Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [241]
Because of the heat, the King’s mother wore none of her noses, but a Syrian half-veil, light as a kerchief. An embroidered cloth concealing her hair was bound with a complex gold fillet, and her robe was of Caspian silk woven in Florence. Clasped on her lap, her fingers were rose-tipped and heavily ringed. The upper part of her face was exquisitely painted, and her perfumes were slight, and varied, and seemly. Primaflora, who wore no scent at all, crossed her unadorned wrists and sank to the ground. After a considerable space, the woman above her said, ‘You may sit.’ A low stool had appeared. Primaflora rose and bestowed herself naturally, so that her skirts fell with grace. The King’s mother said, ‘So. You are old for the boy.’
‘Niccolò, my lady?’ said Primaflora. ‘He is old enough to lead armies.’
‘He is young enough to inflame my son. It is your practice to come between lovers?’
Too well-informed to pretend shock, Primaflora evinced instead a form of gentle regret tinged with reproach. ‘Gracious lady, I knew nothing of that. Before we ever reached Cyprus, Niccolò had demonstrated where his desire lay.’
‘A year ago,’ said the woman. ‘He had not met the King then. On my advice, the King sent you off. What makes you so bold as to come back?’
Primaflora bit her lip without disturbing the paint. She said, ‘Knowing nothing of this, how can I answer? The parting was hard. You know that Ser Niccolò, to end it, came to fetch me. Was I to spurn him? My feelings for him were – are – fondly engaged.’
‘Are they?’ said the asthmatic voice with amusement. ‘That is dangerous, lady, for one of your calling. And marriage, I should have thought, is a false step you must have been well warned against. With such as you as his wife, how can a man prosper in public life, and earn the gold that you need? How can you leave, should his fortunes alter?’
Primaflora looked down.
‘Well?’ said the woman. ‘Bashful? Hardly. He has expectations you thought worth the venture? You made marriage the price of your body? He made marriage the price of his body?’
Primaflora shook her head and then spread her hands in a sudden gesture of confusion. ‘All I know is that he would not have left Rhodes without marriage. He had prospects, but for his friends’ sake, I shall not be endowed with more than enough for my needs. But his passion runs deep; and …’ She hesitated again.
‘What?’ said the woman, still entertained.
‘I would give him sons,’ said Primaflora.
‘Ha!’ said Marietta of Patras, ‘I thought there was something of the brood mare about you. You have some already, no doubt, being discreetly raised by their fathers?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Speak up! And daughters, as well?’
Then she looked up. ‘No. Only sons. A man such as Niccolò can find himself lonely. I would give him companions for the years to come. I would stay with him and rear them.’
‘It is true,’ said the old harridan, whining, ‘that presently your looks will leave you, and if you have amassed no property, no wise investments, you must plan for your future. But I have to tell you that a man such as Niccolò needs sons less than he needs marriage, and needs a woman at present not at all. What may suit you would be folly for him. Get back to Rhodes.’
Primaflora stood up. She said, ‘I am married.’
‘That is soon cured,’ the woman said. ‘With a hatchet. It is your choice.’
So all she had heard of this woman was true. Primaflora remained standing still, although she knew she had blanched. She said steadily, ‘You would lose your commander. The King would lose his friend. I know Niccolò.’
‘And I know Zacco,’ the King’s mother said. ‘Do you think your Niccolò would ever know how you died? Make some excuse and go back to Rhodes. Once you are there, have your death proclaimed. It will be more convenient, I promise you, than the alternative.’
The woman’s eyes over