The wine flask clattered as Katelina put it back. She raised her cup, and they each drank. Katelina said, ‘We know Nicholas well in Flanders. I wondered if you had heard of his first marriage. It was successful, until his wife died.’
Primaflora, though polite, was less than serious. ‘There was nothing ominous, surely, about that? He was absent, I supposed, at the time.’
The younger woman reddened, but persisted in a level voice. ‘He was absent, with his step-daughter. He owes all his fortune to the help of his wife although, by merest accident, he failed to gain control of her original company. The step-daughters now have it, or one of them, and are determined to have nothing to do with him. He did well in Italy, after his uncle’s business was ruined. He succeeded in Trebizond, after his Genoese rival had died.’ She paused. She said, ‘He has nothing to gain from your death, that I know of. But of course, he will secure the goodwill of your Queen through your marriage. I have only to say to you that, in view of what I have told her, the Queen’s goodwill may not last. And neither may this marriage.’
Primaflora allowed her face to become sober. She put down her cup. ‘You are saying that Niccolò is capable of violence to gain his own ends? And that the violence may be used against me?’
The Flemish woman looked down. She was attractive enough, with a slim neck and bold features and an excellent complexion, abandoned to Nature. With some attention to that, and her brows, she could have found lovers anywhere. She said, ‘I have already warned Queen Carlotta that he is dangerous. Men discount him because of his upbringing. But even in Bruges, he was clever enough to get the better of anyone he took a dislike to. It doesn’t spring from ambition. It is his idea of … of sport.’
Primaflora sipped her wine thoughtfully. She said, ‘He has sworn loyalty, accepted a knighthood. Why should he do that, unless he means to stay with her? And if he does, I am surely in no danger. ’
Katelina van Borselen said, ‘Of course he swore loyalty! He has to get his men off the island, and he can hardly do that by declaring for the Venetians and Zacco. Give him a ship, and he’ll sail straight for Salines and Queen Carlotta’s brother. And you will be with him, and no longer needed.’
Primaflora smiled. ‘You underrate me,’ she said. ‘What if I might reform him? Why, anyway, should he make for King Zacco? Perhaps the Queen’s party could offer him more.’
The girl’s face had changed from red to pale. She said, ‘I am sure you would be persuasive. Perhaps you think you have his friendship. But Nicholas has no close friends, men or women; only people he uses. He tolerated Marian de Charetty, but his manhood will demand a master this time, not Queen Carlotta or another wife he must please. And I know – I have spoken to those who sailed from Kolossi with you, and I will soon have proof – that he is still working for the Venetians, and that his feud with my husband is as violent as ever. He will join whatever party supports the Venetians and opposes my family. He will join Zacco. I have told the Queen. You must tell her as well. It is true.’
Primaflora said, ‘If that is his plan, he won’t stop because I refuse to marry him. And meanwhile, perhaps I can find out his intentions.’
The Flemish woman said, ‘You don’t know him. You will never learn his real aims. And if you put off your marriage, at least you won’t end up in Nicosia, in the hands of a Mameluke emir.’
She was breathing quickly. Primaflora said, ‘You hate him a great deal. You must be very fond of your husband, to come so far to outface his enemy.’
There was the briefest pause. Then the girl said, ‘Simon has risked his life many times, fighting Nicholas. Perhaps I can achieve without a sword what he has tried to do with one. With your help and the Queen’s, we might defeat him.’
Primaflora watched her. She said, ‘If Niccolò tries to go to King Zacco, the Queen will kill him and all his men. This is what you would like?’
‘He would deserve it,’ said Katelina.
‘Then,’ said Primaflora, ‘why not let matters take their course? Let me go to the Queen and repeat all your warnings. Bring me, when you have it, all the proof you can find of his duplicity. If he is what you say, the Queen will not have him, or the Order. They will allow me to postpone the marriage. And you may be sure they will make quite certain he does not go to Zacco.’
There was a long silence. Then the Flemish woman said, ‘Very well. I will bring you proof. And when I have brought it, marry him. You will be a very rich widow.’
Primaflora said, ‘You don’t think that is dangerous advice? He might seduce me from my purpose.’
