Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [76]
It did result, however, in a certain ageing of the sitting tenants, and Primaflora might have found the time passing even more slowly had the young Portuguese and his father not been in the Castle as lay guests as well. She had found them there on her arrival, stranded on their way from their homeland to Rhodes, and awaiting a ship to remove them. They seemed in no haste to leave, and very willing to repay their knightly hosts by lending help in the fields and the warehouses. The boy, dark, smooth-skinned and graceful, instantly appointed himself Primaflora’s protector and followed her everywhere, like a gazelle. The father, himself comely in the cool, superior mode of the aristocrat, indulged his son’s infatuation with an experienced eye, and showed courtesy, but no more than courtesy to Primaflora. If the Knights did not, Senhor Tristão well knew what the lady was.
She could have wished that the two Portuguese spent less time in the vineyards and cane fields from which they returned, on occasion, with their servants behind them bearing sacks leaking with earth. When that happened, they were not anxious to stop and converse, but excused themselves until they were presentable. And presentable was an understatement for the way they were dressed when at last they came to table, the boy making at once for her side, and the father seated beyond, between the Lieutenant and the priest called Father John, who knew relatives of Senhor Tristão and conversed with him (knowing no Portuguese) in a species of terrible English.
Meanwhile, no message was delivered from Niccolò, secretly or otherwise. At first, she had set the monastery by the ears, inveighing against the Venetians for allowing Niccolò to be taken to Nicosia in such company. Indeed, she had refused to leave the monastery until word came, early one morning, that Niccolò was quite safe, and with King James. King Zacco, everyone called him. Before leaving, the Venetians told her that Niccolò would send for her, and she was to wait for him. Since the monks could no longer keep her in their wrecked cloisters, she was to be placed in Kolossi, with some tale that she was awaiting a message to help her rejoin Queen Carlotta. The Order had seen no Venetians. There was nothing to connect her or Niccolò with them. To the Knights of St John, she was still Queen Carlotta’s attendant, of whom they had heard before. And Niccolò, she was to tell them, had come to Carlotta.
The monks, in their misery, took no part in the plotting. The repairs to the monstery of Ayios Nikolaos had begun before she left, after the wounded animals had been cared for, or buried. She had watched, that first dusk, when the monks lit the lamps and then, as was their custom, gently struck the bronze bell. She did not wait to see how few were the shadows that came from the beach, or between the herbs and the citrus trees, or what scars they bore from their fighting. If there were vipers, now they would multiply.
Some time went by and, instead of sending for her, Niccolò appeared at the gates with three muleloads, two servants and a limp. From the guesthouse window, she saw him escorted over the south yard, and climb the steps to where Brother William, already summoned, stood to greet him. He was tidily dressed and climbed steadily, but not as a fit man would do. Her woman said, ‘They have beaten him. Look at his face.’
Even from such a distance she could see the unfamiliar patches where the broken skin had healed over. His eyes seemed very large, as they had during the fever. Primaflora said, ‘Why is he here? Unless … unless he has crossed to the Queen’s side? Go and find out. Go to the castle and listen.’
Her woman came back quite soon, a