Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [222]
She waited, but no one came back and when, much later, she walked slowly up the same staircase, there was nobody to be seen. They found her there, to tell her that the spy of the Lusignan had somehow escaped. She returned to the castle in their company, and without looking over the wall, then or later.
The Knights’ castle at Pharaclos occupied a squat grassy hill to the north. Its battlements had a remarkably clear view, if distant, of Lindos; and far too clear a view, in the opinion of Nicholas, of the red clay roofs of the cabins that littered the landward side of Pharaclos Castle, safely out of view of the shore. Once he had limped past the cows and the dogs and the goats, the mules and the poultry, the melon patches, the beans and the well, it was not hard to find the house of Persefoni, the woman with the best roasting-ovens in Pharaclos. She was not pleased to see him.
‘Boulaki! Boulaki sent you, you go back to Boulaki. A foul, fornicating fisherman who starves his own mother.’
‘I bought his boat,’ Nicholas said. ‘He says you are an angel as his mother is a devil. I need to hide until I can walk. And I need information.’
She didn’t ask what was wrong with him, because she could see the bone of his shin. He kept his arms behind his back too, in case she expected him to dance on his hands. She said, ‘How much?’ And he said, ‘Boulaki’s boat and as much again as I paid for it, to keep for Yiannis’s grandson.’
‘Ah!’ she said. ‘He trusted you with the boy?’
‘He got paid for it,’ said Nicholas. ‘Twice over.’
She shot a look at him. He hoped he looked as he felt, which was resigned, reasonably acquiescent and in some breath-shortening but not life-endangering pain. He knew, as well as she knew, that if he carried that amount on him, he could be killed and robbed in five minutes. He said, ‘I can give you half. The rest will be paid by a lady in Lindos. I have to meet her in two weeks on the west coast. Boulaki will speak for us both.’
‘Limboulaki,’ she said. ‘Little boatman. His true name is George. Well, come in. How did you come by all this? You climbed out of her window?’
‘It was a very high window,’ he said. The fires were all lit under the roasting-ovens, and the shacks, the yard, the cabin shimmered and reeked with the heat. He saw, without protest, that she was opening the door to a hay shed.
She said, ‘As you see, no neighbours want to build close to this house. You can stay. There is a bucket. The boy will bring you some food. Show me your hands.’
He brought them forward. She had a weathered brown face, and strong black hair plaited under a rag. She said, ‘For half the money in advance, I will bring hot water and linen and ointment. But maybe you’re a good healer, and don’t need them.’
There was not much he could do. He let himself down and pulled the bag from his satchel and gave it to her. He said, ‘But the rest is for the boy.’
‘Oh, oh. The boy,’ she said, counting it. ‘Well, I suppose God tells us to take pity on beggars. I will bind this leg of yours as well. And what clothes are these, for a Christian man to be wearing?’
‘You have a son?’ he said.
Her eyes moved to him. She said, ‘Maybe. But he is a Greek,