Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [257]
Once inside the nave, Tobie’s ankle reminded him that if Nicholas was thinking of anything, it was probably another service not unlike this one. That had taken place two years ago, in Trebizond; and had celebrated the Feast of St Eugenios, not St Nicholas; and instead of James, Dei gratia Jerusalem, Cypri et Armenie rex illustrissimus, the chief celebrant had been the dead Vice-Regent of Christ, David Comnenos, twenty-first Emperor of Trebizond, accompanied by his Grand Chancellor and betrayer, George Amiroutzes.
The liturgy began and Tobie moved, craning uneasily. Behind the fountain of plumes that arose from Captain Astorre’s headgear was the shining head of Primaflora, its hair looped and plaited under the horns of a cap, and a cameo on a gold chain round her throat. Admiring her, Tobie didn’t feel impelled, for a while, to look further. Then he did, and saw Nicholas.
If painful reveries of any kind had once overwhelmed him, they did so no longer. Nicholas was standing so still that the thick painted glass struck motionless light from his chain, and his face was glazed like a jug with mixed colours. Tobie followed the line of his scrutiny. Beside the King and the Archbishop, the Bishops of Paphos and Limassol, the several abbots, the Knights Hospitaller of the Order and the ecclesiastical officers of the Cathedral, stood a thick, black hairy fellow in a battered conical cap with a veil, below which an assortment of robes vaguely Greek and vaguely Coptic did not quite cover the stained brown habit of a Franciscan friar.
Tobie recognised him. A hundred years ago, this man had stamped into the Medici Palace in Florence and nearly wrecked the whole Trapezuntine expedition. He had interfered in the snow by Bologna, so Nicholas said. He had been in Rhodes, and indeed his ship had transported home the body of the Portuguese whom Nicholas had said he hadn’t had murdered. Even without hearing the ineffable pitch of his bellow, it was possible to pick this man out in any circle.
It was Ludovico de Severi da Bologna, the Latin Patriarch of Antioch; and Nicholas, animated once again, was bestowing one of his broad, well-meaning smiles on the fellow. The friar returned a light scowl, after which they paid no more attention to one another. Tobie, who regarded the Patriarch with undiluted horror, felt thankful.
The head of the House of Niccolò, who had considerable reservations himself about Father Ludovico da Bologna, was content enough to remain unmolested through the Mass, and the procession back to the Palace, and even the banquet itself, although that presented different pitfalls.
Knowing the King, as he believed, Nicholas had always assumed that now, through his placing at table, Zacco would take his chance to belittle in public this favoured commander who had failed to give him his kingdom as promised. But instead, in a table filled with knights of his name, Nicholas was placed on the King’s right, and Nicholas (Conella) Morabit, on his left. Through the meal, it was the same. The King recounted past adventures, selected meats for him, joked about the abstemious habits of the baby St Nicholas, who refused the breast every Wednesday and Friday. The jokes, if coarse, were quite good.
From the other tables, Nicholas could see John’s face, red under its freckles, glancing his way more often than not. The churchmen, because of the feast day, kept their own table next to the King’s, sharing it with the Knights Hospitaller of St John. He had had a stiff greeting that morning from the Grand Commander Louis de Magnac, whom he had tricked over Loppe, and again on shipboard coming from Rhodes. With him was Brother William de Combort, who had entertained Primaflora so warmly at Rhodes in the belief that she was in Carlotta’s employment. Perhaps they all still believed that she was. At any rate, they could see that Zacco, not Carlotta, was going to hold Cyprus; and that they must treat a commander of Zacco’s with care.
At another table sat the Venetians: the brothers Martini as