Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [63]
‘What have you learned from life, that you cannot face facts? What happened in Algiers that is so paralysing that your mind cannot work through it? Shall I tell you?’ Between the strands of pale hair, the pale, clever face blazed into the blank face of the man.
‘Shall I tell you? By Gabriel’s orders, they took your lover, living or dead, and they flayed her. So that there might be none of her essence to bury, they flung what was left to the dogs. The skin they kept; and painted, and stuffed with wool, hair and straw, and set as in life, where you would be certain to find it.…
‘There is your picture. Acknowledge it. Acknowledge, too, that she was not the first to suffer it, and will not be the last. That she was ill, and did not want to survive. And that, from what you were told, it seems likely that she either died by her own hand or was killed before the flaying.
‘The moment of her death was that moment, cleaner than the death of old age. What happened later was nothing to Oonagh. Where would you have found her a grave? What dignity did she have that was not of the spirit? What happened later was aimed not at her, but at you. And you are now doing precisely what Gabriel meant you to do.’
She paused. ‘There is a saying. ‘O Bhikshu! empty this boat! If emptied, it will go quickly. Having cut off passion and hatred, thou wilt go to Nirvâna.’ It is not a time for emotion. You are facing east, and you cannot fight the East with emotion; only with your brain and your soul.’
The lamp flickered. Motionless in the gathering darkness, his head pressed against the doorpost, his face turned fully away, he gave no sign whether her words had reached him. Whether he did not choose to speak, or found speech physically impossible, no one could have told. The silence dragged on. Breaking it, eventually, herself, Marthe said quietly, ‘Your other problem, of course, is myself. You won’t solve that either, by dismissing me as if I had never existed. You may consider that you are sending me ashore in my own interests, but I put it to you that you are not. I am prepared to risk my life by staying. You must find the manhood to allow me to stay.’
Lymond straightened. Turning his head until the bruised, heavy blue eyes looked into the blue eyes of Marthe, he said, ‘Who are you?’ His voice was exhausted.
Marthe’s, cool and articulate, did not alter at all. ‘My name is Marthe.’
‘What is your other name?’
‘The name of my father.’
‘And who is your father?’
The slender, strongly made shoulders sketched a shrug. ‘Who knows? He had no ship and no money; or if he had, he found better employment for both than in looking for me. Like your son, I am a bastard.’
‘No, my dear,’ said Lymond. ‘Forgive me.… But I think you are a bastard like nobody else.’ And brushing past her, he walked up into the solitary deck of the poop.
When the longboat came from Strozzi requesting his passenger, he sent it back empty.
He stayed alone on the poop for a long time, and it was nearly dawn when, moving carefully, he walked down to his cabin. It was no surprise to find Salablanca there. Lymond said, ‘Tell the master in the morning we are not going to Malta. He is to make straight for Djerba instead.’ And walking past the slumbering Jerott, rolled on to his own neatly made bunk, and was still.
7
Bône and Monastir
In these tart waters, there came to the Dauphiné a spring Jerott Blyth was never to forget.
They were no longer travelling direct to Constantinople, but instead following the track of an unknown child in a journey which might take them anywhere. And now they knew that, step by step, they had to expect direct opposition on Gabriel’s behalf.
Summoning them all to the tabernacle on the day after that encounter with Leone Strozzi, Francis Crawford had made sure there was no misunderstanding about that, and had given them all, once more, a chance to withdraw from the voyage.
None had taken it. Marthe and Gaultier, Jerott supposed, had business