The professionals jumped to their feet: Astorre with his puckered scars and teak belly and muscular calves; Thomas with his carpet of hair, throat to belly-button. Pink as marzipan, Tobie was slower, his fuzz of hair dispensing slow teardrops. Le Grant waited until Nicholas stirred, and then rose at the same time. With them both rose Diniz, perforce, with the grasp of Nicholas under his elbow.
The door opened on a glitter of arms, but all that entered were clothes. Conveyed on a succession of legs there arrived shirts and pourpoints and doublets, hose and slippers, hats and robes. Last to promenade was a man in the robes of a chamberlain. He said, ‘The High Court requires that all who attend be fittingly dressed. Prepare yourselves for the summons.’
A suitable remark rose in Tobie’s throat and evaporated at a look from Nicholas. No. If the King wanted puppets, he should have them. But at least, he would get puppets with voices.
They dressed, with dry jokes, prosaically exchanging what fitted less well for better. Nicholas, the largest of all, was best suited with a mantle that might have been made for him. But then, the King had met Nicholas. That was why they were here. Tobie said, ‘I need –’
‘You haven’t time,’ Astorre said. ‘They’re coming for us.’
On this occasion, the doors opened only on soldiers: a double file lining a passage, and established on the stairs beyond that, where sconces flickered on feathers and steel. At their head was the Mameluke emir. He smiled. He said, ‘Now is the appointed time. The King waits. You will follow.’
They had not far to go. The castle had once been more extensive, and the repairs had been inexpensive and hasty. They passed blackened walls, where the wind moaned and wailed through distant fissures, and the torch-flames caught their breath and burned yellow, rippling. Once a breach opened black at their feet, the broken flags marked by a guard rail. But the hall doors, when they reached them, were intact, although the timbers were cracked, and the coat of arms bruised, as by a mallet. Tzani-bey struck the doors and they opened. Blinding light fell upon Nicholas and, dazzled, he paused.
‘You falter?’ said the emir. ‘You hear the sound of the saw, of the pincers heating? Take your courage. Think of your men. Step to meet your fate bravely.’ He had spoken in Arabic. Smiling still, he pushed past Nicholas over the threshold and, advancing, took his stance upon a square of Turkey carpet. He bowed. ‘My lord King. Niccolò vander Poele, Knight of the Sword of Carlotta, and his mercenaries.’
It was too late to be affected by malice. It was too late for anything he could count on, and certainly too late to remember the moment when he had promised himself that he was no longer a member of a community. When he had told himself he had taken charge of an arsenal in – what was it? – the opening moves of a perfect war game.
He walked into a small hall which had lost its timbers, but whose brilliant lights fell on costly wall-hangings, and on the deep-dyed velvets and silks of the courtiers who stood on either side. He knew some of their names. There was Rizzo di Marino, ridden ahead as his harbinger, still carrying the cloak he had worn at Salines. Beside him stood a man in Archbishop’s robes: William Goneme, the King’s wily Cypriot counsellor. Here surely was Conella Morabit, the other Sicilian knight. And men the Venetians had told him of: Zaplana and Galimberto; Salviati and Costanzo. And even, at the foot of the throne, the page Jorgin, who had helped tend his hurts from the last time he had found himself in Mameluke hands, by Zacco’s orders. Without raising his eyes, Nicholas stepped the required number of paces and stopped short of the throne, as his friends halted behind him. He heard someone – le Grant or Tobie – draw a short breath. In Astorre’s shadow, the boy Diniz was silent.
Nicholas looked up at the King, and the remembered eyes looked into his.
He had prepared none of his companions for the beauty they would see on the carved seat on its dais. They looked up as he did to a golden king in the flower of his youth, the splendid line of his body wrapped in sable and velvet and gold. Above the robes, the brown, careless hair was now schooled under a hat bound about the brows with fine velvet. Next to its ruby-pinned fall, the fine skin kept the glow of high summer, and the glow of the autumn showed in the clear hazel eyes. Showed, then died. James de Lusignan said, ‘Kneel.’
He was not looking at Nicholas. After a moment, the emir Tzani-bey, at his side, sank to one knee. His face was blank.
The King’s eyes turned to Nicholas. The King said, ‘You have been ill-treated?’
