children,’ said Nicolas de Nicolay, sitting up to rub his bruised shoulder blades and then lying down again. ‘But me, I am a child of Nature. Not for me the chastity, nor the poverty. And particularly, I do not obey.’
‘That,’ said M. d’Aramon, temperately amused, ‘is obvious. Rise. If we must do this thing, let us do it—’
‘With artistry,’ said the geographer. ‘With élan. And most meticulously charted.’
*
The Ambassador’s guess had been predictably accurate. Lymond, conveniently for the Grand Master, was in the hospital. Inconveniently for the Grand Master, he was not ill.
Returning to Mdina after that impossible race to reach Gozo, both he and Jerott Blyth had been exhausted to the point of blindness by fatigue and heat. It had been a dogged test of endurance, achieved in wordless anger on both sides. Blyth by then was far too sensitive on Gabriel’s behalf to see the absurdity of the thing, and Lymond, who probably saw it only too well, was having enough trouble keeping on his feet, considering that Jerott’s stone had laid open the side of his head. Arrived uncertainly at Mdina, both were taken to the old hospital for the night and Jerott woke fully restored in time to accompany de Villegagnon and Gabriel back to Birgu.
Lymond, he learned with mixed feelings, had had a disturbed night and was still asleep. His state of mind was