The Unicorn Hunt

by Dorothy Dunnett

  She had forgotten the reference to music. The strains at first hardly reached her over the chatter; then she realised what she was hearing and sought Dr Tobias who turned aside, looking distracted, but was unable to help. ‘Ask Nicholas. There were no musicians that I remember in our time. The Cathedral plainsong, of course.’

  The chamberlain, a Sicilian, was more forthcoming. ‘The taste for French music? It dates from the days of my lord’s grandsire: much of it was composed here. Lately, my lord has thought to renew it.’

  ‘He has found good singers,’ said Katelijne. She saw that, at last, Tobie had thought to look for M. de Fleury. She wondered why James of Cyprus, uninterested in music six years ago, had elected to introduce it tonight. But of course, he was in touch with the Venetian court. He was married to Catherine Corner, even though he had never met her. And M. de Fleury, she remembered, knew Fiorenza of Naxos, Catherine’s mother.

  The strings wove their pattern; the voices twined; conversation gave way to some attention as courtiers took their ease on stools and cushions to listen, sipping wine, talking in murmurs. Dr Tobias, returning from somewhere, found a cushioned surface beside her and sat down. The ballads were gallant rather than explicit, but they varied little in theme:

  Je prens d’Amour noriture

  Nete et pure

  Et doucement norissant;

  Pour quoi doi bien estre amant

  Jusqu’a tant

  Qu’en mon cors la vie dure.

  I take my nourishment from love

  Sublime and pure;

  So lover must I stay so long

  As life endure.

  Katelijne said, ‘Did you find him?’ She concealed the impatience she felt. She could always find M. de Fleury if she tried. Of course, it took time and energy.

  ‘Nicholas?’ said Dr Tobias. ‘No. I’ll take you home soon.’

  ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Did he ask you? Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Dr Tobias. ‘He and the King have both gone.’

  Chapter 45

  THE GRAND VILLA they took him to was one he knew: it was Venetian. For a moment, arriving there with his heavy escort in the dark, Nicholas imagined he was going to see the husbands of the two princesses of Naxos, and thought it might be quite amusing, with Zacco at his side. Then he realised that another member of the Corner family would be occupying it now.

  The King, cloaked beside him, said, ‘You forgive me, Nikko, for stealing you from your little girl and my music?’ His tone was playfully insulting. He had his Sicilian chamberlain and a Florentine agent with him.

  ‘Not yet, my lord,’ Nicholas said. The heavy wooden gates opened on gardens: it was an ancient palace. A fountain played, giving him a moment’s unease. They were, of course, expected. His visit had been planned from the beginning, like his other arrivals in Cyprus; and by the same people, or some of them.

  He had been restrained every step of the way and further hampered by the presence of the girl: on the initiative of Brother Lorenzo, he assumed; that powerful monk of St Catherine’s who would know Ludovico da Bologna so very well. The bones of the scheme had been apparent to anyone of intelligence long before, and Nicholas could have no complaint: for various reasons he had allowed it to happen. So long as it led him where he wanted to go.

  A well-dressed man emerged from the light of the villa and bowed, his steward behind him. The King called, ‘Ah, mon père.’ And to Nicholas: ‘You know Andrea Corner, Marco’s brother? To him, more than anyone, I owe my present nuptial bliss. Come.’ And he dismounted by the lanterns in a billow of silk, his smile angelic. Just before leaving, Nicholas guessed, he had started to drink. Perhaps because Nicholas had done the same.

  It was unlikely that Andrea Corner would notice. He made the King a full and practised salute and turning to Nicholas, greeted him in the flattering style of an equal. He was, of course, a rich man; or had become so since crossing to the King’s side from that of his sister. He had chosen to speak French, Nicholas observed, although Zacco knew Latin and could make himself understood, if he felt like it, in the argot of the Venetian Arsenal. When he liked, his tongue could rake like his leopards.

  Now, of course, he was older. They both were. They were each watching and weighing the other, to see what experience might have added, or dimmed. Zacco took the stairs with the muscular drive of an animal and stood at the top to be admired, his lip curling. Nicholas suddenly smiled in return. So let battle commence.

