Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [134]
The black eyes were contemptuous. ‘You are young, are you not? They do not care who he is, this child. They wish only to placate Graham. Give them what proof you will: it will make no difference to the Viceroy.’
‘But …’ said Philippa uneasily; and then decided to say it. ‘If Lymond kills Sir Graham, Khaireddin will die.’
The clever eyes in the dead face had noticed the hesitation. ‘Unless I, who am dying, was to have been his assassin? A natural thought from a Somerville. Unfortunately, you can dismiss it,’ said Evangelista Donati harshly. ‘I am here—I was here without Sir Graham Reid Malett’s knowledge.’
Philippa, her voice sharp, pounced on it. ‘He knows you are here now?’
‘He knows,’ said Evangelista Donati with irony. ‘And you know now, for certain, that the assassin is indeed with us in camp. I die of poison, Philippa Somerville; and after my death and your departure, the child is theirs to do with as they please.’
‘Unless,’ said Philippa, ‘I go in your place?’
There was a long silence. The sick woman said, finally, ‘I have been punished, Mistress Somerville, for my betrayal. I have also been killed because Sir Graham has no desire to see Khaireddin fall into friendly hands. You would have to guard yourself, as well as the child.’
‘I could try,’ said Philippa. And added, obstinately, ‘I’ll have to try.’
‘Or …’ said Evangelista Donati slowly.
‘What?’ said Philippa. She wished her heart would be quiet.
‘Unless you made yourself sacrosanct against even Graham’s designs. Then the child could be your full concern. And as soon as you reach Stamboul, you could give him proper protection.… Do not imagine,’ said Madame Donati bluntly, ‘that you will ever be permitted to hand the boy to his parent while Graham Malett is alive. While Sir Graham lives, he will be your charge and you cannot be free of him. Your life will be in Constantinople during that time; and although the boy may one day be free, you, Philippa Somerville, may end your days there.’
‘How?’ said Philippa; and folded her arms tight across her flat chest, crushing veil, robe and shift into final annihilation. ‘What would I do?’
‘You would go to the black eunuch who controls the girls among the Children of Tribute,’ said Evangelista Donati deliberately. ‘And you would place yourself under his care as a prize for the Grand Seigneur’s Seraglio.’
‘What?’ Philippa yelped.
It was one of her shriller sounds. Being rhetorical, it drew no further response from Madame Donati. But on top of the cupboard, where the bedding-roll lay beside the blanket, a certain movement made itself heard; a stirring and scuffling and some heavy breathing under stress, which resolved itself into the blanket rising into a caterpillar-like vertical, threshing briefly, and then unwinding to drop to the floor. On top of the cupboard there was revealed, peering over, a yellow satin oval of hair, topping the round sleepy face of a very young child, rudely awakened, but glad on the whole to be with everyone once again. ‘Hullo,’ said the child of the peach jam, in English, to Philippa.
‘Kuzucuyum?’ said Madame Donati. And at the sound, even Philippa dragged her eyes from the cupboard top and looked at the woman beside her; a woman soft-eyed and gentle in voice; putting into one single word the love and yearning stored in all these starved months since the death of Joleta. ‘My lambkin: this is Philippa. You must say Philippa Khátún. It is polite. She is going to give you dinner and put you to bed when … when I have to go away. Lift him down, Mistress Somerville.’
Slowly, Philippa rose, and walked over, and held out her arms.
He was square-built, and solid. There were dimples all over him: on every well-fed joint and pivot and haunch; but he was as firm as a hard peach; and on each calf the new walking-muscle had already started to swell. The face close to hers, laughing, was nothing but