Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [298]
‘I knew there’d be another hand,’ Nicholas said. ‘That’s why I brought you here.’
‘Why?’ said Tobie.
‘Because Katelina had the same thought. Somewhere, in case it matters: in case Simon dies and the boy is in trouble, there should be a record of who he actually is. And so she left me one.’
He didn’t want, when the moment came, to hand it over; but it was sensible. Tobie took it, and opened the covering sheet, and took out the paper inside. The writing was large, and not very black, because she had been so weak, but it was perfectly distinct. It stated that the child known as Henry de St Pol, son of Katelina van Borselen, was not the offspring, as commonly accepted, of the lord Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren, but had been conceived and born to Nicholas vander Poele, burgess of Bruges and presently of the House of Niccolò, Venice. The date of birth was inscribed, and the date on which the letter was written. She had signed it, and had it properly witnessed.
Tobie read it. He had become rather pale. At the end he said, ‘It isn’t wise. Simon may find it.’
‘He won’t find it if you carry it,’ Nicholas said. ‘Take it. If you like, give it to Godscalc if ever you get back to Bruges. I’d say send it, but it might not be safe.’
‘You don’t want it?’ Tobie said.
And Nicholas said, ‘It’s better in neutral hands. It’s better out of Famagusta as well. I want you to go to Nicosia and take Diniz with you. Whoever gets killed in a Mameluke attack, it shouldn’t be you or him.’
‘But you don’t mind getting killed?’ Tobie said. ‘You only think you don’t mind. You’re so low in health that you don’t know what you’re talking about, never mind being able to fight for anybody. Leave Astorre and get out of it.’
All the time they had been talking, he had been conscious of a racket outside: a banging, followed by voices. The door opened. ‘There you are!’ said Astorre. ‘Will you come back? He said to be back by dusk, and he’s murderous.’
Nicholas rose. ‘You see?’ he said to Tobie. ‘Wanted by everyone. I have to go. Take care of it. Go to Nicosia.’
‘Go to hell,’ said Tobias Beventini morosely.
Chapter 43
THE CITADEL that night was uncomfortable, jammed with jaded and irritable men to whom, in their weariness, it seemed that the surrender of Famagusta had made them masters of a festering graveyard. At the centre of it all, overtired and on edge, was Zacco himself.
His temper, on the late return of Nicholas, quite suited Astorre’s description of murderous, and it took an hour of endeavour for the men around him, including Nicholas, to soften his mood. It was an example of the curious alchemy that drew men to Zacco no matter what his behaviour. They suffered his whims out of love for him. Whatever he did, he could count on that. Many times he did so, quite deliberately. The rest of the time it was unconscious. It was what made him fit to rule this particular land, rather than his sister Carlotta, who was probably more energetic, probably more gifted, certainly more intellectual. And because he was part of the charmed circle, and had done what he had with his ship and his army, and had shirked abnormally little of the hard work or hard play or his share of the fighting, Nicholas was aware that he was held in regard by the others. He was aware, too, that when the King’s immediate anger had died, Zacco remembered something. So, when Astorre was found tramping about outside the door, the King looked up from the drinking, companionable group that was talking him towards his bed, and said, ‘Ah, poor Nikko. We are unkind, when he is heartsick, and bereaved of his sad, Flemish lady. Take him away.’
Plodding up the stairs behind Astorre, Nicholas sat down and said, ‘You couldn’t do that every night? I’m going to sleep on the floor.’
‘No, you’re not. I’ve got good news. Master Tobie’s got the boy to agree to leave with him. They’re riding to Nicosia in the morning.’ The toe of his boot did some prodding.
Nicholas