Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [259]
The King was sober and affable. The Chancellor, an experienced man, knew an opening of consequence when he heard it. An office was found, and the King sat and said, ‘Well, what is this? We keep your lady wife waiting.’ And, warm with dancing, he pulled off his jewelled hat, so that the brown hair fell free, and opened the close-pearled band of his doublet so that his throat might be bared to the air. He said to Nicholas, ‘Ask. This is your night for receiving.’
Afterwards, Nicholas wondered what he had expected from Zacco. The favour of a hearing, which he had. An appreciation that a truce over Christmas might seem magnanimous to his Christian allies, which Zacco appeared to find appealing. But the idea that the season of leisure should be marred by the presence of men from that vicious republic? The conception that a Lusignan should humour the fools, to persuade them that surrender would not be dishonourable? The suggestion that – ‘Christ God in heaven,’ said James, King of Cyprus, rising slowly to his feet. ‘Are you deaf, blind, witless? Do you expect me to send food and wine to the men whose forefathers took mine to wretched imprisonment in Genoa? Who forced the wife of the first James of my line to earn bread with her needle? Who killed with privation his nephew? James, my great-grandfather, would have known what to say to you, despite the badge and the silver buckle you wear. Suggest that to me again, Messer Niccolò, and you will lose them, and more!’ said the King.
His face was livid, and his hand had clapped to his sword. Behind him, di Marino had risen also, ready to soothe. Usually, such an explosion could be anticipated. This time, it was so unheralded as to appear almost artificial. Standing, Nicholas said, in the humble voice known to every Bruges magistrate, ‘Lord, I would not displease you. I merely seek to end a war. If you give me leave, I will do it in a way that would not dishonour your forebears.’
The young man still stood, his breath short, his hand braced on the hilt of his sword. Their eyes were level. ‘How?’ he said.
‘I shall go back and prepare an assault,’ Nicholas said. ‘Tomorrow, if you will allow me.’
Zacco drew a long breath through pinched nostrils. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘And that would be quicker than starving them?’
‘It could not fail,’ Nicholas said. He avoided the Chancellor’s eye. He kept still, and calm, and gentle of voice.
‘And who would lead it?’ said Zacco. ‘You?’
‘Monseigneur,’ said Rizzo di Marino. ‘This is a counsel of courage, and I respect it. But our trench is exposed to artillery. The vanguard of such an assault will die.’
‘You?’ repeated the King.
‘Of course,’ Nicholas said. ‘I should allow the honour to no one else of the lord King’s adherents. Unless he wishes to strip me of his confidence.’
Rizzo di Marino said, ‘Of course he will take Famagusta. But need our troops suffer the cost of it?’
No one spoke. Nicholas stood, expressing only what he felt, which was patience, and understanding, and a baseless, inbred, unnatural optimism. And gradually, the King’s hand relaxed, and his bearing, and lastly his face, across which flickered indistinct and curious emotions: of relief and annoyance, of affection and something that might have been shame. Zacco raised his hand from his sword and took Nicholas by the face in hard fingers. ‘I forbid you,’ he said. ‘I have bought your life. I forbid you to waste it. Starve them. They deserve it.’
Nicholas dropped to one knee. For a moment they remained apart. Then the King’s hand touched his cheek, differently, and the King’s voice said, ‘Enough. Let us return. They will think the worst of three handsome men who have taken leave together.’
There was nothing more to be done. Nicholas cast a single glance at the Chancellor’s considering gaze, and followed the King back to the hall. He had nearly reached it when the hand of Ludovico da Bologna grasped his shoulder, and the voice of the Patriarch pronounced in his ear: ‘Well, my son. Does the King pay for all night of you, or can the Church claim an hour of your time?’
The King turned.