Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [99]
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Nicholas said. ‘I thought his tastes ran to something younger. Is it worth going on, or should I just turn and go home?’
They had stopped before a set of high gates. The monk’s face, like a misshapen tuber, remained close to him. Then da Bologna said, ‘You don’t suspect you might be going to get a surprise? You’re a sharp fellow; but you don’t know Carlotta. Enjoy yourself.’
He turned. Nicholas said, ‘You’re not coming in?’
The friar laughed. ‘I’ll hear what happens,’ he said. ‘I’m sailing for home in a few days. My business is starting wars, my boy, not playing the peacemaker.’
‘So I’ve noticed,’ Nicholas said. The monk left. Loppe, who had vanished, reappeared at his side, saying nothing. The gates opened upon a courtyard planted with palms and hung with ceremonial cloths of wet silk. As he rode through, trumpets sounded, and a man in a French hat and a heavy furred gown walked forward and held out his hand. ‘Ser Niccolò? Descend, and be welcome.’
At the Ser, Loppe’s chin trembled and Nicholas scowled at him as he dismounted. The trumpets sounded again, bouncing off the walls of an adequate mansion which must, in its time, have been owned by a nobleman of some taste and wealth. Now, dressed with painted devices, it was the temporary home of the monarchs of Cyprus, who appeared (considered Nicholas) to be taking a great deal for granted.
Nicholas walked through double doors, preceded by the personage in the French hat who held a wand. In the vestibule the personage turned and snapped his fingers. A page appeared, bearing a bale of blue cloth. The bale, unfolded, proved to be an extremely good indigo mantle with embroidery all over one side in Cyprus gold thread. The personage, who turned out to be Montolif, Marshal of Cyprus, addressed him. ‘The rain has damaged your cloak. Their graces wish you to replace it with this.’
Nicholas bowed; was divested of one cloak and invested with another and bowed again. He began to feel strongly like one of his own mechanical toys. He avoided Loppe’s eye, walked through a door and climbed a stair at the top of which another trumpeter was stationed. His ears ringing, he walked into a hall.
Although not of the grandest dimensions, the timbered chamber with its arched roof and handsome windows was not a mean setting for the Queen of Jerusalem, Cyprus and Armenia and her consort and cousin, King Luis. Below a baldachin at the end of the room they sat side by side upon a low dais, with their personal household grouped standing beside them. On either side of the room, there stood ranked against the long walls some fifty men of obvious standing. Those against the windows wore, uniformly, the same blue mantle which had been given to Nicholas himself. Those on the opposite side were dressed in styles which derived from France or Savoy more than Cyprus. Surprisingly, two or three wore the black and white cloak of the Order. But then, of course, the Order owned land in Savoy, and had allowed its Savoyard brethren to come to the aid of King Luis.
There were no women present but for the Queen and her ladies of honour. They were set on her right, and among them he saw Primaflora. She stood, eyes downcast, in her heavy court gown as if she had never planned to thwart or escape from her mistress. Of Katelina there was no sign whatever. Then the Marshal declaimed. ‘Serenissima; serene lord King: the lord Niccolò vander Poele, commander, banker and merchant of Venice.’
One did not approach on the belly as at Trebizond, or kiss the ground, or the shoe, or even the hand. But Carlotta was Byzantine, as that court had been, and was due the high style of the ceremonial. He took his time, pacing the ground from the door to the foot of the dais, and thought it another irony that the person who had trained him should have been Violante of Naxos,