Katelina stood. ‘He has probably done that already,’ she said. ‘But whatever proof I get, I shall give to the Queen as well. If he goes to Zacco, you would die with him.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’ said Primaflora. ‘If I marry him, and he stays with Queen Carlotta?’
‘Then you would still be a rich widow,’ said Katelina. ‘Because I should make you one.’
Slowly, in her turn, Primaflora rose, her eyes on the other. She said, ‘What has he done to you?’
Katelina made a short, dismissive gesture. ‘There was something. It was done to injure my husband, not me. No one else knows of it, because it was designed by Nicholas to be savoured by Nicholas only. You think of Nicholas as an adventurer. He is a man who maims, I have told you, for sport.’
Primaflora listened. The Queen was right. The woman was dangerous; in some way obsessed. But now was not the moment to find out the root of it. She rested her manicured fingers on the other’s silk sleeve. ‘Leave it to me. But meantime, let him feel safe. Keep out of his way for your own sake. He must know you and Tristão Vasquez are his enemies. He is at liberty, and you say he is cruel. If that is so, then you must be in danger.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Katelina van Borselen. ‘It doesn’t make any difference. He is a traitor. I will prove it. And nothing will stop me.’
From the door, Primaflora stood and considered her. Then she took a decision, and spoke. ‘You are still unsure of me, so I will tell you. This Niccolò is a lover I like, but that means very little. I am the Queen’s lady, but I am also a courtesan. The Queen uses me to attract and hold knights to her cause. I was with such a man in Bologna when he was killed, and the Queen told me to attach myself to vander Poele if I could.’
Another pause. ‘Was it difficult?’ the Flemish girl said. Despite an obvious effort, the contempt showed.
‘No,’ said Primaflora. ‘He will go to bed with anybody. On the night they told him his wife was dead, he found consolation until dawn in the arms of a Greek married lady of means.’
‘He told you?’
‘I heard from one of his men. Is that your page, or my woman?’
Katelina answered the scratch on the door. ‘Your woman, madonna. Someone expects you.’
For once, her woman had chosen correctly. It was time to interrupt: the right moment to go, leaving that news behind her. The leave-taking on both sides was smooth. Followed by her chaperone, Primaflora moved to the stairs, and was almost pushed aside by the young St Pol page dashing past her. In the hall below, she could see a stir, and hear men’s voices upraised. Her woman said, ‘Not down the stairs, madonna. My lord is in one of the rooms in this very gallery.’
Primaflora stopped. She said, ‘Who is in one of the rooms?’
The woman stopped also, looking surprised. ‘My lord Niccolò, your betrothed. I gave him your message, and he is waiting for you. You are blessed. He is ardent, madonna.’
‘But he was not to meet me here until later! He is too early! The maniac!’ she said.
The room she had just left was behind her. As Primaflora spoke, she heard the page open its door. She heard the boy’s voice within, and that of Katelina, responding. The Flemish girl’s voice sounded nearer: she was on the verge of stepping out to the gallery. Primaflora, distracted, looked about her. An unwilling bride should not, on the face of it, be making assignations with her despised future husband. Another door began to open ahe
ad of her. It led to the room her woman had indicated: she didn’t wait to see who would come out.
She had fled halfway down the stairs when a man’s hand took her comfortably under the arm and a man’s voice said, ‘My dear future bride! Are you running to me, or from me?’
She turned. It was, of course, Niccolò. The dimples were there, and the large eyes with their purses of mischief and the austere, contradictory nose with its drawn nostrils. Framing his face were two flaxen plaits with a veil on them, and his boots emerged from a long-waisted gown of white lawn. ‘Guinevere,’ he said. ‘I was just off to a joust with the Knights, but I’d rather have one with you. Why are you frowning?’ He looked round. ‘Something is happening?’
In the rest of the building, certainly, something seemed to be happening. In the agitation below, hardly a face had turned towards Niccolò. She had no idea what had caused the upset, and didn’t care. She said, ‘Something is going to happen. Your friend Katelina is behind you. I’ve told her I’ll help her against you.’
‘Oh, good,’ Niccolò said. Between the gold plaits, his gaze was still on the hall below him. ‘Something is happening.’
‘Nicholas!’ said the voice of the Flemish woman. She had run from her room to the stairs, and was now descending them rather slowly.
