Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [281]
‘I am subject only to grief,’ Nicholas said. He would have said it to no one else. It happened to be true.
Christmas came, and High Mass in the Cathedral of St Nicholas. The last carts from King James had contained candles, and they stood in front of the altar: stout towers of wax that once would have been raided and eaten. Even so, their numbers seemed to have dwindled. Abul Ismail now had better stuff for his plasters than cobblers’ wax.
Katelina had shared in that Mass, carried there by Diniz and Nicholas on a stretcher of rafters and carpets. Latterly, a greyer tinge had coloured her skin; and the scented rosins Abul threw on her brazier disguised a different turn in her illness. But always, welcoming Nicholas, she was washed, combed and seemly, and had formed out of her obstinacy, it seemed, a frail steely courage that endured where others succumbed.
She returned silent from that communion, but roused to the dinner that Abul, Diniz and Nicholas spread in her chamber. She took, too, the first cup from the flask of good wine that Nicholas had found for her. ‘Droit de prémices,’ Nicholas said, clasping his hand over hers to keep the stem steady. ‘But then, we had that already.’ And she drew his hand closer and laid her cheek on it, so that he knew she, too, was thinking of Bruges, when she had allowed him that right, and of Ghent, and of a place by a waterfall. When he lifted his head, Diniz was looking at him. Then he looked away.
After that, he was commanded to the Citadel, to dine with the captain. With Napoleone Lomellini were other Genoese noblemen he had come to know, and sometimes find ways to baulk, when common justice appeared to be slighted. All were shabby; all had about them the cleanliness of icy well-water, spoiled and fetid with the reek of the city, that nothing but fire could dispel.
The meal was stiffly formal. At the end, the captain said, ‘I have had a message which concerns both of our hostages. Since this is a Christian festival, I have not sought, Messer Niccolò, the company of your colleague. I wish, therefore, that you will convey to him all I am about to say.’
Since he became first their prisoner and then their enforced guest, Nicholas had rarely met all his present masters; and had thought it best not to seek their company. Today, he had suspected that something was brewing. It was possible, of course, but not likely that Zacco had grown tired of his Christmas truce. His clemency had earned him the regard of the West and would, surely, last until Twelfth Night. It was likelier that Zacco had grown uneasy over his own unforeseen absence. Nicholas had asked to remain. He had been held, in the first place, because he had been caught carrying out what must now appear an ill-judged and irresponsible foray. An act of defiance, in Zacco’s terms. So now, perhaps, Zacco wished to replace and recall him. In which case, Nicholas meant to refuse.
Napoleone Lomellini drew out a paper. The labours of his protesting stomach had corroded his dark skin with pustules; he was still sharp of bone and languid in movement, but something of the family vigour was visible. His voice, as he continued, was brusque. ‘You will know that James of Lusignan is passing Christmas at Nicosia with four ambassadors from this city. We have heard from them. Talks have taken place. A document has been drawn up, and has been sent here to me for consideration. My colleagues and I have discussed it, and we propose to recommend that its terms be accepted. It will be signed on the sixth day