The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [235]
‘It wasn’t that,’ she said.
‘I know it wasn’t, but what?’
‘I saved some grain,’ she said. ‘Just a little. I did want to be sure.’
‘Yes. Well, you did capture my bird, which is what you were after. So this one got more of the same? Just grain?’
‘I can tell you,’ said Tobie. He knew what she had been pounding. He reeled it off.
‘And that’s all?’
‘More or less. I did eke it out,’ Kathi said. ‘Maybe it’s your fault. Would candied fruit kill them?’
Nicholas stood very still. Against the flaming sea and the sky he looked like a menhir. He said, his voice gentle, ‘My candied fruit?’
Kathi looked at him. By contrast, the low sun made her look ruddy. She said, ‘It was wrong of me. I saw the box: your servant was throwing it out. I asked for some of the pieces.’
‘No. It wasn’t wrong. Why was he throwing it out?’ Nicholas said.
‘I thought you had told him. He said it was because it had been opened and ants had got into the spaces.’
‘It had been opened and some of the sweetmeats were missing?’ Nicholas said.
‘You didn’t know,’ said the girl.
‘No. Katelijne, will you go downstairs and get Tobie to wash your hands for you, very carefully? I’ll clear up here. Then when I come down, I want you to show me which boy gave you the box. Don’t be worried: I shan’t be angry with him. I only want to find out when it was opened.’
Tobie said, ‘Where did it come from?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nicholas. But there was nothing left, now, of the aura of contentment, of relief, which had come with him to the fondaco.
‘The boy died,’ Tobie said.
‘The box was untouched when we sailed. It was broached before we reached Alexandria. The cabin-boy had access to it, and died.’
Kathi was not present. The public part of the evening was over. Freshly dressed, they had presented themselves below, the guests of the Consul, the newest arrivals at the fondaco. What delicacies the galley could provide had been presented; the news from home had been told, the evening had ended in laughter and music. Katelijne had retired. And now Nicholas had to satisfy both John and Tobie.
John said, ‘He died of sickness. You still can’t be sure.’
The page had been interviewed. Frightened to tears, he had been patently innocent. The box had been opened at sea – he had seen it in the padrone’s chest in his cabin, and some of the sweets had been missing. Now, told to be careful, he had found and brought to the table the battered carton and some of its contents.
It lay before the three of them now. Nicholas said, ‘Tobie? I suppose you are here for some purpose. Can you test it?’
‘Yes,’ said Tobie. ‘So can you. Eat it.’
‘Thank you,’ Nicholas said. ‘Is there no other way?’
‘No,’ said Tobie. ‘Or yes. Feed it to someone or something.’
‘Nicholas?’ said John le Grant.
‘Good night,’ Nicholas said.
Alone, he laid the sweetmeats before him. Alone, as John’s voice had suggested, he took the little string in his hand and held it steadily poised, his thoughts on the trifles before him. The candied fruits given by Fiorenza, mother of Catherine, Queen of Cyprus. Fiorenza, wife of Marco Corner, sugar-grower in Cyprus, farmer of silver mines on the frontier between the Tyrol and Venice. He asked, as he had learned to ask, ‘Will this food do me harm?’
And the jewel, stirring, swayed, began to circle, began to race, began to hurtle in a circle so wide, so fierce, so frightening that it tore the skin from his finger.
He rose, with difficulty. Recalling the way, he climbed the steps to the roof and stood, far from the swept grain, the interred pigeon. The wind blew from the north, and the sky was powdered with poisonous stars.
Next day, Nicholas de Fleury, knight, presented himself at the gate of the Emir’s palace, and was admitted to his audience. Because he was a merchant, he and his retinue were escorted between a double file of Mameluke horsemen, impassive in their long robes and scarlet furred headgear, the golden orbs of their maces matched this time with the