Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [168]
The uppermost, high among the cool airs from the north, held the royal suite of the Queen, and was empty. There, Tobie knew, the traceried windows looked to the sea and would have a view, however small, of Kyrenia Castle. Being placed on the edge of a chasm, the northern range of St Hilarion required no defences. Around the rest of the castle a wall had been built, and fortified with nine towers. A quarter-mile long, it straddled the southern slope of the hill and stalked up the height to the summit. This rampart towered before them, firm and well-kept, and bearing along all its length the vicious sparkle of steel. They were to be given a welcome.
James of Lusignan held up his hand. Just out of bowshot, his troops halted. A bugle sounded a call. The King’s herald rode out, his plumes nodding, his golden tabard sewn with the crosses and lions of Lusignan, and, halting far below the main entrance, blew his trumpet and shouted. After some delay, the castle gates opened and an armed horseman emerged and rode slowly down. They spoke, the measured sound of their voices echoing in the still air. Then they parted and returned. James received his herald, and turned to his captains and army. He raised his voice. ‘The garrison has refused honourable surrender. Brave men, you are to be given your wish. You will make this castle yours, and all that is in it.’
‘And that won’t be much,’ Nicholas said in an undertone, reappearing suddenly.
Inside his armour, Tobie was sweating. He said, ‘You’ve placed your men?’
‘I haven’t placed anybody,’ Nicholas said. ‘God Almighty, there’s a spy on every knoll up there, watching us. You’ve forgotten the programme.’
‘I haven’t. Now we turn and go back to camp, leaving them to stand to arms half the night. Then we come back tonight in relays, and tomorrow. Then when they’re worn out, we take them. Perhaps. Maybe we’ll be worn out before they are. Who’s that?’ Behind Nicholas, a huddled man in half-armour hung in the grasp of a guard.
‘One of the men I found watching us. The King wanted to question him. Now he’s sent him to you.’
‘To me?’ Tobie said. An idea puffed into his chest.
‘Yes. He has a terrible pain in the belly. So have half the Queen’s troops, so he says.’
‘It worked!’ Tobie said. He flung back his head and shrieked in awful falsetto. ‘It worked! It worked!’
Nicholas was grinning, and so was everyone round him. ‘Well, they weren’t going to let a wagon of new beef pass them by, were they? What did you put in the carcasses?’
‘Ask Abul Ismail,’ said Tobie. ‘Buckthorn, heliotrope, bryony berries. Mayweed and clover, sand lilies and cyclamen tubers. Lovely blooms. Poetic inspiration. Ilm-l’krusha, the learning of the bowels, is the Arab name for poetic inspiration. I tell you. If the garrison touches the meat, they’ll abort and shit till their eyes stream.’
‘A rotten, unethical trick,’ Nicholas said. ‘They’ll never let Abul into my Order, and Pavia will take your degree back. What d’you think of the weather?’
Tobie stared at him. ‘What are you worried about? It’s not going to rain. They say a sea wind gets up after dark, but you’re not having my blanket. Have you seen what John le Grant’s got to wear? Ten layers of thick cloth, three layers of wax cloth, and a lining of rabbit fur. He’ll be so hot he’ll be luminous.’
‘Well. We