Nicholas looked at Tzani-bey. ‘No, my lord,’ he said. He heard Diniz move sharply behind him and felt, rather than saw, Astorre grip the boy’s arm.
The sunburned face of the King remained perfectly still. The King said, ‘But your eyes say, Not yet.’
Nicholas waited. Then he said, ‘And my intelligence also, my lord. We have set out to serve you, and have been told to expect torture and death. I will not beg my life from a Mameluke. I would lay it, with my explanation, at the feet of the King.’
No one spoke. Slowly, the King turned his head, his brows rising. The kneeling emir lifted his voice. ‘My lord. While on the ship they were bound. You desired it. Once on land, they were freed. You required it. They have been housed, bathed and clothed, as you requested. More than that you did not ask.’
‘Why,’ said the King. ‘Do you not know our mind, even from so far as Salines? You carried out my instructions, you say. Did we instruct you to warn them of my anger?’
The dark face of the emir conveyed humility. ‘The man Niccolò, my lord, leads a considerable army. Unless chastened, he might have attacked us. Further, had I been mild, the Queen’s men on the ship would have turned on him. You asked especially, my lord, that he should appear in good health.’
The King lifted his gaze and ran it over Nicholas. ‘We see,’ he said, ‘that he has a self-inflicted wound to the head. Shall we seek corroboration? We understand Messer Napoleone Lomellini is in the castle. Have him brought.’
A servant left. The room remained in absolute silence. The King allowed his eyes to travel over the faces of the strangers before him. He did not give the emir leave to rise, or look again at Nicholas. There was a pause. Then the broad figure of the Genoese entered, wearing again the rich clothes and rings of his land costume. He held himself stiffly, and bowed.
‘Messer Napoleone,’ said the King, his voice sweet. ‘We have met. You have heard, perhaps, that we are not always lenient, but we try to be just. You are captain of Famagusta, a city which is in arms against us. Were you not in our grasp, we have no doubt that you would return to that city, and would immediately continue your campaign of resistance against us. Are we right?’
‘I am a citizen of Genoa,’ said Lomellini. ‘And Famagusta belongs to the Republic. Yes, I should return to my duty if freed.’
‘We expected no less. It is not a post we should choose, these coming months. We are doing you no great service in telling you that, upon certain considerations, you will be allowed to return to it. You are a prisoner, Messer Napoleone, and the convention is that prisoners should pay for their freedom. We require to receive from you or your Republic a sum equal to twice the purchase price of a fit, well-trained Mameluke. The lord emir will be able to tell us the current rate. On payment of that, you will be free to go where you please, including the city of Famagusta. Is this agreeable?’
The captain of Famagusta had flushed. He said, ‘The lord king is generous. I accept, with gratitude.’
‘Are we generous?’ said the King. ‘We think you will come to doubt it. Now, another matter. You see here Messer Niccolò and his men?’
‘I do,’ said Lomellini. He frowned.
The young man on the throne settled himself, as if in enjoyment. ‘Messer Niccolò and his army have been in Rhodes. When found, they were on their way to Kyrenia to fight for our sister. This is true?’
‘It is true,’ said Lomellini.
‘You murmur,’ said the King. ‘Is it true?’
‘Yes, it is so,’ said Lomellini. He k
ept his eyes on the King.
‘And,’ said the King, ‘they entered the service of the lady Carlotta of their own accord, and without outside compulsion?’
Lomellini’s face was still flushed, but his square jaw was firm. He said, ‘The man Niccolò received a knighthood and swore an oath of loyalty to Queen Carlotta. There was no compulsion. Ask your emir. He was in no doubt which side this army would fight on.’
‘We are asking our emir,’ said James de Lusignan. ‘My lord Tzani-bey, you may stand.’
The Mameluke rose, not quite hiding his stiffness, and divided his black stare between the King and the Genoese. He said, ‘I made pretence of dealing harshly with the Fleming, my lord King. I admit to causing some injury. It was necessary. As you see, any suspicion of leniency would have been dangerous.’
The eyes of the Genoese switched from the King to the emir, and then rested on Nicholas. He said, ‘This man is the Queen’s. I have told you. If you think anything else, you are mistaken.’
