Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [100]
He had seen Carlotta in Bologna and Venice, and thought she looked little changed, though now encased in narrow, high-waisted brocade with a fringed diadem on her hairline. Perhaps the vivid face was more worn; the painted eyes more ready to frown. She looked like a fierce, withering flower about to spit its thorns into the wind. Daughter of a Lusignan father and a Paleologa mother, she seemed wholly Greek.
And Luis, consort and cousin, son of the Duke of Savoy and of another violent Lusignan mother? At thirty-two, seven years his wife’s elder, Luis was broadshouldered and tall with an air of uneasy petulance. On the dais, his foot tapped. In the sandy face the lips and chin had a small life of their own, as if munching words in some remote, disagreeable dialogue. His clothes, rich enough, were not perfectly ordered and his nose was swollen with rheum. Once, Luis of Savoy had been betrothed to a Scottish princess, and Savoy was still paying for breaking the contract. You would guess that Katelina, who had married a Scot, would have something in common with Luis. But Katelina, worryingly, was not here.
The Queen said, ‘My lord Niccolò. Cyprus called you, and you have come. It is not, we know, a decision easily reached, and we honour you for it. We honour you for the brave band of men you have sent here, whose reputation has preceded them: who have already fought the Turk in the East. We honour you for the gallantry of your behaviour in Italy, when you saved our precious cargo at the risk of your life. You saw then what a base-born blasphemer will do, when he sets men to attack his own sister. You have rejected the unholy union of Zacco and Muslim. You have paid court, as was due, to the brave Knights of Kolossi, but have decided that their war is not yours. You might have sailed to Famagusta and sold your sword to those stalwarts, the Genoese. You did none of these things. You sailed to Rhodes, and appear before us. In doing this, you do more than the great kings of the West have done. In vain have we begged for an army. None would listen. None can see, as we can, the dripping fangs of the Turk at our door; hear the screams of the Mamelukes devouring our subjects in Cyprus. You and your force have come to do what they would not do, and this we wish to mark by our special favour. Land and wealth you will have: that we have promised you. A contract you will have: we are not without friends; money will be found for you and your captain. But first, we have something else to offer you. Kneel.’
Someone brought a stool. He knelt on one knee, rearranging from habit the sword that was no longer there. The Queen was standing and so, after a moment, was Luis her consort. An abbot, of Bellapaïs he assumed, came forward and handed a long object to the king. There was a baldric attached, which trailed on the floor. An equerry darted forward and looped the thing up. The object was a sword.
Luis said, ‘Well, take it.’
Nicholas looked at the Queen. The Queen said, ‘Let us give it him together,’ and put out her hand, and led her husband down the steps to stand before Nicholas. She said, ‘When the Holy Land fell, many knights vowed to recover it, and many orders of chivalry were created. Ours is more than one hundred years old. It was founded by Peter our ancestor to honour those who gave their swords to the cause: it is called the Order of the Sword, and this is its emblem.’ She turned, and drawing the blade, touched Nicholas with it once on each shoulder. She said, ‘And thus, you are made one of its Knights. Take this sword and wear it. Take this collar, which the lord King will place on your shoulders. Take this badge, and abide by its motto: C’est pour loïauté maintenir. Then by this kiss, seal the affirmation of your service.’
The bitch. The clever bitch. Someone came for the stool, and he rose. She stood before him, her scented cheek turned. Her eyes, delicately painted, were averted. Nicholas stood for a moment, the swordbelt tight over his chest, the collar of links pressing his