Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [314]
Among them was Primaflora. He had forgotten – how could anyone forget? – the precise oval of her chin, and the short curling lips with their pleats. Her small ears, with the golden ringlets falling before them; the fine arch of her brows, and the pale, clear eyes under. She wore a gown he had never seen, embroidered with pearls he could have afforded, but had never had time to find for her. She wore a necklace he could not have afforded. Her gaze, making nothing of his stiffness or his pallor, was concerned only with his mind. He let her see what she wanted to see, but nothing more. Her lids slowly dropped, as if in submission. He turned to the King’s mother and bowed as well as he could, while Diniz did likewise. Then he looked fully to one side of the chair where, this time, the hulking figure of Markios was not present. Instead, in a heavy seat fit for his bulk, Jordan de St Pol, vicomte de Ribérac, stared at him.
Tobie had called him a bladder, but the King of France’s financial adviser was not a figure of fun. The vicomte de Ribérac was a broad-shouldered man of great size, which he exploited, as now, to suggest the quality and scale of his riches. He was heavily bejewelled. Beneath the extravagance of his headgear his large-featured face rested upon several chins; in a cloak of innumerable sables he filled a large room with his presence. His eyes, sharp in their pouches, scanned first Nicholas, then every inch of his young grandson’s body. He was not smiling.
The King’s mother said, ‘There is the lord Niccolò vander Poele, whom you accuse. There is your grandson, who has worked as a serf in his dyeyard. Ser Niccolò, you know whom you face. He has laid charges against you. He accuses you of the killing of his daughter’s husband Tristão Vasquez on Rhodes. He says he has proof that in Famagusta you and an idolatrous doctor, since murdered, brought about the death of his son’s wife, Katelina. He claims that you and your manager contrived that his grandson Diniz Vasquez, bought by you and committed to serfdom, should be encouraged to escape so that he would find himself locked and starving inside Famagusta. He says that his son’s wife and the boy were initially captured and brought to Cyprus by your agency, and their ransom ignored so that you might do them harm. He asks for your death. Boy, go to your grandfather.’
Nicholas said, ‘Excellent lady?’
The veil turned. Nicholas said, ‘They are of one blood. The boy should not have to choose. Let him leave us.’
‘To choose?’ said the King’s mother. ‘Between whom? Between you and his grandfather?’
Diniz stood without moving. He said, ‘It isn’t a question of choice, but of justice.’
The King’s mother looked at the vicomte. He spoke to her, although his eyes didn’t move from the boy. ‘It is as I warned you. I require medical endorsement, for which I am willing to pay. You see where the child has taken his stance, at the side of his seducer. He knows how his father died; who killed the wife of my son. But he will not say now. He has chosen.’
Raw to the marrow, Nicholas heard him, and drew a hard breath. He had cause to know Jordan de Ribérac’s cruelty. He had not been prepared to see it unsheathed to discredit a worn, bereaved boy. Beside him, Diniz had turned first red, then white. Nicholas said, ‘You say that of your grandson in public? In public? Even if you believed it is true, and you don’t? Will you do even that to get rid of me?’
And Jordan de Ribérac said, ‘Remove yourself, Claes. That will stop me.’
Nicholas turned to the chair. ‘My lady: let the boy go. This man is a captive. He has no rights here. He should have justice, but he cannot demand it. By process of law, if he has a complaint he may put it, and the courts in his own country will hear it. But why am I brought here to listen to him?’
De Ribérac looked at the chair of state. He said, ‘Forgive me. There speaks the voice of privilege, or one who claims