Niccolò turned. ‘Guinevere,’ he said again, helpfully. ‘I was just off to a joust …’
Katelina said, ‘Was it you? You who killed them?’
Under the veil, the ridiculous eyes opened. ‘Them? Who?’ Niccolò said.
‘Tristão and Diniz,’ said Katelina. ‘They were taken hunting this morning. Someone led them astray. They have disappeared.’
‘Who brought word?’ Niccolò said. He sounded as he had at Kolossi, when preparing to get rid of the priest.
Katelina said, ‘Did you do it?’ She was white.
Niccolò said, ‘No, I didn’t. Who brought word?’
‘One of the party. He’s gone up to the Castle. They need men to search before it gets dark. I must get a horse.’
‘Take mine,’ Niccolò said. ‘It’s outside, with Lancelot and Yvain and the squires. I have a spare. Who else wants to come?’
He had raised his voice, beginning to jump down the stairs. Beneath the levity, as at Kolossi, was something quite different. Someone said, ‘On a horse? Let the Knights go.’
Niccolò said, ‘They’ll go, but we might get there first. Come on; the Vasquez are Portuguese traders. They must owe somebody money.’
They came forward then, five or six of them, picking up their cloaks brusquely and sending their lads running for horses. Katelina, her face still bleak, was staring at Niccolò. Primaflora said quickly, ‘Have you a spare horse for me?’
Niccolo turned to her. She couldn’t tell if he read what she was thinking. She was prepared for impatient surprise. He only said, ‘I dare say. In fact, I’ll take you on mine. If anything will bring Diniz back from the dead, it will be you with your hair down.’
She held his eyes, still transmitting her warning. She said, ‘Who are Lancelot and Yvain?’
‘My captain Astorre, and your old friend Thomas,’ Niccolò said. ‘My engineer is the Lion, and the Loathly Damsel is a doctor called Tobie. King Arthur refused to be present. Can we run? Or are we both too God-damned ladylike?’
Primaflora halted. Beside her, Katelina also paused. Then, their hands gripping their skirts they began, from quite different motives, to race after Nicholas.
Chapter 17
THE COURT OF King Arthur, asked to interrupt its journey on the way to a joust, waited outside the merchants’ basilica with some impatience for the return of its Guinevere. The Loathly Damsel in particular was fretful. ‘It’s wearing off,’ said Tobie. ‘I tell you, I am not doing this sober. If he doesn’t come soon, I’m going back.’
‘Spoilsport,’ said the Lion. ‘Forbye, you are rejecting a significant re-creation of history. In 1223 –’
‘The crazy Lord of Beirut held a tournament in Arthurian dress on the island of Cyprus. This isn’t Cyprus; the Saracens are in Beirut, and the only similarity – and I do grant you that – is that the man who arranged it is crazy. What’s he doing?’
‘Rumour has it,’ said the Lion, ‘that he had the chance to make an assignation with his lady. I doubt it will be successful in that get-up.’
‘Which lady?’ said Captain Astorre. He chortled.
‘The one Thomas escorted all over Europe,’ said Tobie. ‘Go on, Thomas. You enjoyed it.’
Thomas, in a normal suit of armour with a fancy helmet, looked sulky. Le Grant tipped his muzzle back and let it lie with his mane on his shoulders. He said, ‘But for Thomas, Primaflora might be running the House of Niccolò at this moment. I heard she was trying to get hold of Katelina van Borselen.’
Tobie stared at him, breathing heavily, and stopped scratching under his wig. He said, ‘That’s a frightening idea.’
‘Is it?’ said John le Grant.
‘Of course it is,’ said Lancelot, his stitched eye glittering. ‘Two women, one man. Pick each other’s eyes out, or turn on him together. God’s little finger.’
From the basilica emerged Nicholas, running, with a girl on each side. One was fair and one was brown-haired, and both were delightful. Other men came out without girls, and scattered. There was some shouting. Nicholas said, ‘The joust’s off. The Vasquez, father and son, are in trouble.’ He bent, and gave a foothold to the golden-haired woman to mount, and then turned to do the same for the other one. Two armed men ran forward and caught the reins of the yellow-haired woman who had turned to speak, smiling, to Thomas. Nicholas stopped what he was doing and went back to her. He said, ‘Your escort? We can’t mount them, Primaflora.’
