The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [274]
Then the door was darkened and she sat up; and then turned away, because it was someone much taller than Pagano. He said, “She’s here. Let me speak to her.” And another voice said, “No. It is for me.”
The second voice was that of her mother’s apprentice. Her mother’s husband. She turned in the bed, and saw it was Nicholas, standing over her as he had done at Pera five months before. Then, avoiding Willequin, he drew up a stool, and sat, and said, “Catherine? I have bad news.”
Of course, she knew what it was. The governor had been in a frenzy for weeks. The Turks were besieging Trebizond from the sea, and the Sultan was marching his army round behind through the mountains. Once they met, no one in Trebizond could get out this year, and Master Julius and John le Grant were going to sail home without them. Nicholas, with all his money, had probably bribed his way out. And the horse-eating German, whose voice she had heard. And Pagano had been forced to bring them from Trebizond with him, because his little endeavour had failed, and he’d not been able to think up another. But that didn’t matter. She had a dozen plans. She said, “The Turks have taken Trebizond?”
Nicholas said, “They will have it by now. Catherine: Pagano is dead.”
She frowned. He could hardly have been as stupid as that. Then she realised what it was. She said with fury, “You killed him!”
“No,” Nicholas said. “He was killed by the enemy side. He was carrying messages to the Osmanli, and someone killed him. He died bravely, Catherine.”
He had a black beard, which made his skin look unnaturally stark. She said slowly, “Pagano, somebody’s courier? No. He went to promise them arms, and you let him. I told you where the arms were, and you took them. When they found they were gone, then they killed him. You killed him.” Her nails ached in the sheets. She said, “You sat safe in Trebizond and let him go to his death.”
From the door, Godscalc said, “Nicholas. The truth would be better.”
Nicholas got up. “Tell it, then,” he said; and walked out.
The priest said, “Get up.”
Her gown was wrung and rumpled where she had been lying, and her hair had fallen where she had dragged off her cap. She still had her earrings, and her gown was silk taffeta, and her mother employed this man, and would dismiss him at a word. Catherine stood erect by the bed and said, “What can you believe of a servant? My husband is very likely alive and has just beaten him.”
“He is dead,” said her mother’s chaplain. “He went to sell his armour to the Sultan Mehmet; and found Nicholas and Master Tobie in the Sultan’s camp; and tried to betray them.”
“In the Sultan’s camp? Nicholas?” Catherine said. “What was he selling?”
“His skin,” said Godscalc. “In exchange for something he needed to know. One day, perhaps he’ll explain to you. Meantime, you can be assured that Nicholas did not kill your husband, or cause him to be killed. It was a risk Pagano took when he went to the Sultan. I expect he took it for your sake. He hoped to win favour, and establish himself in Trebizond when all his rivals had gone. For all you may think, he and Nicholas were not bitter opponents, although they stopped at very little, either of them, to win what they wanted. Of the two, it was your husband who didn’t mind whom he killed.”
“Then who killed Pagano?” said Catherine.
“Someone of the opposite camp. A servant of Mahmud Pasha,” said Godscalc. “He thought to please the Grand Vizier. Catherine, you are not alone. The best friend you have in the world is your stepfather.”
She sat on the bed and bit her lip, thinking. Then she said, “Where is the armour?”
He didn’t answer at once, which annoyed her. Then he said, “It is here, in the citadel. Nicholas has given it to the Imperial garrison.”
She stared at him. “Then I see,” said Catherine de Charetty, “that I must speak to him. The armour is mine.