He spent a day establishing her in the villa at Nicosia, and introduced her to Galiot his steward, and to Bartolomeo Zorzi, the superintendent of his dyeworks. Galiot’s thoughts he could not quite decipher. Zorzi was insultingly impressed as by nothing else in their acquaintance: his bows had been espalier-supple. ‘My lady! Ah, Ser Niccolò: if you could win me such a bride from Rhodes!’
‘She has sisters,’ said Nicholas. ‘I have your report: fulfil the Karamanian order. You have replaced the boy Diniz?’
‘There is another already in training,’ said the dyemaster. ‘But what of the young man’s aunt? My brother Jacopo was enquiring. The charming Flemish lady?’
‘She is well, and returning to Portugal,’ Nicholas said. ‘Sadly, her vine and sugar cuttings did not survive. If you see Messer Erizzo, you might tell him.’
‘He will sympathise,’ said Bartolomeo Zorzi. ‘But in war, what can one expect? I only trust the lady will reach home and her dear husband safely.’
‘I hope she will,’ Nicholas said. ‘It is a matter of deep concern to my lady wife and myself. I would go so far as to say we both depend on it.’
Then he was on his own, and riding Chennaa at dawn in company with a short supply-train of camels to join the army and Zacco who, he knew very well, would have the news of his arrival, and the manner of it. In proof, he was welcomed by outposts and guards as soon as he entered the encampment and by Astorre’s distant shout, heard at the moment that he saw his own pavilion had been re-erected with his personal staff waiting outside.
Inside, it was full of flowers and the person of Tzani-bey al-Ablak, directing the placing of more. The emir turned, his eyes hazy with drugs above the hooked nose and arrogant black moustache. Outside the battlefield he wore a white turban, pinned with a wisp of jewel-set osprey, and his coat was of saffron damask. He said, ‘Why, Pasha, your amiable presence delights us too soon. We prepare a welcome for you and the divine lady, your wife. The beloved comes in her litter?’
Behind him, Astorre had arrived at the tent. ‘You’re back! You’ve married the woman!’ he said. He looked round. ‘Someone’s dead?’
‘I think,’ Nicholas said, ‘that Allah’s sage disciple the emir is offering congratulations on my nuptials, blessed by God and by Allah, the Best Knower, the Satisfier of All Needs. My lord Tzani-bey, it is appreciated. Alas, the lady presently remains in Nicosia but later, I hope, you will knock at our door there. May I offer you a refreshment?’
‘There’s wine in my tent,’ Astorre said. ‘So what’s all this about?’
‘I think perhaps,’ Nicholas said, ‘the lord emir would prefer something different. What may I send for?’
The Mameluke smiled. ‘You are kind. But look, your officers bid you welcome; you are weary no doubt, and would prefer to drink wine in their company. In any case, I bear a message. Monseigneur the King bids you attend him.’
‘Where is he?’ Nicholas said.
‘In his tent. He is impatient. Perhaps your men will forgive you,’ said Tzani-bey, ‘if you present yourself first to your lord. He has not been pleased, I fear, with your absence. Such is the tyranny of generous friendship. Yet which of us would be without it? Friendship or womanly love?’
‘It depends on the friends,’ Nicholas said. ‘And the love. For these your good works, may Allah the Beneficent, the Merciful give you reward.’
He watched him leave and then spoke to Astorre, who was smirking. ‘I’d better go. Can you get everyone together? Perhaps your tent, not mine. Is there anything I should know?’
‘He’s angry,’ said Astorre. ‘Zacco. No worry anywhere else. They’re close to giving up now in Kyrenia. The blockade has done well: Crackbene’s moved his ships to Famagusta. Some illness, some deaths. Master Tobie and the Arab quack have got together again. John has spent as much time in Kouklia as he’s done here, but no one’s complained. Thomas says if you wanted the girl, why didn’t you keep her at Bruges?’
‘I thought I’d give Thomas first chance,’ Nicholas said. ‘This needs talking about. That’s why I want to see everyone. Meantime reassure them if you can. Nothing has gone wrong. Nothing is going to go wrong.’
‘And the lady?’ Astorre said. ‘My lord Simon’s wife?’
‘On her way back to Portugal,’ Nicholas said. ‘I must go.’