  The great salon on the first floor was not large, but a dozen could sit there in comfort, and seven were already there, standing as the King entered. One of them was the Patriarch of Antioch. Next to him, surely, was the new Venetian Bailie, the brother of Paul Erizzo, the dead hero of Negroponte. And next to him, rising from cushions, was a group of robed men whose leader, stepping forward, Nicholas knew from an encounter in Florence, a decade ago. Hadji Mehmet, senior ambassador of the lord Uzum Hasan, ruler of Persia.

  A delegation to the King of Cyprus from the third greatest Muslim prince in the world. No. Correction. A delegation, not yet official, not yet recorded, to assess the consequences of the Turkish conquest of Negroponte, and to discuss an alliance against the Sultan of Turkey between the powers whose interests were represented here. A league of defence. A league of offence was not out of the question.

  He wondered, as the introductions were made, who represented the Sultan at Cairo. He wondered who represented the Knights of St John and the other Italian states. He wondered what in detail they wanted of him: his ships, his army, his debtors, his wealth. He understood absolutely what Ludovico da Bologna had done to bring him here and why. And he thought, with a lift of the heart that turned him dizzy, that this time he would get what he wanted. They could not afford to deny him.

  He shook hands with the others but embraced Hadji Mehmet, dredging up the kind of Arabic he had forgotten and seeing his pleasure reflected in the other man’s face. Ten years ago, after the fall of Constantinople, Ludovico da Bologna had come to the West trailing a delegation like this, begging for troops and for money. Since then, Nicholas – and John in his absence – had cultivated the agents of Uzum Hasan, and had exchanged artisans and letters. It was one of the reasons why Venice was lenient with Nicholas. It occurred to Nicholas that he himself might be held to represent the Sultan of Cairo.

  Then the King had made his way to the single chair and seated himself, and the business began.

  It lasted three hours and packed into that period, allowing for the requirements of diplomacy, as much as a group of able men might manage in the way of presentation of facts, of argument and counter-argument, of ideas, and of conclusions. As issues became revealed, so did personalities.

  Zacco, to whom they nominally deferred, declared his position in an odd combination of boredom and vehemence. He reminded them of the danger that Cyprus might be taken, for example, by the duchy of Milan, and planted with Genoese. He reminded them that he, the King, had sent men and ships to the coast of Turkey. If he weakened himself any further, the Turk might conquer his island – a far deadlier master than Cairo. The Sultan would deny Venice trade and ruin him by imposing impossible dues. As it was, unless the Sultan of Cairo reduced his demand – five thousand, eight thousand, at one time sixteen thousand ducats a year – he, the King, could not even afford to repair his forts, never mind pay for troops and cannon.

  Having said what he came to say, he seemed in no mind to repeat it; but if the argument ran in another direction, he showed impatience and, towards the end, even some violence. His chamberlain, murmuring, sometimes restrained him. The Florentine agent Squarcialupi reported a rumour from Italy: the Pope planned to summon Italian princes to Rome to pledge money and troops against the Ottoman army. The outcome of such a meeting must, of course, affect all those in the path of these dogs.

  The proposed Italian league, Nicholas noticed, was not new to Ludovico da Bologna, or to the envoys of Uzum Hasan. Any non-Christian alliance, naturally, would have to be
sanctioned by the Pope. Long practised in foreign petitioning, the Latin Patriarch and the Turcoman lord were the most rewarding, perhaps, to hear and to watch. In many ways, it was the Patriarch, below the impossible barrage of outbursts, rebukes, contradictions and disclaimers, who was leading the meeting. And Andrea Corner was his ally, not only for Venice, but for the Knights of St John, the fighting Order which battled the Turks from their island of Rhodes.

  There was a castle of theirs in the south of Cyprus. ‘What does the Grand Commander of Kolossi have to say?’ Nicholas said. He doubted if there was one. They had promoted the last one, John Langstrother, to head the Order in England and Scotland, where the man came into favour every time the Lancastrian King was in power and out of favour every time it was York.

  Like Anselm Adorne. And like Adorne, the Order favoured the Genoese. And was disliked by the Sultan of Cairo. And was tolerated, you might say, by Venice … He knew his face was perfectly bland.

