Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [195]
Katelina said, ‘I don’t blame the King. My fate, for some reason, seems to be in the hands of his mother.’
It was Valenza this time who smiled. She said, ‘My dear, it is the same thing. If the lady Marietta has sent you here, it is because the King wants it.’ She paused, considering. ‘Zacco is not, of course, such a man as you would meet in the West – a step-mother called after Medea, Cleopatra the name of a sister? He knows himself to be unique. He is proud of his heritage, and his beauty.’
Was she meant to understand some connection with Nicholas? The modulated voice held no discernible malice. ‘I have heard tales of all kinds,’ said Katelina. ‘Though King, he has no consort?’
Fiorenza answered. ‘He has a daughter, Charlotte. Others also, I think. The tales you hear are probably true, but James of Lusignan can inspire an army of Muslims and Christians, which I doubt if Carlotta could do. And one day, of course, he will marry.’
Her tone was reflective. It came to Katelina that, of course, the perfect bride for the King should have been one of the Naxos princesses, had Fate’s timing been better. Now, wed too soon and not yet entered on widowhood, none would ever be princess and Queen. Of course, marriages could be set aside. But Valenza worshipped her son. And Fiorenza could hardly dismiss her lord Marco: not with small Violante, Cornelie, Regina, Catherine, Blanche and the others about her. Catherine, nine, was plump and pale and underfoot at the moment, as always. Fiorenza sighed, and ran a fingertip over her daughter’s straight hair. Katelina said, ‘It seems the King trusts his good chevalier Niccolò.’
The sisters looked at her, their heads tilted. They might have been made out of seashells. Valenza said, ‘Unwisely, you think? I suppose those who fight risk their lives. He appears to have shown himself faithful.’
‘He is faithful, at least, to himself,’ said Katelina. She couldn’t say more. She couldn’t yet, openly oppose the man who could kill Diniz by speaking one word in the ear of the King. She had already, in her pain and despair, said more than she should.
‘But you would like him more if he freed Diniz, your nephew? How well we understand!’ the lady Fiorenza said. ‘And it may be possible. You will speak to him tomorrow. We shall plead with Messer Niccolò also. We shall solicit the support of his other guests. He has invited Jacopo Zorzi our neighbour, whose brother now governs his dyeworks. How pleasant if we succeed in freeing this Diniz. A charming boy to join this sad household of women.’
The words made her shiver. And not only the words. She couldn’t ask a favour of Nicholas, to whose silence she owed Diniz’s safety. Who, by his silence, thought he had bought her complaisance. But the princesses were not to know that. She could read nothing but tranquil pleasure in the two ivorine faces. They had never met Nicholas vander Poele. She couldn’t tell if they were indifferent to the reports they had of him; or envied their sister Violante, or despised her. She didn’t know whether they were prepared to love him or hate him. Or if they had learned, as she had, to fear him.
They rode to Kouklia in the coolness of morning, a fine company of noble Venetians, men and women, with their servants attending them. On the way they were joined by Messer Jacopo Zorzi, owner of vineyards. Katelina did not know his brother Bartolomeo, but surveyed with misgiving the blue-jowled sardonic face and straddle-legged stance. The princesses thought this man could influence the release of Diniz. Once, Katelina would have welcomed the prospect with joy.
Their way took them west, through the cornfields that bordered the sea, past the gleaming stadium of Apollo and above the foaming, rock-scattered shores where Aphrodite was born. In the sunlight, stone was stone, and no voices spoke that were not Italian,