The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [314]
Below the star, there was a light in St Catherine’s church of the Franks. It was the usual lamp, hung before the iconostasis beam with its four painted figures, but she sensed somewhere a shadow, and when she opened the door, the palm-leaf mats masked another sound, she thought, by their stirring. Then Nicholas de Fleury said, ‘Come in. I have found a remarkable poem.’
She had hoped to discover, through him, an understanding of her uncle’s condition. But if he had knelt it was to commune, not to weep; if he had sought solitude, it was not from personal agony. His voice was abstracted and sweet, as if music was not far away, but his mind had not yet had time to turn to it. She said, ‘What happened?’
‘A misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘Your uncle was convinced that the gold must be here, and the Abbot invited him to look for it. It isn’t, of course.’
She said, ‘You believed it was here.’ She hesitated and then said, ‘I thought it was yours.’
He had put on a kindly face. The dimples, the trenches in his face, in his beard even looked natural. He said, ‘It is, but people forget. Your uncle had some idea that it was meant for the Mamelukes, as part of a plot to invite them in strength to St Catherine’s. The Abbot explained that there were no stocks of gold and no plot, and when your uncle seemed unconvinced, invited him to search the monastery for the gold, if he liked.’
‘He was shamed,’ Katelijne said.
‘I am sorry,’ he said. He made it formal.
She said, ‘So am I. I had better go. We are climbing tomorrow.’
He seemed less interested, now, in deception. He said, ‘As you must guess, I have done my duty by Mount Sinai already. Take your uncle. Be careful. But it will help you and him.’
‘Did it help you?’ she said. She identified his expression. It was well intentioned, and absent.
He said, ‘I got what I deserved. And later, a prize I didn’t deserve. Sore feet, too.’
She said, ‘It was your wife?’ And when he looked at her, ‘They said the Patriarch of Antioch had been here, with a young man. Someone who worked for a while on the irrigation wheel.’
‘Did she?’ he said. ‘Yes, it was Gelis. She has gone. We have arranged to meet again, in proper gender.’
‘You thought she was dead,’ Kathi said. ‘She wanted you to meet on Mount Sinai.’
‘She has a touch for drama,’ he said. ‘Land of salt, land of manna, land of fauns and of satyrs. Place of temptation – oh, that. To humble thee and to prove thee, I bring thee here.’
She waited until he looked round. He said complainingly, ‘You are a very quiet child.’ Then he touched the poem. ‘Jan’s?’
Jan’s. The coat of arms, nicely painted, identified it. He had worked on it all through the desert. His father had told him to. Every pilgrim party was supposed to compose one. And studying it was the man Whistle Willie invited to lyrical battle.
Salve virgo Katherina
Salve quidem castissima
Stirpe regia regina
Fuisti nobilissima …
He didn’t read it aloud. He said eventually, ‘The last two verses scan.’
‘Good night,’ she said. Against her intentions she smiled, implying that she perceived and accepted the compliment, and was immediately filled with remorse. She crept into her chamber, and arranged herself behind her improvised screen, and considered with furious despair the prospect of a night and a day climbing mountains with Anselm Adorne and his son.
She fell asleep.
Coming back in the quiet of the night, Nicholas de Fleury found the lamp lit in his part of the guest-quarters, and his two business partners awaiting him. John le Grant said, ‘All right. Now you’re purified, sit down and tell us.’
‘About the gold,’ Nicholas said. He had hoped to have a moment with Tobie. But after all, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered too much.
‘That’s why we’re supposed to be here. But the St Sabas message was wrong, or out of date, or maybe the parrot was drunk. The gold isn’t here, only a puckle left in the