  Andrea Corner said, ‘What can I say of this great nursing Order, this bulwark against the Ottoman Turk? Except that, being of many nations, its voice is divided. You know, Ser Niccolò, of the prejudices of the man who has served in Kolossi, in Scotland, and in Bruges as John of Kinloch. You know, more seriously, of Anselm Adorne, Baron Cortachy, who has tried to imprint the Genoese point of view upon the Sultan of Cairo; whose itinerary is to embrace, we are told, this island of Cyprus, and that of Rhodes; and who will no doubt pause at Chios and Lesbos before travelling home by who knows what route. He plans to go to Naples.’

  ‘On pilgrimage?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Adherents of the Knights of St John have every right, we suppose, to consider themselves to be pilgrims,’ Corner said. ‘But in this instance, the clarion call for aid may be confused if men hold back, thinking they must be supporting either Venice or Genoa. There is no doubt which can summon most aid against the Turk. The Order has the men and the will to support them most ably. Properly guided, they will fling their might, as King James has already done, to support the emirs of the Anatolian coast against Turkish attack: they will guard the seas against onslaughts on Crete or on Cyprus.’

  ‘I trust then,’ said Nicholas, ‘that the lord Hadji Mehmet and his companions intend to speak to the Knights at Rhodes and to the magnates of the West before such a confusion of interests occurs?’

  ‘We leave for Rhodes in two days,’ said Mehmet. ‘We shall be in Venice in a matter of weeks.’ In public he used his native language and an interpreter although, as Nicholas knew, he spoke both French and Greek. He added, ‘If the Knights cannot help us, however, we may be unable to follow the good advice of Ser Andrea. We may be obliged to wait for the Baron Cortachy and sue for help from the Genoese of the Order.’

  Zacco said, ‘What do you mean? The Knights will help you.’

  Corner cleared his throat. ‘Monseigneur, you have heard what the lord Uzum Hasan requires. Ships, cannon, hackbuts, metalworkers, gunnery officers – the Order can provide little of that.’

  ‘They have money!’ said Zacco.

  ‘Well,’ said Ludovico da Bologna. Suddenly, below his ceremonial clothes, Nicholas felt his skin tighten. He kept his breath even.

  ‘Or if not, Venice has?’ Zacco had decided to sneer.

  Andrea Corner said, ‘Venice has artillery, or her merchants, like Ser Niccolò here, could provide it. But all her present weapons and money are already committed to war. Venice has been fighting unaided for Christendom for too long already. Only Rhodes has some access to gold, were she permitted to employ it.’

  It was so neat, so lethal, so exquisite that there was never any doubt but that he would rise to it. ‘To how much gold?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Over four hundred pounds. If they are permitted to keep it.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ said Nicholas. ‘It must amount to something like three mule-loads. The ownership is uncertain?’

  ‘I shouldn’t say so,’ said Ludovico da Bologna. ‘Morally, it belongs to the Knights. Without it, they could never afford to buy what they need from Venice to arm Uzum. Weapons. The use of an army. Ships. Silver and timber.’

  ‘Timber?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Egypt needs it. They used to get it from the Karamanid Emirate on the Anatolian coast. There are some concessions on the Venetian border which have been in dispute with the Tyrol. The same with the silver. But of course,’ said Andrea Corner, ‘there would be no question of legal processes now. And Cairo would be strengthened in their resolve to help Venice and Cyprus. What does Ser Niccolò feel?’

  Laughter welled, but he knew better than show it. Beneath all the formality, he was being told that the thieves of his African gold were the Order of the Knights of St John, captors of the Ghost, and, no doubt, of Ochoa de Marchena. From there, step by step, it all followed. And now, with supreme and brilliant insolence, he was being offered compensation. Don’t fuss, and we shall use it to pay you for your excellent services.

  If he agreed, he would have no gold to offer to Gelis.

  He could find the child without gold.

  He said, ‘I am not sure that I am interested. It would depend on what men and supplies I should be required to provide, and on what precise terms.’

  Ludovico da Bologna said, ‘Particular, aren’t you? So are we. We’d expect you to go with Hadji Mehmet to Rhodes for their views. Then we’d all know after the Papal meeting at Rome what the Italian states are doing. By the time Mehmet here comes to Venice you should have worked out your figures and we’ll all know the answers.’

