Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [56]
‘That’s all right,’ said Jerott. ‘Provided I go in the canot.’
It was one of the few arguments he won; and not only, Jerott thought, because he, as a former Knight Hospitaller of St John of Jerusalem, could best verify the claims of another. Lymond had not been prepared for this. A physical contingency he could easily handle: Jerott thought he had almost welcomed the chance for action just now. But for the other kind of crisis he needed time. He had not yet come to terms with what had happened yesterday. Philippa’s method had not been the right one. But something was becoming necessary, thought Jerott, to mark the end, once and for all, of that interminable day.
Jerott glanced back, once, at the shadowy spars of the Dauphiné, lying still without lights, and gave all his attention henceforth to the long caique swiftly approaching, fully manned and brilliantly lit, with its scarlet pennant fluttering behind. He could see no weapons, nor did the rowers wear armour. The stern lantern shone on the only passenger; a man of middle height; unarmed and richly cloaked, with a dark, bearded face and a jewelled cap on his black hair.
Jerott lowered the spyglass. It was not Gabriel. It was a friend, but a dangerous friend. An exiled Florentine from a brilliant household; a soldier; a seaman; a fanatic; the man who had commanded the French Mediterranean fleet until a year ago when he had to fly for his life, so he claimed, from his rivals at court. This was Leone Strozzi, Prior of Capua, on whom the Grand Master had threatened to fire if he came back to Malta, and who had since been roving the seas, every refuge in Christendom denied him; and preying on infidel and Christian alike.
The boats drew near. Standing up, the exiled Prior in his turn was studying the oncoming canot. The next moment, his voice rang out, in insouciant and horrible English. ‘Meestair Blyte! ‘Ow are you? We give you a fright?’
‘Not as bad, I hope, as the one we gave you, the last time we met,’ said Jerott. ‘Jump in, and I’ll take you to Francis Crawford. Do you know him? We’ve an embassy to the Sublime Porte.’
The boats met. Without hesitation the Prior stepped from his own into Jerott’s, sat down, and switched, with some slight improvement, to French. ‘I know him: my brother, better,’ he said. ‘A year or two ago, I am told, he devastated the flower of France. A drunken amateur, who makes music and love comme un ange?’
In spite of himself, Jerott grinned. ‘No: you’ve got the wrong man,’ he said. ‘This is a dedicated Scot with a company of foot and light horse. No drinking, no love and no music. There he is.’
The ladder was down, and Lymond stood at the top, watching them. From the moment the two boats had met, all the Dauphiné’s lamps had been lit: they showed Lymond’s face quite clearly, as his gaze, faintly derisory, met Jerott’s.
‘But that is the one!’ said Leone Strozzi, Prior of Capua, transferring nimbly from skiff up to galley. ‘You hide him from me? It is jealousy, yes? Now I see, my dear Blyte,’ said the Prior ebulliently, ‘why you have abandoned the Order.’ And laughing under his breath, he embraced Lymond on both cheeks, and followed him down below.
A city, an island, a nation had proved too small to contain Leone Strozzi: in the Master’s cabin on the Dauphiné the walnut panels shivered with his broken Italian-French, his laughter, and the impact of his brutal high spirits.
He had come, it appeared, to apologize. All the world knew now, of course, that the Dauphiné was carrying the emissary of France, M. Crawford, whom he had had the happiness to meet once before, at Châteaubriant. But of these things he, Leone Strozzi, had been ignorant: he, the friend of God alone, whom the Constable of France had wished to assassinate; whose family the Emperor Charles wished to see humbled to dust; whom the Order in Malta had pusillanimously turned from its doors. Driven, in his exile, to seek a paltry