Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [15]
‘No one, I suppose, provided he repaid what was owing.’
‘My advisers tell me that this he has done,’ said Queen Carlotta. ‘So he is now paid by you?’
‘No. He is independent,’ Nicholas said.
‘But he has a respect for you? He must. After all, you made him a rich man after Trebizond. Unless it is Venice he no longer cares for? We are told you are high in favour in Venice.’ She let her tone become reflective. ‘In the matter of Cyprus Venice is, of course, neutral.’
‘I owe nothing to Venice,’ said Nicholas. ‘I may not come back to Italy. It is possible that I will stay in my home town, in Bruges. You must forgive me, my lady. I do not wish another commitment, either to a cause or a country.’
‘That is because you have a pilgrimage before you,’ said Carlotta. ‘We, a woman, understand and forgive. But you cannot mourn for ever. You must build. Build your lady a monument. Let her monument be a throne for womanhood and Christianity both. Does she not deserve this?’
He released some high-pressure breath and said, ‘Perhaps. Your magnificence will allow me to consider these things after … after my pilgrimage.’
‘Of course. Of course. We shall be in Savoy at the court of our uncle. We shall be in Lausanne. We may even visit our cousin of France. And when our ships sail, Niccolò vander Poele will be with us. May God go with you till then.’
He left, without meeting anyone he recognised, and set off with Thomas next morning. He knew, from the thunderous silence, that Thomas rather fancied the trim little Queen, and would have enjoyed sitting in Cyprus with Astorre and the rest of the boys, sucking grapes and killing Egyptians. He knew that Thomas needed a leader, and was suffering. He thought of his last encounter with the Observant Franciscan Ludovico de Severi da Bologna at a table in the tavern at Silla, after the Queen and the prisoners had left. The monk had been drinking water, but he had not. Nicholas had said, ‘Brother Ludovico. Who paid them? The mercenaries?’
The Franciscan had pointed a calloused forefinger to the ceiling. ‘He knows. I don’t. The leaders escaped, and the sprats are never told anything. I hear the old woman is dead?’
He had asked the question quite suddenly, and got an answer as sudden. ‘What old woman?’ Nicholas had said.
The monk, without shifting his eyes, had put some meat in his mouth, chewed and swallowed it. He osculated a shred from an eyetooth. He said, ‘I suppose that forty’s the springtime of life. But don’t let us argue. You didn’t inherit. You’re going to check that she’s dead, but you know that she is. So why are you going to Bruges, if you have a fortune in Venice?’
Nicholas said, ‘Who told you that? Yes, I have a fortune in Venice. Do you want it?’
The monk had a profile like a plucked fowl, and black hair in every rut of the rest of him. He said, ‘Have I said so? You are alive and presumably know what shrine to thank for it. It’s a pity, of course, that Christian Trebizond fell to the Turk.’
‘The Christian Emperor gave it up to the Turk,’ Nicholas said. ‘Ask him for silver, if you should need it. He has plenty.’
The monk paused, a chicken leg in his hand. ‘You’re none the poorer, I notice, for serving him.’ He swirled the bone. ‘As for money to support a crusade, I’m an optimist. Venice will offer me something. It’s more than she’ll do for the little lady you rescued this morning. The Queen of Cyprus needs your men, and your silver.’
‘So she has told me. Twice,’ said Nicholas.
‘You met her in Venice?’ said the friar.
‘I met everyone in Venice,’ Nicholas said. ‘I had five different offers. Six, now I think of it. That’s why I left. The Pope made you Patriarch, then?’
The friar smiled. It was like a rat diving into a hedge. He said, ‘He nearly put me in prison. It appeared I was not meant to make use of the title so early. I reassured him. I shall enter Holy Orders the moment I travel to Venice. Why are you going to Bruges?’
‘To collect my belongings. To finish my business. To see my stepdaughters,’ said Nicholas.
‘And because,’ said the monk, ‘you can think of nothing