Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [57]
A bearded man robed in black had appeared at a gate, preparing to welcome them. The man beside Nicholas replied with what seemed to be his natural briskness. ‘No. The lord King is in Nicosia, his capital. You will ride there. An escort will come to this place soon to fetch you. Tonight, very likely.’
‘Tonight?’ Nicholas said.
The man said, ‘It is two days’ journey away, and better to travel in coolness. Save your questions. There will be time enough.’ They stepped through the gate, and Primaflora’s face glimmered like pearl in the lamplight.
It was an old monastery, and blessed, in these flat lands, with space for its orchards and gardens, its church and its cloisters, its cells and its stables and offices, all thick-walled, rounded and white, and fragrant with incense and woodsmoke. There was a smell of fruit and risen bread and cooked meat and, behind all these, the coarse odour of brine and something acid which was harder to place. In the centre of the yard was a well and a washing place, both of weathered carved marble of an age much before that of the monastery. Nicholas caught, again, a glimpse of fleeting dark shapes but said nothing of it.
His curiosity, buried by anger, had sprung to life again. He felt little fear or anxiety, but an awakening of his faculties, a clarity that always came with the prospect of competition. Perhaps what lay before him was something so overwhelming, so final, so crude that no kind of ingenuity would serve him. But he could try, and if he survived, he could learn from it. Since Troia he had been nobody: a collection of assorted reactions. He began, quite suddenly, to feel like a person again.
He saw the servants had gone. Alone with Primaflora and the three men who had abducted him, he stepped through an archway into an ancient cloister, with lamps which afforded a glimpse of bold furzy flowers, and the scarlet of hibiscus, and the shadow of vines. There stood before him a man with the veiled hat, the black robes and the beard of an Orthodox abbot, a nun at his side. The woman, smiling, advanced and took Primaflora by the hand. The man said, ‘We have long awaited you. My daughter, be welcome. Your room is prepared, and Sister Eudocia will see to your comfort.’ The abbot watched her leave, then gave his attention to Nicholas. His eyes were long-sighted and clear, like those of a sportsman. He said, ‘They tell me you are a child of my Saint. Be welcome, be happy, be worthy of him. Come and gave thanks for your journey.’ He had spoken in Greek. He turned, as if refusal were inconceivable, and led the way into the church.
Primaflora had gone. Beside him, his senior abductor was smiling. He said, ‘I can see that you hesitate. But the good abbot believes you have volunteered, of your kindness, to help us. It will do no harm, surely, to thank the Almighty for your safety?’
Nicholas said, ‘I thought I was sponsored by Allah.’
The seigneur seemed undisturbed. ‘King James,’ he said, ‘makes no demands on the conscience of those who choose to work for him. Pray to whom you please, or to no one.’
Since the abbot was waiting, he went in. It was a small church, dimly lit, and the brethren themselves already half filled it. The scented haze round the lamps revived an unwanted memory: of the moving fog in Marian’s office, just before her daughters set their men to attack him. And if he turned his back on the lamps, there appeared something else from his past: the iconostasis: the wall of worked gold that screened the sanctuary, throwing