Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [302]
Sitting rigid, Philippa heard him draw in his breath; and then again; and knew by the sound what he was trying to subdue. She lay back, tears running down her face, and covered her ears with her hands.
When she removed them a long time after he was perfectly silent, his head on his arms, but it was not over, for he spoke, as he had once before, hearing her movement. ‘Philippa …?’
Philippa said fiercely, ‘Look: nothing happened. You only thought it did. You moved in your sleep, that was all.’
He didn’t lift his head, and his voice, muffled by his hands, was not familiar at all. ‘I know. I thought it was somebody else.… Philippa … release me from my promise.’
She put her hands over her mouth, and then took them away. ‘I can’t. I can’t.’
He had pulled his own hands down, looking still at the stool, his face quite turned away. ‘You can. Philippa. Please let me go.’
Her refusal this time was a whisper; but he must have heard it, for he didn’t ask her again. The rest of the night Philippa passed lying awake, without moving; without speaking; and keeping to herself all the untoward weight of her grief and her pity. In her diary no entry ever appeared for that night, in which the light-hearted hoyden of Hexham vanished altogether.
Towards morning she thought perhaps Lymond slept, but he didn’t stir, and she could not harass him with the quilt, although the intense cold had gone. Then, weary as she was, she must herself have fallen asleep, for when she next opened her eyes, the corner on the far side of the room was illumined with daylight, and empty.
He had gone to the room Jerott shared with Archie and Gaultier. Shaken unwillingly awake, Jerott heard the cool voice, not quite in its familiar tone. ‘Drunk and in a state of legal uncleanliness. Wake up. We have a lot to discuss.’ Jerott opened his eyes.
Lymond was standing back, waiting for him in his stained hose, his torn shirt pulled off and thrown over one shoulder. His back was to the light. But even so, Jerott was suddenly quiet, and he heard Archie beside him say sharply, ‘Have you had any sleep at all?’
‘I have had delightful dreams,’ said the soft, roughened voice. ‘Fawns in the shape of fairies with musk-fragrant hair. And I have breakfasted on opium. Will you listen, or are you anxious to do all the talking?’
Jerott held down his permanent nausea. ‘Philippa?’
Lymond said, ‘Those who gather frankincense are dedicated unto divine honours, and use no carnal company with any woman. Philippa is well, and deep in blameless slumber. We now have to decide how best to get her and you safely home.’ And this time they listened.
At the end, Jerott said after a long pause, ‘Must you marry her?’
Lymond shrugged. ‘What else? Maidens despoiled, men-children defiled; children brought up in impious abominations. Kuzúm will get over it, but her integrity has gone.’
Jerott said, as Philippa had done, ‘And you?’ And Lymond stared at him, his brows delicately lifted. ‘I shall gather frankincense,’ he replied.
Escorted by Chiausi, they left the Topkapi Serail of the Sultan Suleiman by the sea gate, spared the long procession back through the great courtyards; spared too the curiosity of those who might concern themselves too closely with Roxelana’s affairs. The Sultan’s barge awaited them by the crystal kiosk, rowed by the long line of the mutes. They took their places, four men, two girls and a child, silent in new flowered silks; who had been made to taste in Paradise the chastisement of Hell. The day, thought Philippa, white-faced with the child Kuzúm on her knee, on which men shall be as scattered moths, and the mountains shall be as loosened wool. The day which makes grey the heads of young children …
The words now had meaning. All poetry had meaning, and sorrow she had never envisaged. Behind, veiled in soft rain as the dragon-prowed barge slid across the grey water to Pera, she saw for the last time close