Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [115]
Primaflora laid her cheek on his back, laughing breathlessly. Then she caught herself, and turned to Katelina. ‘It could have been dangerous. They looked like bolts, or arrows, or stones.’
There was a pause. Then Katelina said, ‘I thought they were insects.’
Astorre, plodding beside her, grunted without looking up. ‘Insects won’t kill you.’
‘No,’ said Katelina.
Tobie felt her heavy as lead at his back. She had been afraid, and Primaflora had reassured her. Indeed, they might have been sisters, so carefully had Primaflora been watching the other girl. Katelina, of course, was intent on Nicholas. But if she didn’t cultivate Primaflora, neither did she seem to avoid her. In the wet and the dark, Tobie thought about it. Then Nicholas suddenly spoke. ‘That’s Lopez. Listen. He’s shouting.’ He gave an answering call, and started forward. Leading Katelina’s horse by the reins, Tobie splashed after.
The noise of the swollen river increased. A roaring made itself heard. Turning a corner, Tobie saw before him another pool, white with foam, into which tumbled a cataract. The cliffs, high on either side, enclosed a dim sky streamered with cloud. Below it, Loppe’s torch burned steadily at the brink of the water.
On the ground at Loppe’s feet lay a still figure, half in and half out of the stream. Astorre joined Nicholas. Tobie dropped the reins and strode forward into the mud, leaving the soldier to tie up the horses. Primaflora stayed in the saddle, and Tobie took time to hope that she would stop Katelina dismounting. But as he knelt by the fallen man, he heard her footsteps stumbling towards him.
Before he touched him, he knew he was dead. The arrow that killed him lay broken beneath him and blood, already half washed away, lay black on the grass and mould by his body. His hunting cap had fallen aside, showing the thick dark hair, and the olive skin, and the calm, elegant profile. Tobie rose slowly to his feet as Katelina came up, her face marked by fear and by mud. He said plainly, in Flemish, ‘I am sorry, demoiselle. It is Ser Tristão, and he is dead.’
Chapter 18
THE RAIN BEAT into the ravine, and hissed into the water, and pattered unnoticed on the group of men and women and the dark-haired man at their feet. Nicholas, who had seemed to move, was now standing quite still. Astorre swore. The soldier stepped up as if to come to the support of Katelina, but she stood rigid, warning him off. Tobie said, ‘The arrow went clean through the heart. It would be quick.’
The soft, organ-voice of the negro said, ‘They killed him from a distance and then came to make sure. There are their footprints. Three men, if not four. He had his sword drawn.’
‘The boy?’ said Nicholas. His voice was so quiet, Tobie hardly heard it.
‘I have found a boot mark. Wait,’ the negro said. His torch moved off. The others remained, looking down. Watching the young woman, Tobie saw her eyes were dry, though her face was very pale. The dead man had been her husband’s new partner as well as his brother-in-law. Katelina must have come to know Tristão Vasquez a little; must sometimes have shared the same trading quarters, although perhaps no more than that. His death was clearly a shock rather than a matter of intimate bereavement. And a shock made no less by the fact that she had feared it. This would leave Simon’s sister a widow, and the boy fatherless, if he lived still. And what did it make Nicholas? Pleased, perhaps? Tobie cast about him aggressively.
Nicholas sat on his heels, gazing at the dead face. He had met the man at Kolossi, it appeared, and sailed with him from Cyprus. A short acquaintance, based on deception. His face at the moment was grave, his earrings motionless. There was