The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [338]
He agreed, looking strange. The Patriarch thought it might have been achieved more quickly, but didn’t complain. M. de Fleury would, of course, require to return immediately to Nicosia and report to those with whom he would now be working. ‘You had better,’ remarked the Patriarch, ‘acquire a fresh horse.’ He did not offer to ride back immediately himself. Some things were best left to Nature.
A horse to take him to Nicosia was easily come by, although not of the quality of the one which had brought him; and the journey took five hours instead of just over three for that reason, and also because he was stopped after the first twenty miles by a squadron of the King’s guards, sent to arrest him for stealing the King’s horse and saddle.
It was a return, after a little too long, to the conduct Nicholas associated with Zacco, the young lion of Cyprus. He resented it enough to resist, and broke one man’s leg and nearly killed another before they got him subdued; and that largely because, as ever, Zacco had forbidden his soldiers to wound him. As ever, it was the soldiers who suffered and, as ever, the soldiers adored him.
At the Palace, Nicholas was locked in a room which possessed, at least, the luxury of a feather bed. He lay down to think, and awoke to lamplight and Jorgin, the King’s servant, accompanied by pages bringing a tub of hot water and fresh garments.
Jorgin, six years older, did not smile and Nicholas made no approaches. The arrest had been nothing, an impotent gesture; Zacco needed him as he needed the Venetians, and probably hated him quite as thoroughly. Overlaid by the new, the old wounds throbbed as he lay in the bath-water, constituting a history, that was all. He had already reviewed, many times over, his conversation with Ludovico da Bologna, and had identified how he had been taken, step by step, to his final – his interim decision, and led away, equally, from the thing that had happened so quietly, so cruelly, in front of the fire. Not consoled, or conciliated. Just led away.
He thought that Beelzebub probably looked like Ludovico da Bologna, but that equally the Patriarch owned that penetrating, unsentimental form of insight which permitted him, if allowed, to nick the Achilles’ tendon of the soul, and twist the remains to his purpose.
He was also an adequate horseman for his age, having, it seemed, ridden last night at least as far as Nicholas had. Otherwise Zacco would not have been able to snap, as he did now when Nicholas, clean, was brought to his chamber: ‘I was told you had gone to take ship from Famagusta.’
Thank you, Beelzebub. The lamps were low, but the room smelled of yesterday’s scents. It was a seduction scene Zacco had abandoned half planned, although the bedchamber in its own right was enchanting. Its loggia hung above gardens, and Zacco, watching him from its balustrade, had stripped to shirt and hose under a loose-girdled bedgown. The silk was Caspian, the embroidery Venetian, the jewels no doubt obtained through Squarcialupi or Benedetto Dei from the Orient.
The King said, ‘You raise your eyes a great deal for a merchant, not to mention your steel. Where did that come from?’
He held the little box by its cord. They must have taken it from his room while he slept. He remembered wrenching it from his neck when they locked him in, and then throwing it on the floor, along with his soiled, ceremonial cloak.
Nicholas said, ‘From the monks at St Catherine’s, roi seigneur. I am sorry about the horse. I had a visit to make, that was all. I have decided that my company can agree to take part in the plan the Venetians have suggested.’
‘The plan I have suggested,’ said Zacco. His colour had risen. He flung the box, and Nicholas caught it. ‘You should take better care of it. You are going to Rhodes, I am told; to Rome; to Venice. Afterwards your home, of course, will be here.’
‘I have no property here,’ Nicholas said. ‘Nor do I want any.’
‘You are wrong,’ Zacco said. ‘There is a list on the table of what you own.’
It lay under the lamp: his eye had fallen