Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [214]
Coming in from the sun, for a second Lymond must have been blinded. She saw his eyes widen, and his lips part, and then close, straight and tight. He had control of himself in a heart-beat, and in another had swept off his plumed cap and, gloves on heart, executed a slow, sweeping bow. But Philippa could sense the extravagance of the shock he was covering, even when he spoke softly in English. ‘Life is full,’ said Francis Crawford, ‘of small disappointments.’
A long time afterwards, when she knew that he had been told Gabriel was dead at Zuara, Philippa remembered that moment. At the time, she heard instead the rich, beautiful voice of Graham Reid Malett replying: the voice which in Malta had urged his fellow Knights to disaster, and in Scotland had almost seduced a nation from the hands of its keepers. ‘In the name of the Prince, Allah, and of my lord Rustem I, Jubrael Pasha, welcome thee. May thy days in this city pass swiftly, as with a whip of light the angel driveth the clouds from the heavens. May thy sojourn here endure for ever, and thy life seem to thee long.’
He spoke in Turkish. Her heart cold, Philippa saw Roxelana’s brows, puzzled, lift for a moment; then the dragoman translated, deftly restoring the compliment which had eluded Gabriel’s ambiguous phrases. Then d’Aramon entered, and halting in his turn, stared at the man he had last known, in Tripoli, as a Knight of the Order of St John.
Turning, Francis Crawford smiled at his colleague; his eyes wide and blue as the stones in his chain. ‘Allow me to present the new Second Vizier, Jubrael Pasha, late of St John and St Andrew. Convalescing, I understand, from la rhume ecclésiastique?’
His face stern, M. d’Aramon bowed and, unsmiling, set about presenting those in their train. Glancing at Roxelana beside her, Philippa saw her lips twitch with amusement. There was an intention, then, to subject the Embassy to this small humiliation: to force from them the courtesies they would under other circumstances withhold from a renegade. It occurred to Philippa that at this moment France needed Turkey, her ships and her trade probably a good deal more than the Sultan had need of France. Neither side would break off relations, but pinpricks of this kind they might regard as amusing and harmless. But surely an Ambassador’s life was still sacrosanct? Any nation which engineered the death of an accredited diplomat unprovoked surely invited an open declaration of war?
The greetings and presentations on both sides were over. The lesser mortals had filed out to be fed; and on two low velvet stools, their over-robes spread like open flowers around them, the new Ambassador and the old sat and held conversation with the Vizier and his companions.
The talk was formal, and general. In the little room behind the grilled window the heat, rising from the chamber below, was becoming uncomfortable. Roxelana, her hair veiled in thick silk, sat and slowly unwound the fine cloth; then, touching Philippa on the shoulder, gave it into her hands.
It had to be folded, naturally. How could the Sultana wear a creased veil back to her apartments? Philippa rose quietly to her feet, approached the grille as near as she dared, and in a cloud of patchouli, shook and folded the silk.
Lymond had been speaking, at length, on some matter of trade. He ended, and allowed one of the Cadis to take up his point before glancing briefly upwards to the source of the scent. Philippa saw his eyes rest for a second on the grille; and then drop to the Cadi again. Very soon after that, at some signal from the Vizier, the company, still talking, rose to its feet. The stools were removed. M. d’Aramon, engaged in talk with the Mufti, moved to one side, towards the door of the inner