To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [271]
They listened in silence as, collecting his strength, he told them again his objectives, and exhorted them once more to lend him their help. In the end, seeing him weary, they excused themselves and with his blessing, departed. Outside the door, Nicholas found himself called back. Shrugging at Julius, he turned and re-entered, closing the door.
The sun, finding a chink in the shutter, fell across the high bed and lit the long, bearded face of the thinker named John who had taken the name of an Egyptian, the patron saint of his native Trebizond. The man patted the seat by his bed. He said, ‘Julius will question you narrowly, but I wished a little time with you myself. You are patient with him.’
‘Not always,’ Nicholas said.
‘He owes you more than he knows. He has found a gentle companion, I believe.’
‘She was in Rome. He hopes to marry her,’ Nicholas said. ‘It worries him that he cannot bring her a distinguished past.’
‘It worried him in Bologna,’ the Cardinal said. ‘But a good man will succeed, whether he can claim a father or not, and there is no shame to a woman in marrying him. Then he heads his own family, and is as a tree, sheltering those of his blood whom he loves.’ He paused. He said, ‘I speak of you, Nicholas.’
His eyes were clear. It was painful to hold them. Nicholas said, ‘I wish it were true.’
‘Then you must make up for your mistakes in the future,’ said the man in the bed. ‘Now I have no more to say that is personal. I wish to speak to you of Caffa, and of Poland, and of Fichet and what you must do with his printing. And then – Do you see that flask over there?’
Nicholas rose. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Ah, not yet. It is Candian wine. When I have given you all my thoughts, then I wish you to pour it, and to sit by me and to talk of something quite different. Do you remember your Greek?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas.
‘Yes. You have listened to me, and to George and to Ficino. You have heard us speak of your namesake of Cusa. I have never heard you talk of the Dialogues.’
He ceased speaking and waited. Nicholas said, ‘Christianity and Plato? I have talked of them, but in Arabic’
The Cardinal said, ‘I was told of your friend. It was not the communion of two minds that killed him. I am dying. My chosen comfort is discourse. Indulge me.’
Outside, Julius said, ‘What happened? Poor old fellow. Did he want to talk of his great days, and got rambling?’
‘Professors of rhetoric rarely ramble,’ Nicholas said. ‘Don’t be jealous, or I’ll give you his lecture on Aristotle. He’s moving downriver soon to Ancenis. The captain says I have to wait to be summoned by Louis. He says they won’t let you stay.’
‘Why not?’ said Julius, incensed.
‘Because I’m on his payroll and you’re not. I can’t help it,’ said Nicholas. ‘They didn’t mind you seeing Bessarion, but now you have to return and do some serious besieging. If I were you, I’d go back to Bruges. Teach the women to swim in the river.’
Julius opened his mouth.
Nicholas said, ‘You came for his blessing, and you have it. I am glad, too, that you came. But now the risks have to be mine.’
He felt numb: a man divided in two, of which one half was routinely socialising, and the other was set among stars. He lay awake all that night, for it would never happen again. There was no one else left.
In the third week of August, Jordan de St Pol, vicomte de Ribérac, arrived for the second time in the Loire valley and was directed to await Louis his master in the upright little castle of Les Ponts-de-Cé, once a favourite retreat of King René. He arrived in mellow temper, despite the heat of the road from La Rochelle and the complicated appraisals made necessary by the untimely demise of the King’s brother, the Duke of Guienne.
He knew why he had been sent for. He might not be the horseman that once he had been, but his servants were agile and efficient. The