Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [159]
Against the light, the speaker looked bulky: a grizzled man in golden-badged velvet, his jowls infilled by untidy whiskers which he scratched with one nail, looking down at her. Beyond him in a painted panel-back chair was the person he spoke to: an auburn-haired girl, who moved a fan like a wing between her jewels and the flash of the firelight.
The fan whickered and stopped; the buzzing breath produced bolts of invective. ‘She moves?’ The young woman rose to her feet. ‘She is awake? Depart, idiot. She will speak to me. Seasickness kills no one. Especially not herring-fed Flemings.’
The man’s form disappeared and was replaced by that of the speaker who bestowed herself, with some briskness, at her bedside. She leaned forward. Seen close at hand, the woman’s face no longer seemed young. The hair beneath the stiff headdress was dyed, the lips and eyelids skilfully coloured, the skin of the straight nose and high cheekbones more pink than in nature. The woman said, ‘You are Katelina van Borselen, whose husband Simon loves Genoese, and co-trades with the Vasquez in Portugal. Do you know where you are?’
The voice, the words, the manner told her she was in no friendly palace or hospice. ‘With his enemies,’ Katelina said. Her head ached. She lifted herself, as best she could, on her pillows.
‘You are weak, but good food will cure you. After all,’ said the woman, ‘we cannot ransom you if you are dead.’
Ransom! She heard the word, and could make nothing of it. In desperation, she had to prevaricate. ‘We are not landed people.’
Where the eyebrows were drawn, the skin hoisted. ‘According to Markios my brother, the van Borselen are married to royalty. And your husband’s father, I hear, is a magnate. Between them, they might afford to redeem you and your nephew?’
Katelina said, ‘I am on the island of Cyprus?’
‘It is better,’ said the woman, ‘than being in Cairo. Yes. Your ship fell into Cypriot hands. You were landed at Salines. You have been brought from Salines to the capital. You, demoiselle, are in Nicosia, in the hands of James, a Christian monarch. You will remain until your ransom is settled. You will not find us harsh jailers. Here are ladies of culture, who serve us and tend the royal nursery. The King’s children are well-reared and biddable. When he takes a wife, they will never disgrace him. You have given your husband many fine progeny, I imagine?’
‘I have a son,’ said Katelina. The woman knew that already: she sensed it. Knew her to be twenty-two, and productive of a single accouchement, and ageing.
‘My commiserations,’ said the woman. ‘But your husband, perhaps, will have others. He will wish, no doubt, to reclaim you. Until he responds you are welcome to stay, as I have said, with the ladies. Or I can offer a cell with the Clares?’
A cloister, or the suite of the royal mistresses and their bastards. Katelina felt herself flushing. She said coldly, ‘A convent would be to my taste. Where, may I ask, are those who were with me on shipboard?’
‘The Genoese, the merchants, the Athletes of Christ? All dispersed without harm, and their ship sent back to Rhodes. As I said, our King is Christian and merciful. The trader Niccolò and his mischievous warband faced, of course, a different destiny.’
Katelina sat up. The fire glowed red and hot. Her skin was damp; a trickle of sweat divided her breasts. She drew her nightrobe closed and smoothed its edges. She said, ‘So I should suppose. He sold himself to the Queen for a knighthood.’
‘Foolish knave,’ the woman said. ‘But it was, of course, the simplest way to leave safely. Now he is here, as he planned. King James has reinvested him in the same Order, and gifted him rights and acres which more than exceed Carlotta’s dream charters. Madame suffers?’
Katelina felt suddenly dizzy. The sweat on her skin had turned chill, and her tormentor’s face blurred like a junket. She said, ‘Nicholas and his men are alive?’
‘Of course,’ emitted the shimmering features. ‘The young man sent a message from Rhodes. It promised his service.