  ‘I should be the sole dealer?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘If you want to be,’ Corner said.

  ‘And if I decide to refuse?’

  ‘Someone else gets the business,’ said the Patriarch. ‘And you get nothing at all, or, if you prefer, a lot of expensive litigation. You don’t need to decide now, tomorrow will do. The Order is sending a galley.’

  ‘I hope you will come,’ said Hadji Mehmet in Arabic. ‘Come to Rhodes. Then meet us in Venice. You will not regret it.’

  He was smiling. Nicholas said, ‘Never ask an innkeeper the way.’

  ‘Of course. But it will benefit yourself as well.’

  ‘Perhaps. I hope I shall be able to accept by tomorrow,’ Nicholas said, just loud enough to be heard by the Patriarch, who was not unconversant with that language.

  The door had opened and servants were bringing trays of pastries and Candian wine. He seemed to remember that Corner was paid in sugar and wine: it was not the thick, sweet Commanderie wine of the Knights, whatever his new fondness for the Order. He wondered if the meeting were formally over, and decided that it probably was. He said to the Patriarch, ‘Are there still some Greek bishops in Cyprus?’

  After barely one bite, the Patriarch seemed clothed in sugary hair. ‘Four,’ he said. ‘And the Church of St Sabas, over at Karoni in Paphos. And the Karpass, up in the north-east. The Bishop of Famagusta has his home in the Karpass. Beside the monastery.’

  ‘The monastery?’ Nicholas said. Someone had refilled his cup, but exhilaration still won over tiredness. Zacco was lying back, staring at him.

  ‘The one you’re thinking of. The monastery of the monks of St Catherine’s of Sinai. A couple of cabins in the Karpass, since your day.’

  ‘Brother Lorenzo must go there occasionally,’ Nicholas said. ‘Who else do you know? Father Moriz?’

  ‘Everyone knows Father Moriz. I’m going to take the Turcomans home. Can you hold off getting drunk till I call on you?’

  ‘Nikko?’ said the King’s voice.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas said. ‘Call on me and try. How do you get on with my wife?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ludovico da Bologna. ‘You’d need to be sober to hear that.’

  ‘Caro,’ said the King; and this time he was standing beside him, his cloak over one shoulder. ‘We are riding back.’

  The King, at least, had decided that the meeting was over. Everyone stood. Farewells were said. Outside, the fountain pla
yed and the horses, their escort, were waiting. The Florentine agent had stayed behind and only the chamberlain Rizzo di Marino rode silently at the King’s other side. The King said, ‘If you loved me, you would kill him.’

  It was not clear whom he meant, or even to whom he was speaking. Then the Sicilian said, ‘You know it is impossible.’

  The King turned to Nicholas. ‘When Charlotte died, I stripped him of everything. Everything.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Nicholas said. Now he knew. Careless father, perpetual lover, Zacco adored his natural children. Charlotte, aged six, had been promised to Sor de Naves, his Constable, as a bribe, and had died at twelve, the previous year, on the verge of her marriage. She had been the eldest of his illegitimate children and, of course, he had none yet by Catherine Corner, to whom he had not yet been introduced.

  Nicholas said, ‘You blame Andrea Corner?’

  ‘Oh yes. He poisoned her. I stripped him of all his possessions. But I had to give them back,’ Zacco said. ‘I owe him too much money. You don’t wear the Order I gave you?’

  ‘I couldn’t take it to Sinai,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘And you are married to a van Borselen? My grandfather married a Charlotte de Bourbon. We are related,’ said Zacco and laughed. ‘Are you not glad that I –?’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas. They had come to the gates of the palace.

  ‘She was barren,’ said Zacco. ‘Your wife. And dead, of course, now. We are here. Come in.’

  ‘Forgive me, roi seigneur,’ Nicholas said.

  His arm was gripped. ‘No. That I will not,’ said Zacco. ‘Unless you are afraid?’

  ‘No, roi seigneur,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Because you are cleaning Andrea Corner’s boots with your tongue? You know that he sends every month to know why I am not receiving my bride?’