‘Good luck,’ said Astorre. ‘Not that you deserve it. You’ve got more than enough already, for a boy of your age.’
If Nicholas had qualms about that, walking to the royal pavilion, he found it simple enough to disguise them. He had taken time to change to fresh clothes, and brush his hair and pin the badge of his Order to his doublet. He saw, as soon as he met Zacco, that in Zacco’s eyes, he had taken too much time.
The King was sober. The tent was wholly in order, with servants at the door and within. Within also were Markios of Patras, the King’s uncle, and Abul Ismail, the King’s physician. Zacco, pacing between them, wore hose and a thin, belted tunic of flowered material, with his shoulders still swathed with the head-cloth from under his helmet. The large eyes and classical features were rose-brown with the sun, and his hair unevenly bleached in long, waving strands, stuck to his brow with the heat. He spun to face Nicholas the moment he darkened the doorway. ‘Well, harlot, thief, ungrateful liar!’
Nicholas knelt, his eyes on a piece of Persian carpeting. ‘My lord. What have I stolen?’
An extremely vicious grip closed on his arm and forced him upright. ‘Time,’ said James of Lusignan, his fingers tight. ‘Time I have paid for.’ He stood, breathing extremely hard, then let go and drew back the edge of his hand. His eyes took the measure of Nicholas, and of a particular place between his left shoulder and neck. Except for setting his teeth, Nicholas waited unmoving. A moment passed, then the blow came. It was sharp, but it fell on his face, turning it sideways. Nicholas let his breath go. James said, ‘You have nothing to say?’
‘He is spent with fornicating,’ said Markios of Patras. ‘Who marries a courtesan except for money, or because he has sold something? Whom or what have you sold?’
Nicholas resumed breathing quietly again. He said, ‘My lord King, I have given you full return for your silver. The campaign was planned when I left, and my men have helped execute it. I could have done no more had I been here. As for my wife –’
‘Wife!’ said James of Lusignan. ‘She is a whore.’
Nicholas kept his gaze open and lucid. He said, ‘Nevertheless you offered once, my lord King, to bring her to me. A man may love a concubine, and even marry her. It was not by my wish that the lady was sent off from Cyprus. If I have now brought her back it is because no man has jurisdiction over whom I may marry. And because I wished her beside me. And because it is not forbidden in Cyprus, surely, of all kingdoms on earth, to love a woman to whom fortune has denied formal rites in the past, and to wish to please her, being free, and to wish her to bear sons such as the one I now serve, brave and just and courageous.’
The King was silent. Markios looked at him. Out of the edge of his sight, Nicholas thought he saw the physician’s beard move, as if he were smiling. The King said, ‘Where is she? The concubine?’
‘The lady Primaflora is in Nicosia,’ said Nicholas.
‘Spying?’ he said.
Nicholas said, ‘Illustrious King, she has given up that allegiance. The lady Carlotta your sister would have her killed. Would Your Magnificence give her audience, and question her? She will answer freely.’
The look passed again between the King and his uncle. Then Zacco said, ‘The lady my mother will do that. Your marriage is, of course, your own affair. The introduction of a possible traitor is not. She has spent her life serving my sister.’
‘She has served many people,’ said Nicholas. ‘She has never before bound herself, as she and I are now bound. She wishes only to stay in Cyprus with me.’
The King said, ‘In any case, you cannot leave. Kyrenia has not fallen. Famagusta shows no sign of surrender. You have not done what you ha
ve been paid for.’
‘Rest assured, my lord King,’ said Nicholas. ‘I shall not leave until you have Cyprus. And perhaps my sons will serve you after me.’
The King sat. He looked at the physician, who bowed to him, and then conveyed to Nicholas an undoubted smile. Abul Ismail said, ‘You are plainly in health. The King wished to make sure.’
‘Thanks to my physicians,’ Nicholas said. He stood, watching the Arab leave. A moment later, Markios walked out without speaking.
The King said, ‘Sit. What wine have you been drinking in Rhodes? What elixir? What do you seek that we cannot provide?’
Nicholas sat. He said, ‘My lord, you have daughters. Did it not please you, the begetting of them?’
