The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [244]
A man came into the garden; a man who walked with authority, black veil flying, a crucifix chain swinging beneath his grizzled beard. The singing had stopped.
Nicholas turned towards the newcomer, and spoke. ‘My lord Abbot? I am Nicholas de Fleury of Bruges. I am told you have a message for me.’
The Abbot looked at him. He said, ‘This is the Church of St Sabas the Sanctified. You are not Greek?’ He was elderly but not old, and looked stern. The young monk stood deferentially beside him.
Nicholas said quickly, ‘I am told you have in your church the pillar St Catherine was chained to. I have a young friend who is sick. I would pray.’
The Abbot said, ‘You should have said so. Come in.’
The basilica was not large, and seemed dark even though, stepping down, Nicholas saw the sky through a high row of windows. Then he saw how the low-hanging lamps glowed on frescoed walls and glinted on the little, dark ikons which fronted the short line of chapels, and shone on the carved side of the pulpit, and lay red and warm on the thick granite pillars. The fragment of St Catherine’s marble, incised with the cross, was not very large, and a painting by St Luke was too blackened to convey very much.
His companion made a sign, and there was a discreet movement as the two remaining choristers left. The Abbot looked directly at Nicholas. He said, ‘You speak Greek. You wear the robes of an infidel.’
‘I have lived in infidel countries,’ Nicholas said. ‘I have lived and traded by the Joliba, at the behest of Cardinal Bessarion, in whose care resides the family of the Despot Thomas, former prince of the Morea, at Rome. I have also heard your rites in Nicosia, and in Trebizond. I am, by upbringing, a Frank. My name is Nicholas de Fleury, Knight of the Sword to James, King of Cyprus. I hold his badge in my hand. C’est pour loïauté maintenir is its motto.’
The Abbot took his hand and held it under the lamps, studying the fingers as much as the badge. He said, ‘And to whom do you keep loyalty, my lord Nikolaos?’
‘To those who are loyal to me,’ Nicholas said. ‘And those who, like the Blessed Saint Ekaterina, have suffered in prison. A bird brought me a sign. The sender will have rewards both material and spiritual, provided I leave here without hindrance.’
The Abbot smiled. ‘What evil do you fear? We are monks; we are poor. We have our treasure already in heaven. You could kill us all with your fists: our nature is mild; we should not resist you. It has been enjoined on me only to see that the object entrusted to me is delivered.’
‘Have I given proof enough?’ Nicholas said.
‘I am satisfied,’ said the Abbot. ‘Come with me.’
The object he spoke of was a leather scrip, of the stout, plain kind carried by pilgrims, already much worn. Inside was a wooden writing-tablet already prepared. Nothing was scored on the wood or incised on the wax, which was smooth and white and unblemished. There was no writing implement with it.
‘This is all?’ Nicholas said.
‘It is all. We are told,’ said the Abbot, ‘that nobility on earth may be earned by the sword, but nobility of the soul must be sought in stony ways and through hard endeavour. I have to tell you to rejoice that you have been chosen.’
‘I do,’ said Nicholas thoughtfully. He put the worn bag away, and drew out another, which was heavy with gold. The Abbot looked at it. The Abbot said, ‘You are generous. By honouring our church, you honour yourself. I will summon the brother best fitted to receive your donation.’
It was one of the singers, cowled and soft-footed, who came to the sound of the bell and, on the Abbot’s instruction, stood before Nicholas and took possession of the bag with its coins. His eyes remained dropped; his words of thanks were pious and humble. His crucifix glittered, unduly exposed, for instead of a beard there rose above it a half-naked chin, from which a ragged black fringe still depended.
‘As I have said,’ the Abbot remarked,