The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [117]
Of the eminence, there was no longer any doubt. Even had he not learned from Plummer of all the tangible marks of the Emperor’s favour, it was only necessary to think of the display that afternoon; to hear the stories of the summer campaigning; to watch the people bow in the streets, as they did to the old princely families, when the Voevoda’s train passed.
And for the rest, one need only look around one. Plummer had built for a king: or, being given the heart of a building, had worked it over to become a suitable setting for Russia’s supreme commander. Outside, the groups of kokoshnik gables, the huddle of cones and pyramids and finials, the square stones set in thick mortar, with their brick trim in scarlet sawtooth or zigzag embroidery round window and cornice and drums. And inside, the jarred doors with frames of worked stone; the gilded piers, the majolica floortiles. All the arts of Syria and the Orient, of Turkey and Venice, of France and Russia itself had been combined in the interior. They said they had flown from Stamboul as fugitives. If that were true, it was impossible to conceive how these treasures could have been smuggled out also, or how, in less than two years, so much that was perfect could have been chosen, or gifted, or brought in from the closed caravan routes that lay behind Astrakhan and Bokhara. Great God, look at the Baghdad robes she was wearing of Tyrian purple laden with birds and with panthers; and the earrings next to the smooth olive face with its large eyes and charcoal black hair; at her ring with the cameo head of a negro, his neck encircled with diamonds.
The silk figured lampas which fell rustling over the door: the Flemish tapestry, mild and exquisite, clothing another room fitted with fine stools and carpets and bookshelves whose rolls and volumes Adam Blacklock’s eyes had surveyed hungrily, his fingers smoothing the cover of the one he had borrowed, its boards laced and coloured with Persian cloisonné enamel.
The Turkish towels. The cushion covers, worked in pearled German falcons. The paintings, each with its curtain. The wrought silver fuming pots, faint with pastilles of musk and ambergris, jasmine and benzoin. The beds hung with chagrin silk and blonde lace, the lawn sheets fumed with lemon and violets. The silver. The ewers and basins; the clusters of cups; the bellied livery pots, parcel-gilt with fruit swags and strapwork. The tall Chinese jar hooped with gold, with fringes of great netted pearls hung about it. The glimmering fruit bowls and candelabra here on the table before him, and the crystal salt, and the wine jug, and the little trellised goblets on baluster sterns, one of which he was emptying, and having refilled, and emptying again …
Christopher came in, his eyes dilated from the darkness outside, with Ludovic d’Harcourt, the big, smiling Knight of St John. His manner, making his apologies, pleased his father in spite of himself: he did not stare at Güzel, but kissed her hand, and bowed to his host and the other men, and gave only a passing blink at the laden table where the youngest of the blue-shirted servants, a boy of perhaps less than Christopher’s own age, was setting a fresh place for his son. The young manservant finished, and pulled back a stool, smiling, while Christopher, moving towards it, returned the smile warmly.
‘His name is Venceslas,’ said the Voevoda, whom nothing ever escaped. ‘He is Polish, but speaks English very well. Sit and eat, while he serves you. You have some space to make up.’
Ludovic d’Harcourt left, closing the door ungently behind him. In spite of himself, Diccon glanced at his son, and then at the lad Vencelas serving him. The Polish boy was beautiful. Even if what the big knight had hinted was true, there was no need to concern himself unduly. The matter, he thought, was already adequately taken care of. Then they brought in the aromatic pie, which had small birds under its pastry, some stuffed with meat and some with eggs, and some fried in grape