The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [146]
Nicholas said, “Doria is coming himself. Difficult? No. They’d just had news. The Turkish army is massing at Bursa, and the Sultan himself is in Ankara. The Emperor needs Astorre.”
Tobie said, “The Turks are making for Trebizond?”
“I don’t suppose so,” said Nicholas. “But the Emperor would still feel happier with Astorre. I gather I’m now to be favoured with my wife’s letter?”
Pagano Doria stood before him, with an usher on either side. Godscalc came close. The perfect Doria teeth smiled between the cupid’s bow of his lips. Doria said, “What can I say? A friend, murdered in daylight! As you see, the Emperor has sent his own escort in case I should lift my hand to you. Of course, I should never dream of it. I have your letter somewhere. A dull fellow, your Gregorio.”
There was a pause. Nicholas said, “Gregorio? The letter you spoke of was from Marian de Charetty. My wife.”
Doria tapped his nose with one finger. The letter, dirty and stringless, was screwed in the hand that uplifted his elbow. He said, “And you believed me? How naïve of you, Niccolino. No, I fear that the loving words of dear Marian, if you were expecting them, have fallen into other hands, or perhaps were never written. The letter I spoke of is from your lawyer Gregorio, with a modicum of old news from Bruges, and a quantity of poorly coded detail about market prices. Of minimal use, since he wrote you in January.”
Someone moved. It was Loppe, Tobie saw. Nicholas himself stood perfectly still, although one hand grasped the bench. He said, “I will have it, then.”
“Of course,” said Doria. “But first, there is one item of news…Wait.” Unfolding his arms, he straightened and shuffled the shabby pages. “Yes. A piece of good news to please all of you. My lord Simon of Kilmirren has got a child of his body at last. His new wife was delivered in January.”
He looked up quickly but was given, Tobie saw, only a view of Nicholas in profile, referring something to Loppe. Tobie said, “I’ve heard more interesting pieces of news. Do we want the letter?”
“I suppose we do,” Godscalc said, “since it cost a man’s life. Delivered of what, if it matters?”
“A son. They have named the child Henry. Heir to all that land in Scotland and France; the line established; the brilliant young father with a boy to carry his sword. Poor Nicholas! Childless at twenty, and condemned so to remain as long as the handsome Marian should manage to live. I would be sorry for you, were it not so convenient.”
Nicholas had turned and was listening with what appeared to be patience. He said, “Thank you. Any time you wish another friend killed, be certain to let one of us know. We might not be sure, otherwise, which to pick.”
He took the letter, and glanced once at the handwriting and signature before pushing it into his purse and turning again to the steps, ignoring Doria. Tobie followed, with Godscalc. Loppe had gone ahead, and would have a horse waiting. At walking pace, it would take ten minutes, no more, to reach the fondaco. Nicholas, seen from one side, gave no immediate impression of distress, but that was certainly as deceptive as everything else about him. Without Loppe, for example, he could not have mounted the horse, when he reached it. Then he rode with the slow care, again, of a man numbed by liquor. Loppe kept pace on one side at his horse’s head, and Godscalc walked on the other. Tobie, catching the priest’s eye, walked behind.
So Simon of Kilmirren had a child. There was no need to speak of it. Godscalc knew, as he did, that Nicholas had been taught to consider himself the unacknowledged son of this Scotsman called Simon. Now Simon, it seemed, had a son—welcome, legal, accepted—by his second wife Katelina. A boy who would inherit all that Nicholas once thought was his, including his father’s affection. A rival whom Nicholas could never supplant.
Doria, it was plain, knew none of the bitterer implications of the news he had so playfully imparted. The relationship between Simon and Nicholas was still, thank God, locked within the smallest circle