She looked down at the two men. ‘Then they will have to stay,’ she said.
One of the men took her reins, and then her elbow. ‘We have our orders,’ he said. The girl looked at Nicholas.
Nicholas said, ‘You still want to come? All right. They can take the free horse and ride with us. Tobie, take the lady Katelina behind you.’
The lady Katelina stepped back and looked where Nicholas pointed. Tobie, recoiling, saw that she was recoiling as well. He peeled off his nose and threw it away. ‘The Loathly Damsel,’ said Nicholas. ‘Go on. He’s a doctor, but he won’t rape you in public. Who knows where we’re going?’
‘I do,’ said Katelina van Borselen. ‘We go to Mount Phileremos. The Knights at Trianda will direct us. Why do you want to come?’
‘Because if I don’t,’ Nicholas said, ‘and there’s been a catastrophe, you will certainly say I arranged it. In fact, you’ll say it in any case. I just want to be there to deny it.’ He looked from Katelina to Tobie. He said, ‘If you both ride side-saddle, that horse will fall over.’
Tobias Beventini, physician, hurled his wig from him, dragged up a double layer of taffeta skirts and bestrode his horse, swearing. His wimple, which had not disappeared with his wig, threatened to cut his throat with its wire. He saw that Nicholas, mounted, was being embraced becomingly round the fitted waist by the exquisite blonde Primaflora. Behind Tobie himself, the other young woman sat sideways, looking for something to grasp. She settled at length for his girdle: he could feel her knuckles. Katelina van Borselen, whom he had last glimpsed in Bruges, newly married to Simon and heavily pregnant. Pregnant, as he now knew, with the son of Nicholas. He had never spoken to the girl Nicholas had wronged, and had hoped never to have to. He could see, well enough, that she could make a man lose his head.
But, barring the principals, no one else here knew what he did. Lancelot, turning round, said to her, ‘Well, demoiselle, I hope you notice the good turn we do you, considering that you saw to it that we had a poor welcome on Rhodes.’ His beard jutted, an exclamation under his silver helmet.
The demoiselle showed no sign of intimidation. ‘Blame your leader, not me,’ she said curtly. The last word ended in a jerk, because Tobie dug in his spurs, and they all began moving at speed to
wards the gates of the City.
After the weeks of confinement, it was a relief to leave the City behind: to exchange the massive walls, the stately buildings, the burnished court etiquette of chivalric Europe for the open country of a Levantine island, with its fields and its hamlets, its fishing villages and its broken pillars, residue of ancient cities at least as great.
From end to end, Rhodes was less than fifty miles long. Setting out from its northernmost tip, a group of people might expect very soon to find two men who had lost their way, but who were not unintelligent, and had arms, and the ability to call for help. But riding along the sandy shore towards the plain and the wooded hill that was called Mount Phileremos, Tobie recalled that the island was also mountainous. The long spine of afforested hills provided in summer a rough, dusty traverse from one side of the island to the other. Now, in winter, the way was treacherous with swollen streams and slippery inclines and mud.
He supposed that accidents were not uncommon, and that it was usual for the Hospitallers to offer aid to noble guests in distress. He knew Katelina believed that these particular visitors were victims of malice. It was possible. On the other hand, her theory might owe a lot to her suspicions of Nicholas. Notwithstanding his own suspicions of Nicholas, Tobie observed that Guinevere had, on the whole, responded as any innocent man might to a mild emergency which had not yet turned into a serious one.
Riding beside the white beach, with the low sun on his right, Tobie found himself watching Nicholas and the girl racing in front, her gilt hair flown aloft like a pennant. The flogging pigtails of Guinevere raised dust from his shoulders, and his earrings jangled like buckets. Primaflora, holding him fast, was speaking into his ear. Over Tobie’s shoulder, Katelina was speaking as well. She said, ‘Can’t you ride faster? I’m supposed to help find the way.’ If she wanted to eavesdrop on Nicholas, Tobie had no objection. He moved up to ride beside Guinevere’s fluttering girdle and sleeves. Primaflora smiled at him sweetly, and stopped speaking immediately. She was an amazingly beautiful woman.
Race of Scorpions Page 25