Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [70]
The kerchief, motionless, was a threat in itself. ‘You think my son is more sagacious than I am?’
Nicholas said, ‘Probably not. But you are not the King-claimant of Cyprus.’
The kerchief slowly sucked itself hollow, and dropped again. She said at length, ‘So you will go to Carlotta? You have Genoese friends, so I hear. And Portuguese friends. The Duchess of Burgundy is Portuguese. So was Carlotta’s first husband.’
Nicholas sighed. He said, ‘Madame, I have your son’s undertaking that he will wait for my answer. When I know what it is, I shall give it to him. But I shall tell you this. I will not join Queen Carlotta.’
The silk snapped like a whip. ‘Queen Carlotta?’
‘She is still Queen of Kyrenia,’ Nicholas said. ‘And the Pope calls her Queen. Only Tzani-bey and the Sultan of Cairo allow your son the supreme title. Tzani-bey is worth more to you at present than I am.’
‘Yes. I see that,’ she said. ‘And he is a man, who understands men. Go home. This is no place for children.’
She left without looking round or she would have seen, with satisfaction, that he was unsmiling. Despite this, one profile was pierced by a dimple. In the whole of Cyprus there was no one to guess, as Tobie might have guessed, what that implied.
The Venetians’ house, when he got there, proved to be an old palace, built in the rich and decadent days when the Latins had come straight from Jerusalem, and brought all their luxury with them. There were warehouses adjoining, and a yard with many crates and two kneeling camels. An ornate marble-flanked gate led to a garden with orange trees and a fountain, at present not functioning. He gave some thought to the best way of leaving his mule, and this done, looked about him and won a small wager with himself. Observing him from an inner balcony was Messer Giovanni Loredano, the young vice-Bailie who had served him food at Cape Gata. Messer Loredano exclaimed, disappeared, and reappeared running from the house door. He stopped just before knocking Nicholas over. ‘My God: what have they done?’
‘What they should have done to you,’ Nicholas said. ‘I have an itemised list in my satchel.’ The distress, he thought, was genuine, although several generations of artifice had perfected its expression. He thought, now he had time, that Vanni Loredano looked like nothing so much as a fully articulated model of a Venetian nobleman. He was led indoors, seated, and given excellent wine in a silver cup, quickly. He was in what appeared to be the nave of a cathedral. Loredano, sitting so near in his anxiety that their knees appeared to be touching said, ‘What can I do? What can I say? The Bailie will complain to the Palace tomorrow. Has the King seen how you were treated?’
Nicholas lay back and let the wine go to his head. He said, ‘Does it matter? I’m leaving.’
Loredano in turn shifted a little. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Who could blame you? And you will take your men?’
‘What men?’ Nicholas said.
‘We had word –’ Loredano began. He broke off. He said, ‘I’m sure they told you at the Dominicans’. Your captain and men are at Rhodes.’
‘That’s useful,’ Nicholas said. He waited, sipping.
The other man said, ‘You will be glad to hear that the lady is safe. The lady Primaflora.’
‘Where?’ said Nicholas.
Loredano said, ‘In the south. You were right. It was safest. Since the monastery was in such distress, we lodged her with the Knights of St John at Kolossi.’
Through his abused and beaten body, a delightful, vinous glow was beginning to spread. Check. Check and check. The night’s internal debate duplicated itself in his mind, with certain premises illuminated the way Colard Mansion illuminated them when he was drunk. Nicholas said, ‘Well, that’s useful too. Carlotta wants her.’
Check and check. The Venetian said, ‘The Order does not know, it is true, that the lady has left Queen Carlotta, but her presence at Kolossi is only a temporary measure. As you know, she does not wish to return to the Queen. She feels her place is with you.’
‘Then she does