Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [80]
It was the last station on the geographer’s lighthearted journey, and by the time he pushed the unlocked door open and pattered into the gloom, he had sobered a little. The person Crawford was not in any of the wards. He was not among the infectious, the wounded or the dying; he was not convalescing in the garden or under the knife. He was nowhere in the hospital, unless here.
And there, poor young man, he was. Nicolas de Nicolay closed the mortuary door silently and moved past the empty boards to the one which was occupied. Colourless in the gloom, the leather bands crossed at feet and wristbones, the corpse was undoubtedly the man of d’Aramon’s and de Seurre’s description. De Nicolay, a man of sentiment, swore carefully, and the corpse, interested, opened its eyes.
‘Diable de diable de diable,’ said the little geographer, with even more feeling, and with great formality bowed. ‘Nicolas de Nicolay, come with d’Aramon’s fleet, mon cher. So this is where they hide you? So able!’
‘Quite. Plûtot souffrir que mourir; c’est la devise des hommes,’ said Francis Crawford, unmoving. ‘Vive le Corps Diplomatique and all its friends; but for God’s sake don’t sneeze, will you? These bells are strung up so that they hear the moment I wake.’
‘So that they may put you to sleep again, eh? You must have cramp,’ said Nicolas with modest insight.
‘I have,’ said the other man. ‘But if you—’
‘—Stuff the clappers with my cloak, all will be well. Certainly. And now,’ said the barefooted geographer, settling himself comfortably on the next pallet and closing his round eyes, ‘Tell me all that the Grand Master is so anxious that no one shall know.’
Time was short; but it was enough. Succinct and damning, the story of avidity, incompetence, neglect and useless sacrifice was told. In the end, the Frenchman said thoughtfully, ‘They do not kill you, for they do not wish a de Guise inquiry; and they are men of God, let us not forget. They merely silence you till we have gone, and thus buy a little time. What good will this do?’
‘It will allow them to spread counter-stories abroad,’ said Lymond. Reclining, ghost-like in white muslin, he was methodically rubbing life back into his cramped limbs. ‘Already the Governor of Gozo has died on the ramparts. In a week, the Order will have manned and swept the Turk from Mdina, and sunk Dragut between Gozo and home.’
‘Remind me to tell you about a Scot called Thompson,’ said de Nicolay. ‘And you are a little behind with the news. Sinan Pasha and Dragut haven’t gone home. They have sailed to Tripoli, and M. d’Aramon and I—and a few others—are to follow and advise him against it. At the Grand Master’s suggestion.’
‘When?’
‘Lie down. You frighten me,’ said Nicolas. ‘Today, in the Order’s brigantine; but the rest of us follow, tomorrow possibly. Come with us. The Grand Master cannot stop you, and it may be your only chance to tell your story outside.… Tell me,’ he said, his gnome-like face lit with sudden enthusiasm, ‘are you not, you, the person who prevented the English soldiers following our little princess Mary of Scots, when M. de Villegagnon brought her safely from Scotland to France? A voyage of galleys round the wild north of Scotland, which these boats had never attempted before?’
Diverted, Lymond looked up. ‘I had something to do with it.’
‘I hear from M. de Villegagnon, who is my friend,’ said Nicolas de Nicolay with satisfaction. ‘The chart he used for this great voyage, I supplied.’
‘A chart of the north coast of Scotland?’ The tone was, recognizably, a shade too sweet.