Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [318]
The parrot ruffled its feathers. ‘She is fortunate,’ Nicholas said.
‘You think so?’ said Marietta of Patras. ‘Her husband is less so.’
‘And what of the lady herself?’ Nicholas said. ‘Does she have both fortune and happiness?’
Primaflora lifted her head. She said, ‘You know I must be the woman. I have found Apollo in the island of Apollo. Forgive me, Niccolò. I would have followed him had he been all that the vicomte threatened me with. Barefoot and in rags, I should follow him. Do I need to tell you? You love Zacco also.’
He did not even glance at Primaflora, although he addressed her. He said, ‘So I have lost you? Or do we share, for appearances’ sake? Once you proposed we should share in another way.’
And the King’s mother, at whom he was looking, replied. ‘She should be married, but not to you or the King. Your vows were hurriedly taken; they can be dissolved, and the papers returned to you. Her husband requires to be a man of no prominence, with whom she will form no attachment. You would not wish to share her with the King?’
‘No,’ he said. His head moved, at least. He said, ‘The King did not feel able to tell me?’
The veiled woman said, ‘He plans to inform you tomorrow, and, if you are wise, you will receive it as news. I have told you now, to help you prepare for it. For the same reason I shall allow you now to meet this lady for the last time alone. You will say what has to be said, but you will not touch her. She belongs to the King.’
‘I understand,’ Nicholas said. He got himself to his feet, wondering how he would walk without touching her. But after he bowed, Primaflora slipped her hand under his elbow and walked with him through the door, and along to her chamber for the last time.
Chapter 46
HAD HE DISCOVERED it anywhere in the world, Nicholas would have known that the room he was taken to was Primaflora’s. The mirrors, the cushions. The lute and the manuscripts. The table heaped with the objects she loved to gather around her, as well as the precious vials and flasks she used for her art. The scents, mild and sensuous. And the bed. He wondered how much of it ever held Zacco’s fierce, erratic attention, apart from the bed.
Perhaps she had followed his gaze; perhaps not. Pressing shut the door at his back, Primaflora turned to face him. She lifted her hands and examined him; touching his bandaged arms, his shoulders; tracing the place beneath the silk where his side was strapped. He made no effort to stop her. She used her smoothing hands to draw herself closer; to gather him into a deepening embrace until no further movement was possible. Her scent and her weight settled against him; he felt as if sunk against wax. His breath caught in his throat, despite everything. Below him was the warmth of her hair, near enough to touch with his lips. Her eyes were two closed shutters of lashes; the lips below were painfully smiling. She said, ‘Seven weeks. Seven weeks, and you come to me a cripple?’
Except for the way they were standing, one shouldn’t compare this in one’s mind – or elsewhere – with another embrace, outside Kalopetra. Katelina had possessed none of these arts: only passion, and instinct. In a thousand ways, Primaflora had been trained to bestow