The wine came. The servants retreated, all but the man attending the cups. Zacco said, ‘And the sugar plants, and the vines. They are dead?’
‘Yes. Other thieves and rivals will come,’ Nicholas said. ‘Plants will be taken again and your market will shrink, but not yet. And when the time does arrive, there are other harvests to find, perhaps even more bountiful. This is a fertile land. There is room for diversity.’
‘Is there?’ said Zacco. He cradled the cup in one hand, and with the other drew a finger down the cold, misted surface. He said, ‘It seemed to me that you might have found your harvest with Carlotta.’
‘No,’ Nicholas said. ‘She was anxious to kill me. You would then, of course, have been sure of my loyalty. I prefer to prove it as I promised: by giving you the rest of your kingdom.’
‘And after that?’ Zacco said. ‘You are free with your promises in some things. For the rest, you prevaricate like an Arab. I dislike it.’
It was what Katelina had said. It was what everyone said. ‘I am sorry,’ Nicholas answered slowly. ‘Perhaps it is prevarication; perhaps it is uncertainty; perhaps it is an attachment to freedom. To me, it is the essence of what lies between us. Should I give you plain answers, removing all doubts, all possibilities?’
For a long time, the King stared into his wine. Then he drank it quickly, and dragging the cloth from his neck, flung it and his cup to the wine-server standing ladle in hand by the tent-wall. The fine clammy scarf fell; the servant, starting, caught the cup and poured a great measure. As he brought it, Zacco pulled the cup from Nicholas also and tossed it to the man. He said, ‘When I want such an answer, I will require it of you, and evasion will not serve you then. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, my lord King,’ Nicholas said. The cup he had been given was full to the brim.
‘Good,’ said Zacco. ‘Now you will remain here with me, drinking measure by measure until one of us falls. Whoever comes to your bed this night, my amorous Niccolò, will lose the profit of their labours: I promise you that.’
Some considerable time later, Tobie said, ‘Well, well. He’s coming.’ He turned into Astorre’s tent, where a collation for four had long since taken place and Thomas, in particular, was comatose. John, stripped to the waist, was sitting on a pallet drawing something with silent concentration. Astorre, who had relished his meal, was cleaning his sword: a task he reserved for himself. Tobie, irritated and restless, had been to the doorway a dozen times since news of the drinking-bout spread.
Astorre said, ‘Our young bridegroom, you say? Not the King?’
‘Not the King. Nearly not Nicholas, by the look of him. He’s not coming here.’
‘Well, he should,’ said the captain, annoyed. ‘I’ve got to be out half the night. I could have slept. Thomas, go and see what he’s doing.’
Thomas disappeared, not unwillingly, and came back looking shaken. He said, ‘He’s there streaming wet by the water-tub, spewing up with a finger to help him. The King too. The King got tired of drinking, and wants to take the leopards out hunting. The Arab quack’s trying to stop them.’
‘I should hope he is,’ Tobie said. He ran from Astorre’s tent the considerable distance to his own, picked up a box and ran out again, pouring sweat in the sun. The leopards passed, in a stink of urine and a flash of spotted chrome fur, running on their thick chains.
Abul Ismail appeared in front of him and said, ‘Ah, you too. Be at rest. Your lord had the sense, at least, to accept my advice, and persuaded the King. They are weak as fawns, but half sober at least.’ He sighed. ‘What it is to minister to young men of high temperament. They are mounted. There they go.’
In fury, Tobie saw the hunt assemble and begin to stream past. By the King’s side was Nicholas. He was pallid and glistening and hatless but there was a smile melon-wide on his face; and that of Zacco, turned to him, revealed the same nausea, the same determination, the same perverse, reckless delight. Tobie changed his hold on his box, which was paining him, and tramped back to Astorre with a declaration. ‘He’s mad. He’s not worth bothering over. I’m going to bed. If he wants us, he can get us tomorrow.’
‘He can get you tomorrow,’ said Astorre. ‘If they’re going hunting, I’m going with them. Man, we’ll see some sport.’
‘They’re all mad,’ said John le Grant placidly, looking after him. ‘That’s what you get, when you follow an army. And the craziest person of all is any woman who lets herself get mixed up with them.’
