Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [84]
His eyes on Jerott, Francis Crawford was silent. And Jerott, making one last, dragging effort, said, ‘He is beautiful, and whole, and has learned to offer the world a humble and desperate obedience. You called him a pawn. He has begun to follow his trade.’
Lymond studied his hands. In the strengthening light Jerott saw his brows lifted, creasing, as if in habitual boredom; and his lashes flicked, once. Then with soft derision, he quoted, ‘They caught thee on the mountain and bred thee like a human being. As the water-wheel turns round and round irrigating the garden, even so do thou turn and dance.’ He looked up. ‘The Governor is a liverish gentleman, but easily impressed. You’ll be all right. Marthe and I will make an excuse to take you off with us. Can you brace yourself, Jerott, for an hour?’
Jerott nodded. Lymond rose and surveyed him. ‘I have a thought for you. The Countess of Henneberge, when aged forty-two, gave birth to three hundred and sixty-five children on a single occasion. Thank God neither you nor I ever happened to meet her.’ And walking to the door, he called the jailer, smiled, and a moment later, unobtrusively, had gone.
In going, obviously, he had made further provisions with the warder. Between that time and his appearance two hours later before the Governor, Jerott was given a candle, and then some warm water and linen with which, painfully, he managed both to improve his appearance and to bind up the worst of his burns. When, finally, they brought him a dish of rank heated milk and a cake of coarse bread, he had stopped shivering, and although his stomach nearly rejected it, he managed to finish it all, and felt in the end almost ready to face what lay ahead.
It was as well. The Governor, as Lymond had promised, was an irascible military gentleman with a town house in Barcelona and a hunting-lodge, which he was missing, just outside Madrid. He disliked Syrians, despised the trade of the Syrian’s sister, but had obviously in the past received too many secrets through both channels to be fastidious about either now. Jerott, walking past rows of helmeted henchmen in polished breastplates and Spanish stuffed breeches, looked at the quilted satin and perfumed black beard of the Governor behind his fine, Gothic desk, and thought of all the Knights of St John he had disrelished most. Ignoring the Syrian completely, he came to a halt and, looking down his splendid nose, addressed the Governor, coldly, in Spanish.
‘Is it for this,’ said Jerott Blyth contemptuously, ‘that I fought and my brothers died on your ramparts three years ago, to save you this city? I hardly think, sir, that you carried a sword in that action, or you would scarcely throw one of my Order unheard into a dungeon. I hope, sir, that you will have an explanation that will satisfy the Grand Master and your master the Emperor, for none will satisfy me.’
The Governor glanced at Jerott and spoke to his secretary, hovering over his shoulder. ‘The rogue speaks Spanish. I have no time for all this. Translate to the Syrian.’ And, twitching the black silken moustache: ‘The fellow reeks of the prison.’ To Jerott, he said, ‘Step back three paces. You offend us.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Jerott. ‘I intend to be still more offensive before this interview is over. And I have still to receive your answer. Is this how you treat a Knight of the Order of St John?’
‘Bey Efendi!’ said a round, placatory voice. ‘Bey Efendi, I beg thee!’ It was the Syrian, addressing the Governor. ‘Himself, this man has told me. He is of the French party on board the Dauphiné, the French Envoy’s ship. He is a spy, Lord, who entered Mehedia to deceive thee, concealed in my poor sister’s warehouse. How can such a one be of this illustrious Order? He seeketh to trick thee.… Is this a Lord, upon whose head the he-fox makes water?’ And shrivelling suddenly at a warning glare from the secretary, the silk-farmer stopped and wrung his soft