Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [10]
‘You’re sailing to Constantinople?’ said Jerott.
‘As the King of France’s special envoy.’
‘And Sir Graham Malett?’
‘Is in Malta.’
Jerott Blyth sprang up. Watching the skin tighten on the prominent bones of his face Philippa felt her own stomach waver once more. Malta was the home of the great Order of Chivalry to which Jerott himself had belonged, as well as Graham Reid Malett, this unique and brilliant man, whose chances in Scotland Lymond had just destroyed. Malta was the home of the Knights of St John whom Gabriel had tried to betray to the Turks after failing in his hopes of acquiring the highest power, the Grand Mastership, which would have given him control of all the Mediterranean. Because the Grand Master was himself a cunning and powerful man, with the support of France’s rival, the Emperor, Gabriel had been unable to achieve the foothold he wanted and had left to try his fortune in Scotland instead. If he was back, it meant only one thing.
‘The Grand Master of the Order is dying,’ said Lymond. ‘Gabriel hopes to succeed him.’
Jerott made a sudden, theatrical gesture. ‘After selling them out to the Turks? After what he did to seize power in Scotland?’
‘How should the Order know about that? Malta’s a long way from Scotland.’
‘You have all the proof you were talking about. Take it to them,’ said Jerott, aghast.
‘Don’t be an ass. Grand Master de Homedes would place me in hell or in hop-shackles, and burn all the papers. He’s the Emperor’s minion, remember, and he’s not dead just yet. As far as he’s concerned I’m a cat’s-paw of France, and any papers I bring are all too likely to reveal his own double-dealing.’
‘Then I’ll take them,’ said Jerott.
‘Same story,’ said Lymond. ‘You’re not only suspect, you’ve opted out of the Order. I can see them flinging out their favourite Knight of Grace on your advice.’
‘I see,’ said Jerott slowly. ‘You’ve thought it all out.’
‘That’s what I do,’ said Lymond. ‘I sit on my brood-patch and think. I’m going to Constantinople. You’re going to Flaw Valleys, England, with Philippa. Graham Malett is going to be Grand Master of the Order of St John.’
‘Graham Malett is going to die,’ said Jerott mildly. ‘And I’m going to kill him.’
There was a silence. The perfumed meats, congealing on their platters, soured the cold air with their smells. Through the thick shutters the sound of bells and the rumble of horse-sleighs troubled the air and were gone. Voices sounded below from the public parlour, protesting as the pot of Schlaftrunke, the last of the night, was put down. Lymond said, ‘No one is going to kill Graham Malett.’
Jerott faced him; still and quiet. ‘I am. There are a hundred places on Malta where a small boat can land. I can’t perhaps bring him to justice. But I can kill him.’
‘No,’ said Lymond.
‘I’m not asking your permission,’ said Jerott. His plate, piled with irrelevant food, still lay untouched on the table. ‘I don’t want your help. Or maybe you don’t think you need help? Maybe you’re hoping to rouse Islam to crush the Knights for you, Gabriel included?’
‘Settle down with a harem at last? What a skittish fancy you do have,’ said Lymond. He stood up slowly, the long oversleeves sliding; the shoulder-buckles gold in the candlelight, and moving across to the stove picked up a billet of wood and began rebuilding the fire. His hands, performing their