The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [172]
That was all he would say, despite some ribald attempts to get more from him. When Nicholas was seen to be near at hand, they stopped, or went out. Le Grant supposed he had overheard them. He also supposed that Nicholas recognised, as the others had not, that a man who could hold Donatello’s friendship but not his persuasions was unlikely to be worried by overtures. If he noted the flush, Nicholas was unlikely to comment. They were not alone. Le Grant said, walking across to the windowseat, “I took the plans and explained them. Had to go all over the place like a pedlar.”
“They like red hair,” Nicholas said, without moving. “One day they’ll make you into a wig. You’ll leave with your ears in a cup, bald as Tobie.”
Since his illness, Nicholas—the lion, the perpetual mimic—had never passed a light remark to either Tobie or Godscalc. Between these three lay something more than the complaints he had been told about. John le Grant didn’t give a damn what it was. All he was concerned about now was conveying a message. He had a report to make, and he wanted to make it in private.
He had, of course, taken the fortification designs to the Palace and been interviewed by every jumped-up commander from the Protospatharios downwards. Then he had gone to see Violante of Naxos. He had taken her plans as well, but of different kind.
It was Nicholas who had suggested that visit. If his colleagues found out, he would be in trouble. Communication with Nicholas was supposed to be by committee. That is, Astorre wouldn’t care. But even Astorre didn’t know he was seeing the lady. And he was not sure, now, that he was going to tell even Nicholas what had happened when he got to her chamber.
To begin with, she was different in private, with almost no paint on her face and a severe gown in the Venetian style instead of the Byzantine sheath. She had sent the eunuchs out, and kept only two women who, he supposed, were confidantes. He bowed three times approaching, but didn’t perform the Prostration which he had given Constantine, the Great Emperor, in the last days of Constantinople. She knew who he was, and offered him a seat at once. Then she said, “What is this illness?”
He had shown no surprise. “Nicholas, Despoina? A marsh fever. Nothing more.”
“He is subject?” she said. Her hair was netted clear of her neck, and her mouth curled when she spoke, like a tendril. She added, “It is a long illness, for a fever.”
It was a question. She was, of course, not to be trusted; but he was moved to see how far he could go. He said, “He is recovering, maybe a little quicker than some of us fancy. They’ve put a check on his movements.”
“Oh?” she said. She added, “He is too immature, after all? But do you have a successor? I have not met one.”
“Neither have I,” said John le Grant. “No. It’s government by consensus until he stops going his own way without consulting his officers. I shouldna be here, except that it’s not on company business.”
She said, “How has he gone his own way?”
“You’d need to ask him that,” said John le Grant. “He’s shown himself less than frank. And, of course, my lord Doria spread some tale about bath boys. You’ll have heard that.”
He stared at her. She looked unmovingly back. Whoever was immature, it wasn’t Violante of Naxos. She said, “You have forgotten, I think, where you are.”
“I beg your highness’s pardon. By itself, it wouldn’t have mattered, but he made a few other mistakes, so I hear. Different customs. Not everyone knows Venice and Anatolia. Not everyone understands the Grand Comnenos as you do. The Emperor isn’t Duke Philip.”
“No. He is Vice-Regent of Christ,” she said. “He is the Church. He is the living embodiment of the learning of classical Greece. However weak a Basileus may be, he has to carry these burdens.”
It was very quiet. If he had been a different man, or a younger one, he would have been afraid at the turn the conversation was taking. He said, “At the Easter mass, I saw the Emperor a figure transported. He makes a place at his side for the scholar. But the rest of his