The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [232]
“Fortune?” said Catherine de Charetty. “When you think what he’s lost? I wouldn’t trust him to make two in the hundred. I would rather leave. If he wants me, he can follow me home.”
Violante of Naxos said, “He will have to follow you home if he makes another loss.”
Pagano Doria’s wife, whom he used to carry on his shoulders, looked at him, and at the calm woman facing her in the half-dark. “I don’t care,” Catherine said, “if he makes a loss. In fact, I’d like him to. Will you help me get away?”
“Not Niccolò,” said the lady Violante. “You must not, of course, look to Niccolò, as you have said. But I, perhaps, can do something. Yes, I think I can help. Provided I know as much as possible of Messer Pagano’s movements. Does he mind if you often visit the Palace?”
“No. He likes it,” she said.
“Good. Then we shall find some excuse. And you will tell me all we need to know to let us help you. Now I think you should go, and before Messer Niccolò. It would not do for you to be seen together.”
The child rose then, and turned to him. She said, “You don’t look any older. Everyone says you hope it makes you look important. My mother will make you shave it all off.”
“I expect you’re right. In fact, I expect I’ll have shaved it all off before I see her,” Nicholas said. “Catherine?”
“Yes?” There was a lot of Cornelis in her, as there had been in Felix.
He said, “Don’t forget Master Tobias, and Father Godscalc, if you want anyone quickly. And they won’t hurt Pagano.”
“You would,” she said. “You did. If he hurts me, you’d fight him, wouldn’t you?”
“I might,” Nicholas said. “It would depend on who was to blame.” He watched her take her leave, and the door close behind her.
“A virtuoso performance,” said Violante of Naxos.
“He has trained her,” said Nicholas.
“I was referring,” she said, “to your own.” She rose and, crossing the room, stopped him rising in turn with a hand on his shoulder. She lifted the hand and touched the close new grain of his beard. She said, “What is this? There are messengers, envoys enough.”
Her hand dropped again to his shoulder, but her eyes rested still on his face. Her nails were stained pink, and there were little rings on every joint of her fingers. He said, “I thought I might like to see for myself. I thought I might be needed. I have respect, Despoina, for the lord your uncle and his mother.”
The hand lifted and she moved away, her perfume following her. “And she for you,” she said. “I have had messages from Erzerum too. Never fear, word has gone to her about Georgia, and about Sinope.” She paused. “The man Doria has kept a consignment all this time on board his ship?”
“Of weapons and armour,” Nicholas said. “I’ve always known. It was why I distrusted Paraskeuas, who told us nothing about it.”
She took her seat, carefully, on the stool the girl had vacated, and folded her hands in her lap. “And,” she said, “have you felt like God, able to choose whom you favoured? For God and profit, my husband always puts on his ledgers.”
Nicholas said, “Whom will you tell, when the arms come ashore?”
“Why,” said Violante of Naxos, “it would be as much as my life was worth to tell anyone. That is your problem, my Niccolò. Mine is to get the girl out of Trebizond. Do you not think me altruistic?”
“I didn’t think your highness knew the word,” Nicholas said. “Messer Julius could care for her at Kerasous.”
“So he could,” said the woman. “He arrived, then, quite safely? He has, I believe, a kerchief of mine; but he can keep it. It seems a pity that he has a token, and his master has none. Although, of course, Messer Doria thinks differently. But for you, I might have discovered much more.” The reddened lips opened and curled. “The child’s mother has bound you with rigorous vows.”
“No,” said Nicholas. “I had better tell you that she freed me to take what relief of a common kind might present itself. As it happens, I prefer not to buy. And it would be unfair to take gifts.