The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [197]
Soon after that, they saw the glimmering lights of the monastery, as if through a tattered blanket stretched over the stars. From it crawled a long line of fire which turned into servants with flambeaux. The monks were at their devotions, but the guest-master greeted them at the stately stone entrance and led them down to the courtyard where men took care of the horses and soldiers. The cressets smoked in the damp air, which smelled of the hollow stone of the mountain, and the sweet peppers of incense, and the faint odours of stalled beasts and latrines. A deep chanting made itself heard. At first, looking about him, Tobie imagined that it came from the mountain itself. Then he saw on his left the lamp of a shrine, and around it angels rushing with bladed wings and great oval eyes, painted in ochre and dark blue and red earthcolours. Particles of gold glittered. The voices, suddenly vibrant, opened into a passionate hymn whose words could be heard. Godscalc’s head turned.
“The church. The katholikon,” Tobie said. He paused and said, “They sound confident enough.”
“O gladsome light. It’s…a canticle. They probably think they have reason,” said Godscalc.
Then they were led to the guest quarters, and the sickroom of Pagano Doria.
As was right, Catherine entered alone. Outside the thick door, Tobie could hear nothing and stood without speaking beside Godscalc. Astorre had been debarred, to his annoyance, from the interrogation. Alone of them all, he had preserved his vigour to the end of the ride. No doubt he was resting at some laden table. Tobie, for his part, was glad enough to stand.
When after ten minutes the girl had not emerged, the monk beside them, tapping diffidently, opened the door. Before it closed they caught a glimpse of Doria, seated on a high-backed wooden settle packed with cushions. His head was bent over his wife, who crouched on a low stool beside him, her hands fists on her lap. He had one bandaged arm round her shoulders. A moment later, the monk came out and they were admitted, with a friendly reminder. Messer Doria was not yet very strong.
“You are kind. We shall remember. Messer Tobias is himself a doctor,” Godscalc said. The door closed behind them.
The floor they trod on was chestnut-red marble, with pale fossil ovals and rings patterned through it. The walls, although white, bore a heavy jewelled cross and an icon whose metals gleamed yellow and white under the many candles of a heavy wrought stand. There was a stool and a prayer desk, richly covered, and a table bearing a ewer and basin. A covered stove, to one side, made the room warm. This was not part of the hostel for pilgrims, but rather a cell from the Imperial suite. In the middle, as they had seen, sat Pagano Doria, but Catherine had moved to one side where there stood a low bed and a chest. As they came in, she took her seat, with some care, on the chest. Her face, hastily wiped, still showed some streaks from the journey, but was now faintly coloured. Then her lips parted and, turning, Tobie saw that Doria had risen slowly and stood, looking up to the priest. He said, “I am deeply sorry. For them both, and for you.”
He had whitened. The act of rising had caused him genuine pain. The monks had given him a loose robe which fell to the ground, concealing most of his injuries, but the way he held himself told some of the story, and the cloths that showed at the shoulder and bound the whole of one arm and hand betrayed the rest. For all that, he had been carefully shaved and his smooth, shining hair, rather long, fell across a face still comely and cleanly incised, with sadness in its fine eyes. Godscalc said, “Please sit. You are far from well.”
“But I am alive,” Doria said. He waited until Tobie, finding stools, dropped on one and slid the other to Godscalc. Then, equally slowly, he sat. He said, “You want to know where to find them.” He smiled faintly, and glanced at his wife. “Catherine