Zacco smiled. ‘We are so often mistaken. We are fortunate in having men around us to tell us the truth. At times, even a half-truth may content us for the moment. My lord emir, we think we have detained you long enough. We have heard what you have to say. We suggest that on another occasion, you heed our instructions more carefully. You may leave us.’
The Mameluke bowed, stepping backwards; and again; and again; before he turned and left the hall. But as he passed Nicholas, he sought his eyes and, for a moment, held them boldly with something in them not far short of derision. The door closed at his back, and men stirred.
On the throne, the King had also moved. With the robe discarded behind him, he stood on the dais for a moment, and then ran down the steps like an athlete. Before he reached the carpet, Nicholas knelt. The King stopped and touched his shoulder, keeping him there. Then he turned his head to Lomellini. ‘Ser Napoleone, you serve your Republic as best you can, and we do not blame you for the lies you have told. But it happens that we know of the oath sworn to our sister, and the circumstances which forced Ser Niccolò and his army to leave Rhodes to sail to Kyrenia. We know because a message was sent us by Ser Niccolò himself assuring us of his loyalty and asking our help to bring him to us.’
‘This we have done.’ He looked down, and spoke directly to Nicholas. ‘We made a mistake, sending the emir. He was officious. He was afraid, for your own sake, to appear as your friend. So you were not told that the Florentine ship had arrived with your letter; or that Rizzo here has been haunting the Rhodes seas awaiting you. If you cannot forgive the lord emir, I trust you will accept our apologies.’
Nicholas smiled, his eyes on the ground. He said, ‘With all my heart, my lord King. It was, at the same time, an unforgettable journey.’
‘A fearful one, we can see. For, of course,’ the King said, ‘had you truly set out for Kyrenia, we should have sent to kill you all. As it is, you may stand.’
Nicholas stood. Of the two, he was slightly taller. He felt he had no advantage. ‘As it is,’ Zacco repeated, ‘you have presented us with a ship full of merchandise, which we shall certainly take. Of arms, which we shall be glad of. There are merchants, we believe, with their ladies, and officers of my sister’s whom we have a mind to free and have taken, under suitable escort, to enter the gates of Kyrenia or of Famagusta, as they may wish. And, since we respect the Order, and the guard it keeps on the seas, we shall send their ship back to Rhodes, with its master, its soldiers, its seamen. Do these provisions seem fair?’
‘They seem generous, lord,’ Nicholas said. ‘And the ladies?’
The clear eyes did not alter. ‘The lady Primaflora is behind you,’ James de Lusignan said. ‘We have spoken to her. We have sent word also to the sick woman, Katelina van Borselen, who lies at St Lazarus. We have decreed that the lady Primaflora be returned to join her mistress our sister at Rhodes. The demoiselle from Flanders will stay.’
Zacco, the unreadable, the chameleon. Nicholas stood, every muscle relaxed, every sense as alert as if hunting a boar. Behind him, moving slowly, as in regal procession, Primaflora came to stand at his side: he smelled her scent and saw her face, paler than ever, with a line between her brows. She said in a low voice, ‘You have deceived me. You let me agonise over your fate, and you knew Zacco would stand your friend, for you had warned him. I cannot forgive you.’
‘The lady berates you,’ said the King. He looked amused. ‘Indeed, she deserved your confidence if, as she says, she had given up all to leave our sister and join her fate to yours. Fortunately, our sister does not know of her true defection, and will welcome her back.’
‘My lord, the lady Primaflora has my confidence,’ Nicholas said. ‘I believed that my dispatch to the King had been lost. The behaviour of the emir confirmed it. I saw no point in raising false hopes. We have had a voyage of despair, in which the lady has suffered greatly. I hope to obtain her forgiveness. If I have been less than well treated, I could imagine no better recompense than to have the lady stay with me, as she intended.’
The intelligent eyes almost smiled. ‘What is this we hear? You beg that both of your gentle conquests may stay? We think that would be greed.’
Nicholas said, ‘The lady here has long been my companion, but the other belongs to the west, to her husband. Perhaps the lord King would think it a kindness to send Katelina van Borselen home, along with her nephew.’