That night Astorre, as befitted his position, took his turn with his men among the besiegers, having seen the kill distributed, and both Nicholas and the King to their tents. Later, as he walked between the quiet ranks, someone gave him a friendly slap on the arm and he found to his surprise that, drunk or sober, Nicholas had elected to join him. They walked together, at first in silence; then climbing from place to place as Astorre launched into his personal account of the siege. He described gun positions and skirmishes; pointed out damage, detailed the garrison’s efforts. He grew rosy expounding; he became vehement answering questions. He had trained this fellow. No one else of his age grasped a situation with that sort of speed, or understood him so well. In an hour, whoever else didn’t, Astorre received all his reward for his labours.
Towards the end, they climbed the rise and stood on the spot from which they had started. In the distance the castle lay, black against the sea in a night without moon. There were no lights to be seen; no animated guard on the wall-walks. Astorre nodded over. ‘They’re near to surrendering now. Every day or two, we get someone trying to give themselves up. We got the women out, although not till last week. Don’t you want to sit down?’
‘You mean you think I’m tired?’ Nicholas said. He dropped with a thud on the spent grass. ‘Where did you put them?’
‘The women? Where you said, in one of the convents. Are ye staying?’ His beard stuck up in the air.
‘Astorre?’ Nicholas said. ‘I know you like lording it everywhere, but I don’t. Primaflora doesn’t want to be received anywhere and neither do I. Yes, I’m staying. We’re all staying until Famagusta goes. What ships have tried to get in?’
‘Not many,’ Astorre said. ‘The whole Venetian fleet’s on the rampage – they tried to take Lesbos and failed: the stupid fools think they can get back the Morea. And your damned Order –’
‘Not mine,’ Nicholas said. ‘The Pope’s dear children, you mean. I heard in Rhodes. They’ve got enough trouble guarding themselves; and the Genoese can’t afford the ships or the money. You don’t see a Crusade coming to rescue Carlotta?’
‘Not this year,’ Astorre said. ‘Mind, the wars over there seem to be slackening. The Pope’s free of Malatesta. If he got Burgundy to send more than money, they might collect an armed fleet for next summer.’
‘But James will have all Cyprus by then,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or do you have doubts?’
Astorre shook his head. ‘We promised him Cyprus and, by God he’ll have it. But Famagusta: that’s going to be a bad one. Worse than this. I doubt if we’ll take it before winter.’
Nicholas said, ‘I was beginning to think that. Supply problems, then. This plain turns to mud. I’ll have to divide my time between there and Kouklia. And Zacco’ll get bored.’
‘Will he?’
said Astorre.
Nicholas chuckled. ‘So isn’t it lucky I’m married? What does Thomas say?’
‘I told you,’ said Astorre. ‘He’s soft on her. See his eyes light up. That’s the sort of woman he fancies for a – for a –’
‘For an employer. Well, he’s out of luck: she isn’t going to be his employer,’ Nicholas said. ‘She has no share in the Bank, and she has no share in Catherine’s trust, or anything to do with Bruges. So spread that around.’
‘Ah!’ said Astorre. ‘Master Tobie’ll be relieved.’
‘Master Tobie would be relieved if he believed a word of it,’ said Tobie’s voice. He sat down and took off his helm and his cap, so that his bald head glimmered faintly. ‘You’re a damned fool,’ he said. ‘She wants the money.’
‘Maybe,’ said Nicholas mildly. ‘But she signed it away with the marriage contract. I have it. In Latin. She doesn’t get anything but my personal possessions. I got the document drawn up in spring by Gregorio.’
Two pairs of eyes gleamed at him in the dark. ‘In case?’ Tobie said.
‘In case,’ agreed Nicholas.
‘In case you married which one? It seems to me,’ Tobie said, ‘that you’ve had every woman in the Levant just recently. What about Katelina and Queen Carlotta?’
‘In the same bed,’ Nicholas said. ‘I don’t know. I had a feeling someone was going to marry me, and I knew what a fuss you’d all make if I didn’t make sure of your futures.’
‘And Zacco?’ said Tobie.
‘He’s accepted the situation, pending a scanning by Cropnose. Who do you think will win that one?’
‘I think,’ said Tobie slowly, ‘that your new lady wife will be permitted to stay. You bastard.’