Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [58]
‘But if the present régime were to end? M. Crawford, would you entrust me with these papers?’ said Leone Strozzi.
Palpably, the crux of this whole encounter had been reached. Lymond’s fingers, which had been caressing his glass, became still, and Jerott, watching the swirling wine, under his breath said, ‘Drink it, Francis!’ with muted exasperation. Lymond said, ‘I don’t entirely see what purpose it would serve. The present Grand Master would ignore or destroy them and your own life would be at considerable risk, I imagine, from Sir Graham.’
The laughing black eyes were cold. Strozzi shrugged. ‘The old man is dying. Until he goes, who is to know I have these papers? Then, when the new Grand Master is to be chosen …’
‘Don’t deceive yourself.’ With slow deliberation, Lymond pushed his heavy glass away with one finger, and looked up. ‘Graham Malett will know in a very short time indeed that this meeting has taken place, and that you are in possession of facts which could harm him. He didn’t waste the years he spent on Malta; nor has he wasted his time since he came back this year. There are disciples or paid agents of Graham Malett in a surprising number of places—even aboard my ship, or yours, I expect. I take it that he is a serious contender for the Grand Mastership?’
His lips pursed, Leone Strozzi held out his glass to be refilled, groaned, and said, ‘On that island, he is God. They tell me that he spares himself nothing: he works like a madman; he scourges himself with vigils and fastings. Is it right that this hypocrite, this self-seeking tyrant, should so gull a Christian people unopposed?’
‘Whom would you put in his place?’ said Lymond. In spite of himself, Jerott glanced at him.
Leone Strozzi gave another, extravagant shrug. ‘I care not,’ he said. ‘Any believing man of good faith, however humble, could not but honour Juan de Homedes’s shoes. With the help of God I shall expose Graham Malett for what he is. The rest my brother Knights must decide.’
He stopped speaking, and Lymond, studying his hands on the table, did not immediately reply. Jerott, weary and supperless and a little light-headed with wine, wondered if the two long days and nights without sleep had confused Lymond’s intelligence. Jerott said, ‘Give him the papers. The Order can’t harm the Prior of Capua, Francis. And if he does nothing with them until the Grand Master is dead, it gives you time to do all you have to do … elsewhere.’ Time to find the child, alive or dead, he meant to convey.
But Lymond, ignoring him, spoke to Strozzi. ‘In your modesty, sir, you refrain from mentioning your own very strong candidature. As a rival for the Grand Mastership, might not your own interest offset the weight which people might attach to any papers purporting to discredit Gabriel?’
Oh God, thought Jerott. Why not accept the offer, hand over the papers and be glad of it? Why go into all this? But he knew why, and against his reason he knew that this was the quality in Lymond which, through all the ruthlessness and the mockery, fastened him to his side.
Leone Strozzi rose to his feet with a smooth deliberation, a little flush of wine on either dark cheek. ‘I believe you insult me? I believe you imply that there is, in Malta or out of it, a living soul who could accuse a member of the House of Strozzi, a cousin of Queens, a nephew of Pontiffs, of falsifying documents for his own ends? Is that what you say?’
‘Yes, that is what I say,’ said Lymond evenly. ‘Is that not exactly what Graham Malett will do?’
Leone Strozzi remained standing. ‘And your solution?’
Francis Crawford leaned his colourless head back against the glossy panelling, and lifted his eyes to the Prior’s. ‘I have no solution,’ he said. ‘But if I were Leone Strozzi, and I wished to make certain beyond all misadventure that Gabriel never gained control of the Order,