The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [162]
“Santameri?” said Gregorio obediently.
“The Frankish castle of St Omer. St Omer in the Morea. The Pope and Milan sent Thomas soldiers, but he didn’t get on with them. If he had, the inhabitants of St Omer would be alive now. There is, I take it, no bread?”
“I shall have more brought,” Gregorio said. “Will the Duke lead your crusade, or finance it?”
The friar plied his knife. There was lard on his chin. He said, “You want me to talk about how one jewel from the tournament prizes would kill twenty Saracens? I’m an Observatine, my boy. We’ve been pricking the conscience of kings since we were founded. I’ve lived in Jerusalem. Calixtus sent me to Persia and Georgia as nuncio to the Latins. He tried to get me into Ethiopia. I’m not a little monk with a bell from someone’s carpeted chapel. I’ve the power to preach and hear confessions and confer sacraments and baptise. I work. I don’t expect greedy people to help; I make them do it. I thought your man Julius was pig swill.”
“So did Cosimo de’ Medici until we proved otherwise. You should make sure of your facts,” said Gregorio.
“That’s what I’m saying. I thought he was pig swill; about to fill his pockets from both sides and get out before anything happened. The rest of the company too. I was wrong. You were sending soldiers to Trebizond. I’ve just heard it.”
“How did you hear?” said Alighieri.
The Franciscan took both hands away from his mouth, which was full, and glanced at his fellow-delegate. “A friend of a friend,” he said. He switched his attention back to his food. “Who will they fight for?”
Gregorio remained calm. He said, “For their leader Astorre, under Nicholas. Niccolò. Naturally.”
The friar, peacefully groaning, was exploring his gums with a needle. He withdrew it, shrouded with food, and sat twirling it idly between thumb and finger. “I meant what you thought. For whom will child Niccolò fight?”
Michael Alighieri said, “Brother, all his resources are committed to the Emperor and the Medici. I am sure he is a man of good faith. But even if he is not, what other option has he?”
“He could fight for himself,” said Fra Ludovico. “Abandon the company. Take the money and go somewhere safe. Venice, perhaps. I’m sure Messer Prosper de Camulio is uneasy. I’m sure you got remarkably little from him today. Of course, he had Michael here with him.”
“Against your orders?” said Gregorio. He had realised it some time ago. He might as well risk it.
“Of course,” said Fra Ludovico. “What does he need to learn about you? You and the woman who owns you are not going to matter. What matters is that fellow out there. Niccolò. That’s someone the Devil’s got his mark on.”
“I heard what happened in Florence,” Gregorio said. He felt cheerful. He said, “All the same, Messer Alighieri and I could have a useful talk, I am sure, that would do you no harm. He could tell me something of Trebizond.”
“He could,” said the monk. He broke open and abandoned a loaf; found a fresher one, and took it. He said, “He could tell you old women’s stories of Trebizond that might make you call your precious Niccolò back, considering the way the princes are rushing to help us all here.” He emptied his mouth and gazed at Gregorio. He said, “I don’t want him back. I want him and his soldiers in Christian Asia.”
“Dead?” said Gregorio.
He was answered by a light shower of wet bread. “He’d die in grace, wouldn’t he? He won’t get the chance. There’s no more danger now than there was when he went. You’ll get your profit with things as they are: you don’t need to worry. It’s to spare you worry that I asked Michael here not to trouble you.”
Gregorio said, “Even if the demoiselle reversed his orders, they wouldn’t reach Nicholas—Niccolò—for four months.”
The friar wiped his knife and put it away. “But they might reach him,” he said. “Safer to leave things alone. But you can write. Tell him