Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [287]
‘No,’ said Nicholas. He did not look up.
Her soul and her son. A boy in Bruges, he had been older in wisdom than Katelina. He had let himself fall in with her will, and had not seen that she had no will, but was calling, alone, for a friend. From that had come all this misery. All he had given her was bodily joy, and a life that had ended in pain, among strangers. He said, ‘I have destroyed her.’
And: ‘Look at her,’ said Abul Ismail. ‘When you die, you should wish to die thus.’ And Nicholas looked, and saw for the last time the face of Katelina van Borselen, into which Abul Ismail read contentment. And it was true, and in that lay the tragedy.
She lay, her eyes closed and smiling, surrendered to death like the moth, symbol of passionate love, which yields its life to the taper that lures it.
She had died, who was not his beloved, and he had killed her.
Outside the sealed city, the advent of the round ship Adorno roused the kingdom. One by one, the north-west balefires blossomed in warning, and St Hilarion, Buffavento and Kantara added their signals. The news came to the capital, where James of Lusignan struck the bearer to the floor. It was his mother, arching her brows, who said, ‘Zacco. Desist. I think you will find this has been prepared for.’
Outside a grand villa in the same city, a priest in an assortment of ramshackle clothing stopped his mule in the gateway, descended by lifting a leg and bellowed to the first person he met, which was Tobie. ‘Are your ankles too weak for your belly? There’s a Genoese ship on the way. Zacco’s off to the coast with his officers. If you want to see it, start riding.’ He retired, lifted a leg, and was carried bobbingly onwards.
‘What?’ said Loppe, materialising.
‘His lordship the Patriarch of Antioch,’ Tobie said, beginning to run. ‘There’s a rescue ship on its way to the Genoese. If it gets into the harbour, it’ll stop the surrender. Tell John. I’ll get the horses.’
‘I heard,’ said John le Grant. ‘What are you expecting to do about it?’
‘Get across to the bay, and watch what happens,’ said Tobie. ‘It’ll make a change. It isn’t really a day for the beach, but I’m tired of my sewing. And it would be nice to know who might be on board. Or hadn’t you thought of that?’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said John le Grant. Then he said, ‘How is she coming?’
‘Round the Karpass, because of the wind. She’ll hold off as long as she can; we won’t get much of a view, and they are saying shore batteries couldn’t do her much damage. Zacco’s men will either catch her at sea, or not at all. And once in the harbour, she can unload all she’s got through the sea-gate.’
‘That’s about it,’ said John le Grant. ‘She would expect, maybe, to get into Kyrenia, then see the Lusignan flag on the castle. At any rate, our Genoese friend has a chance. Round ships can come fast on the north wind, and our galleys will have the worst of it, facing them.’ He paused, and said, ‘So it’s up to Mick Crackbene then, isn’t it?’
‘Against the wind?’ Tobie said.
‘We discussed it with Mick,’ le Grant said. ‘Of course, plans get changed.’ He didn’t say what he was thinking. In Trebizond, Mick Crackbene worked for the Genoese against Nicholas, in the very same ship he’s now sailing.
Loppe said, ‘The sea-tower in Famagusta is high. Lomellini will see a relief ship is coming. Master Nicholas will have some sort of warning. And he is a hostage, and sacrosanct.’
‘Right enough,’ said John le Grant. ‘Just let’s hope that no one forgets it.’
For a month, he had played a master’s game lacking a master. Released from Famagusta, he had retired to Nicosia, as Nicholas wanted. Astorre, denied his attack, had stayed with Thomas in camp, uneasily brooding. Philip Pesaro had remained in Sigouri, stupefied with relief, and only briefly touched, it appeared, by Zacco’s displeasure. That had been reserved for Nicholas and even there, le Grant wondered how far it was genuine.
The King had forbidden