The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [326]
Later, setting out for Nicosia, she heard Dr Tobias say, ‘Don’t go, Nicholas. Unless you know it is there.’
And M. de Fleury said, ‘Do you think, by any chance, that I haven’t already refused?’
‘And?’ said Dr Tobias.
‘Look out of the window,’ he had answered. But she knew already what he meant. Since they landed, they had been guarded. And watched. And surrounded.
She had tried to question Dr Tobias. He had been soothing. ‘You know monarchs. They like their own way. And the convent of the Clares is in Nicosia. They were very good – they are very good. Of course, we want to see you settled and happy, and ready for your uncle to come in November.’
Then they entered Nicosia and instead of being taken to the Clares, she found herself in the women’s quarters of a magnificent villa, with maidservants and a page to look after her. Tired from the journey, she had still gazed upon it with some respect as the cavalcade came to a rest at its gates.
Neither of the men looked overwhelmed, or at least, not with gratitude. Dr Tobias indeed had exclaimed something aloud, although not in French. ‘The bastard!’
‘Well, he is,’ had said M. de Fleury. And observing her face, had added, ‘We lived here once before. The King wishes us to stay as his guests. We are to attend him at the Palace tomorrow.’
‘Katelijne as well?’ the doctor had said.
‘Yes,’ said M. de Fleury. And again, had turned aside from any possible questioning.
They were sent robes. This, she discovered, was usual. One had to become accustomed to the mingling of the Byzantine with the French with the Venetian. The one for M. de Fleury fitted exactly. They cut a cubit off hers and had it hemmed before she was up, wakened by an acrimonious exchange in French the import of which she did not then understand. Then the official escort arrived and, embedded in prancing horses and plumes, they went to the Palace.
The building was grander than the royal apartments at Holyrood but not as grand as the Princenhof in Bruges, or what she had heard of the Sultan’s apartments in Cairo. There was a lot of marble, because of the hot weather. Otherwise, its style was vaguely French, with some Milanese painted furniture. The Palace was less gripping than the man who lived in it.
Most of the men about him wore Western court dress: doublets and jackets in light silks because of the heat; small hats; fine jewels. Many were dark-skinned, perhaps Spanish or Sicilian; and a fair number – the marshal, the admiral, the chamberlain, she later learned – made their bows as if they knew M. de Fleury and the doctor very well. The King’s mother, Marietta of Patras, wasn’t present. That is, you would notice someone lacking a nose.
The man on the throne was all Dr Tobias had told her except that he was not young: she guessed him to be near the end of his twenties, like M. de Fleury. He was tall, too; and held himself as freely, beneath the rich clothes. His hair was loose and waving and brown, and his face was lean and amused. He stood as the announcements were made, and she dropped into a well-practised salute, and Dr Tobias and M. de Fleury advanced and bowed. Then M. de Fleury walked forwards and knelt.
That was in order. Now he would have presented his credentials, except that he had none, not having sought this encounter. Nor would an envoy have lifted his chin after kneeling and dared to look the monarch straight in the eyes.
James stood, holding the gaze. Then he laughed and, stepping down, crossed the space between them, touching M. de Fleury lightly on the shoulder as he passed to stand, in a waft of jasmine, before Katelijne herself. She dropped into a still lower curtsey and he stepped back saying, half smiling, half impatient, ‘No, no. Let me see.’ And studying her, continued over his shoulder, ‘She is very small, mon compère, but very well. Well enough. How old?’
He was addressing her. ‘Nearly seventeen, roi monseigneur,’ she said.
‘Sixteen. The age of young Diniz when he stayed with you. The age of my wife. You know I am