Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [34]
‘Why, my lord Jordan!’ said the King. ‘Is your family sterile of warriors? What of the bastard grandson in Flanders? He at least has frightened your son.’
She wanted, this time, to shout a denial. Unshakable in his hatred, Simon was not afraid of Nicholas vander Poele. Like his father, he despised him. Jordan said, ‘The youth Nicholas? Bastardy does not, fortunately, make him my grandson. If he were, I would control him. Nicholas, according to my latest information, is indeed going to Italy. Unhappily, he proposes to fight against Duke John of Calabria, not for him.’
King René appeared struck. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I thought you said he was going to Cyprus.’
‘The Queen has invited him. I cannot tell if he will accept. Certainly he is on his way to take part in the Naples war first.’ Jordan de Ribérac paused, and in his face Katelina thought that she saw a new mildness. He added, ‘If they meet, your honoured son has my full permission to kill him.’
King René considered, the velvet drape from his hat falling gracefully upon one slender shoulder, the bows of silver and gold sparkling on the breast of his coat. He said, ‘There would be a dramatic nicety about such a thing. I see that. Better still, of course, if it were to be his cuckolded father who killed him. My lady here should tempt my lord Simon from Portugal. He would listen to her. The Heart as Love’s Captive. The theme of my book, my lady Katelina.’
He smiled, sweeping past her. He was, in fact, genuinely amused. René of Anjou relished these encounters with Jordan de Ribérac whose brain, of all others, he suspected to equal his own. The vicomte came to Anjou for many reasons. This time one of them had to do, the King suspected, with the little lady called Katelina. It was interesting, too, that the conversation had turned so insistently on this improbable young man from Trebizond. It was clear that the fellow incensed the dear vicomte. It was also a recognised truth that the best way to be quit of a man was to set a woman upon him.
Watched from every quarter, the war for Naples renewed itself, and soon the antagonists were locked in their annual struggle. In high summer, Nicholas rode into Urbino, and unsurprisingly found it was empty. The Count had been south for weeks, on campaign in the duchy of Sora. The Albanian army, with Astorre, was further south still. Nicholas rode south. Three days later, he approached Urbino’s encampment.
Once, briefly and insignificantly, Nicholas had seen action under the Count of Urbino. Federigo da Montefeltro was of that breed of landed mercenaries who fought under contract for money. Then, when each winter came, he took his fee back to Urbino to spend it on matters truly close to his heart: on beautiful buildings, on paintings, on manuscripts; on his people, his lands, his côterie of poets and scholars. Nicholas could see why Tobie wished to study this prince. He himself had, at that point, no thought of depriving Urbino of Tobie.
The sun was still high when he picked his way down to the Chiento valley, and making his business known, was escorted into the encampment. A wait followed. The place, he observed, was in a state of fevered activity. As he watched, a tent was deflated. They were marching then; in which case Urbino might well be too pressed to see him. He sat at ease, without especial impatience. He was still waiting and watching when Tobie emerged from a hospital tent.
The physician stopped. The Duke’s secretary, who was walking behind him, stopped as well, and followed his gaze. ‘A dealer of some kind, from Bruges. Do you know him? He wants to have words with the Count.’
‘Nicholas vander Poele,’ Tobie said. He dragged his black cap off his crown and then slapped it on again, as the sun struck his bald head. ‘Trebizond. The Charetty company.’ He stared through the dust at the distant figure of Nicholas, who was not looking at him. Some tailor had cut him a light-weight doublet in dun-coloured silk that set off his height