Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [151]
And her women, grande de legni, grosse di straci, rosse di bettito, bianche di calcina … While Onophrion filled the guest’s goblet and placed before him in turn the roast Ambracian kid, the palm hearts, the Tartessian lampreys, the fried figs and clove rissoles, the pies of capon and marrow, the cold broth of almonds and cinnamon, the fried bread done in sugary batter and the leched pears in malmsey, Lymond spoke about those.
Gently, and by devious ways, the House of the Palm Tree and the merchant Marino Donati entered the talk. It was a pity, said the Proveditore, that the Envoy had not called sooner, for Signor Donati was a man of great sympathy, with some treasures to show. But alas, against all the commands of Mother Church (the Proveditore unsteadily crossed himself), the poor man, a mere two weeks since, had seen fit to take his own life.
He was able, however, before he was escorted with care to his castle, to outline in contentious detail the route taken to Usküb each year by the children of Devshirmé. And Salablanca, visiting the House of the Palm Tree in all innocence next day seeking a friend, was able to verify that the death of the merchant Donati was all too true.
He did more. He spoke to a woman of his own race, once the cook, and now living in a corner of the shock-splintered building, awaiting the notice of the new occupant, or of the officers of the town, or whoever would shelter and feed her and her children once more. From her, he heard of Míkál and the Pilgrims, and of Philippa’s departure, as Archie had described, to follow the Children of Tribute to the north. From her also he heard of the twinning ring, which had hung round the neck of the white child.
‘Kuzucuyum—Lambkin, they called it,’ she said. ‘A faint spirit half-slipped betwixt the skin and the flesh, till they sent him to Prince Dragut’s to recover. Then in October came back this same Kuzucuyum; beautiful and bright in the colour of his body, and energetic and firm in his soul.’
This child was born in Zakynthos?’ had asked Salablanca. ‘Of what parentage?’
‘Ah, base, base,’ said the woman. ‘Of a girl unwed and a father unknown. She came for the birth, and left after, and only the master’s sister and I were there when the time came. The master’s sister held her wrists when she shrieked, but it was I who severed the child.’
‘The master’s sister … who was this?’ Salablanca had asked. ‘And when?’
‘Her name? Signora Donati: that was all I ever knew. And when? Two years ago, or three: I do not know. She was duenna, they said, to the child: the child who was brought to bed of the boy. A poor duenna, thou sayest, who permits her jewel to be ravished so young. A child, the mother was; with hair the colour of apricots, sunning in June.’
‘Who was the mother?’ he had asked gently, and the cook had grinned, her black eyes wrinkling above the black veil. ‘To ask this was forbidden. But they said—and I think it is true—that the child was well born in her own land, and of good blood. They say her brother was even a Knight of St John of Jerusalem, vowed to chastity, eh? How dost thou think he would look on his sister, were he to discover the truth?’
‘He knew it,’ said Salablanca, and paid her, not in aspers or crowns, but in zecchinos of gold.
Retold quietly to Lymond, with all the formality Spanish could lend it, the story had still an implication which nothing could soften. Before Salablanca, Francis Crawford did not always school his expression. Now, standing head bent in his cabin, gazing heavy-eyed and unseeing at his own interlaced hands, he did not try. One child born of Oonagh at Djerba. One child born of Joleta here at Zakynthos. Both in Dragut’s harem. One had come back to Zakynthos and joined the Children of Tribute. One had gone with Oonagh to be sold to Ali-Rashid the camel-trader, and finally to the silk-farmer of Mehedia and his