The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [337]
‘Twenty-five per cent in the hundred,’ said de Fleury. His face was like a hand-coloured woodcut.
‘Oh, that,’ said the Patriarch. ‘Certainly that. You’ll notice that I’m not appealing to your better nature, not being sure that you have more than one. But if you still want a look at the boy, then you’ll get it. You do your work, and the mother will bring him to Venice at the time of the conference. Can you wait three months for that, or have you a bladder that can’t hold its anger?’
‘Like the widow’s cruse,’ de Fleury said, ‘I seem to have constant cause for replenishment. The answer is no. She will cheat, or you will.’
‘She won’t,’ said Ludovic da Bologna. ‘I’m a priest. She fears God, even if you don’t. She’ll do it.’
‘Good,’ said de Fleury. ‘But you would break any vow for God’s sake.’
‘You noticed,’ said the Patriarch. ‘That’s true. I have sold myself, and God has bought me. But I’ll keep my word. It’s been a useful lever, your matrimonial tiff, but I don’t flatter myself I can use it for ever. You’ll make up, or get tired of the battle, or maybe even decide to get rid of one another. It can happen.’
He let the silence develop. De Fleury said, ‘You were prepared even for that?’ Now the room had warmed, moisture showed at his temples.
The Patriarch said, ‘It was risky. I thought I guessed right. If you came down from that mountain at all, you had three months more of fighting left in you both. A lot more perhaps. And she fears God, I told you. How old are you?’
You could see he wanted to think. Instead, he said, ‘Why?’
‘Because you’ll find yourself taking some decisions if you go through with this; and Venice will be the place you’ll have to do it, I’ll guess. You’ll be thirty soon?’
‘In December.’ He was still full of fury, but tired. The Patriarch, who had ridden thirty-four miles himself, felt little sympathy.
‘And your birth sign is Sagittarius. Centaur, bowman and hunter. So is the girl’s.’ The Patriarch took the rejected flask, poured some water and pushed a cup across to the other, who took it without thinking. He drank.
The Patriarch prompted. ‘The Sersanders child will be seventeen on St Catherine’s Day. Time for her to marry.’
‘She expects to,’ said de Fleury. ‘And her uncle will bring you the news if I rape her. What decisions do you think I might be old enough to take when I get to Venice?’
‘Are things happening too fast for you?’ said the Patriarch. ‘If all goes well, if all the powers agree and an alliance is made against the Grand Turk, you could spend the rest of your life in the East. On the other hand if your mind is set on family matters, you’ve laid the groundwork for a very nice little empire in the West: trading and fighting for or against Flanders, Burgundy, France; not to mention the Magnificent Lords of High Germany and the Tyrol. And once the English have stopped killing each other, the Kings of Scotland and England will come to your door.’
‘Do I have to choose?’ de Fleury said.
‘East or West? At twenty, no. Range the world. At thirty you choose, or stay rootless. There’s an Arab name for the state. And before you think of saying it –’
‘I know,’ said de Fleury. ‘You’re rootless for God. Have you seen my son?’
The Patriarch considered. A fly had dropped into the honey. He let it drown. He said, ‘I think he exists.’
There was a silence. ‘And that is all?’ the other man said.
‘My mistake,’ said the Patriarch, astonished. ‘Of course I have seen him. He sits on my knee. I have taught him to pray for you daily. I thought you were old enough to expect the truth.’ He waited. He said, ‘If I thought he did not exist, I should have told you. In any case, one way or the other, Venice will solve that for you. Do what I ask, and you will see him in Venice. Or you will know the truth, once and for all: that