‘Perhaps. Eventually,’ James de Lusignan said. ‘We see a time may come when we may refuse you little. In this instance, however, we have decided to dismiss the lady Primaflora, and she will sail immediately for Rhodes. As for the boy and the lady, we have it in mind to hold them for ransom. Until it comes, the matron Katelina van Borselen will remain in Cyprus, well protected and honoured, you may be sure. As for the boy, he shall be our page. Or yours, if you wish it. He is charming.’
‘I am no one’s page,’ said Diniz Vasquez.
The King looked at him. He lifted a finger and the boy was pushed forward and stood. Zacco tilted his head. At length, ‘No,’ he said. ‘You are no one’s page. You are a prisoner. That being so, you bear yourself as a gentleman should, and expect and receive, I trust, courtesy in return. Do not be afraid. I do not shame those in my charge.’ He turned his head. ‘And now, I think we should see the Grand Commander.’
The boy, flushed, was pulled back. Primaflora, making to speak, suddenly made a small gesture and gave way to the attendant who, gently but firmly, took her arm to remove her. Nicholas took a step after and felt, light and warm, the King’s touch on one of his shoulders. It hardened. ‘You will wait,’ Zacco said. A moment later a grey-haired man, robed and hatted in black, was being ushered in, with a shadow behind him.
The King turned, dropping his arm. Nicholas remained where he was, in the full view of the newcomer whose eyes narrowed in angry suspicion. Primaflora had gone. The King said, ‘My lord Commander of Cyprus. You thought to bring an army to the lady our sister. Instead, as you see, a brave and able man has tricked’ you into fetching us the soldiers we need. You have nothing with which to reproach yourself. Your vessel and all of your company are to be taken unharmed where they wish. We brought you here to say more. It is not our intention to make war on the Order, or on the brethren of the Order who live and work here in Cyprus. If you wish to pass to Kolossi, you are free to do so; and we ourselves shall give you an escort of honour. Tonight, you will feast as our guest. Tomorrow, you have only to make your wishes known. Does this please you?’
‘My lord is generous,’ said Louis de Magnac. He spoke the words to the King, but Nicholas felt the heat of his gaze. De Magnac muttered, ‘Knave and mountebank! Murderer!’
‘I am a mercenary,’ Nicholas said. ‘You gave me, once, a good servant.’
De Magnac bared his teeth. ‘He told me your every move, boy,’ he said.
‘I know just what he told you,’ said Nicholas. ‘And I think it is time he came back.’
The Grand Commander, consumed with serious anger, detected
some impertinence, but brushed it aside with a snort. His African servant said, ‘Sir?’
The fellow had stepped out from behind the Commander. A magnificent negro, the best he’d ever had, and wearing a doublet from the Queen’s tailor. The Grand Commander barked ‘Lopez?’
‘Sir?’ said the negro again. He had walked in front of de Magnac. And the question was directed at Nicholas.
Nicholas smiled. He said to Zacco, ‘Our private spy with the Order. His own idea. It was he who lodged my message to you with the Florentine ship calling at Rhodes. May I present the major domo of my household? And the rest of my officers are unknown to you. And one hundred more, waiting outside.’
‘We shall meet them all,’ Zacco said. ‘But we have not told you yet what we think of you. Come.’
He put out both hands. His fingers round those of Nicholas were warm and hard and threateningly strong. He leaned forward and Nicholas felt the press of his lips on either cheek and then, deep and hot, on his brow. The King tightened his clasp at arm’s length.
‘Sweet Niccolò, welcome,’ he said. ‘You have brought us your mind, and your loyalty. Accept in return the heart and soul of a friend.’
Five pairs of eyes watched that, with choler. Six, if you counted those of Diniz, the boy. Restraint had to be observed among the shareholders and partners of the House of Niccolò until, after a supper that did indeed deserve the title of feast, they were relinquished unprotected, unguarded, unwatched in the palatial room which was their new sleeping apartment.
Nicholas was not present.
‘Is anyone astonished?’ commented Tobie. He rounded on le Grant. ‘You knew about Zacco, you snake. You never said he was young. Nor did Nicholas. I’m company doctor to Cupid.’
‘I knew,’ said Astorre. He had taken his clothes off, and was admiring them. ‘Stood to reason. Our boy doesn’t want another woman to answer to. Our boy wants some fun.’