His guess was right, then. John said, ‘Zacco. It has been Zacco behind it, all along?’
‘I think,’ said Tobie, ‘that Zacco is the least of it. But yes, I think Nicholas has always known he was being coaxed, from point to point, towards Cyprus.’ He broke off and said, ‘He may not go, even yet. Not unless it coincides with his other reasons for being here. After what happened, would you go back to Cyprus?’
‘I don’t know,’ said John le Grant. ‘But whatever he’s doing, you’d better go with him and sober him up. There is still a real world out here, even though he’s forgotten it.’
No, he didn’t envy Tobie.
By then, Katelijne Sersanders was beginning to feel herself once again. Sitting on her balcony, the sea sparkling below, she was surprised when Dr Tobias, on the second day, mentioned that John le Grant was departing to Alexandria alone. He also intimated that her uncle and Brother Lorenzo were anxious to speak to her.
They were admitted. Her uncle looked disturbed and unhappy; the Cretan was calm. She gathered – from Brother Lorenzo rather than from her uncle – that the scheme to send her to Crete was defunct. Since the disaster at Negroponte, the monks of St Catherine could neither send a vessel for her nor receive her. On the other hand, there was a convent of Clares in Nicosia on the island of Cyprus. Cyprus, birthplace of St Catherine.
Katelijne thought of Cyprus and St Catherine. Her mind travelled beyond St Catherine to Venus, who seemed preferable to what she knew of the Minotaur. Cyprus was on her uncle’s itinerary for November. He could call for her when he had been to the Holy Land. It transpired that an important caravan was just about to leave for the Holy Land, and it was desirable that the Baron Cortachy should travel with it. And Jan, and Lambert, and the other two. And Brother Lorenzo.
Kathi said, ‘So who would take me to Cyprus?’
‘Why, Dr Tobias,’ said her uncle quickly. ‘Otherwise I should never have suggested it. Dr Tobias is also going to Cyprus. Until we come, he will look after you.’
Kathi gazed at him and he flushed. It was Brother Lorenzo who said in his collected, soft Tuscan, ‘It seems that M. de Fleury has found occasion to travel to Cyprus and has commandeered a ship. Your uncle is concerned, but I have told him that he has a niece of good sense, who will take no harm. The Signor de Fleury has been asked not to trouble you, and Dr Tobias will remain with you until you are settled. What do you say?’
She agreed, in a subdued voice, and remained looking subdued until they left her.
When Nicholas de Fleury called to see her, as he did shortly after everyone else had departed, she treated him to the same forlorn gaze. She said, ‘They’ve made you take me, I’m sorry. Because you can’t leave me here.’
M. de Fleury said, ‘No trouble at all, if you want it. You’d have to marry, and the going price is six hundred camels. But your Arabic’s reasonable, and your uncle, I dare say, could afford them. On the other hand …’ The encounter ended with the kind of escalating nonsense she had got used to in the Garden of Balm.
Then he had thought his wife dead, and the levity at Matariya had all been inconsequential; a way to escape from what was too much to bear. Now, it seemed almost real. As if, despite the fatigue, the strange dimension he sometimes escaped to, he had been touched with hope, with something not far from elation. Or perhaps, as before, he was simply using the gift he had, which children also have, to push trouble away.
She saw Dr Tobias was anxious, and remembered the flat way in which M. le Grant had made his farewells. But then she had also seen how some men and women liked to claim him. She did not know why he was going to Cyprus except that it was for something, she saw, more important than gold. She only hoped, for his sake, that he found it.
The ship, when Nicholas and his party finally boarded her, was nothing out of the way: a rather battered small trader with some primitive cabins in the poop. The voyage was, however, usually short: only two or three days, and the girl was much better. Indeed, it was more comfortable than Nicholas had expected, there were so few other passengers.
His mind was not really clear. He was happy in a strange, detached way to do with the sea and the sunlight and the white sails curving above, and an island ahead which was still three-quarters unreal; an enchanted isle conjured up by the pendulum glinting, glinting over the maps through the night. This time, he wanted to be so very sure.
Below the happiness, of course, was the black well he had never thought to dip into again. Tobie had drunk from it already: he saw it all in his face, and then saw the girl watching them both, trying to fathom unaccountable moods.
In Ghent, in Bruges, a family of position would discuss the island of Cyprus, fortress and garden, torn between siblings: Carlotta its Queen, and James – Zacco – her illegitimate half-brother. Six years ago, Zacco had prevailed, wresting the crown from Carlotta, expelling the Genoese from Famagusta with the aid (yes, the Sersanders would know) of Nicholas vander Poele and his army; with the help of Astorre, and of John, and of Tobie. Of Diniz. Of Umar.
He had been well rewarded, for a time. He had been given or promised land, villas, estates, appointments. Given also, something even approaching deep friendship.
It had fallen apart, and he had left. When he lost his possessions, after that, it was no more than befell most of Zacco’s beneficiaries. The island was becoming impoverished; the Mameluke Sultan at Cairo was greedier than before. In Cairo just now, Nicholas had encouraged him to be greedier still. In Naples, he had promoted a bold, a different marriage alliance that might seem, on the surface, only to the King’s greater benefit. Nicholas was not the mortal enemy of Zacco, although some might think he had cause to be. There were, however, some scores to settle, which in a leisurely way he was doing. He had passed too much of his life playing the victim.
Anyone who knew about Cyprus would know some of that and, of course, recent events. How Venice, afraid to find the Turks entrenched on the island, had married Marco Corner’s daughter to Zacco the young lion, helpless and raging to find himself torn between masters. However much Nicholas had made life difficult lately for Zacco, he did not expect Zacco to retaliate. Not unless he lost control more than usual. And that, too, Nicholas could deal with nowadays.
The rest of the matter of Cyprus only Tobie knew, of his present companions. He did not speak of it, and neither did Nicholas. Even when the island appeared, violet, green, scented, feathered with palm trees, no one remarked when their course took them to Famagusta. Most ships used the great harbour. The chapel of St Catherine was nearby, and the lodge of the Knights Hospitaller, and the Convent of St Francis. It was right that present good should be allowed to drive out past tragedy.
Nicholas looked for the girl and found her in the bows, learning how to drop a bob line. She had, at least, changed into one of the gowns he had contrived for her in Gaza. It had the same failings as the doublet he wore: she looked like a Chinaman going to Mecca. She looked cheerful.
His thoughts drifted again, and he put himself out of the way and watched the island coming closer. The landing didn’t concern him: he had no goods to declare; no employment to seek. He knew where to find suitable lodgings; the pendulum would tell him, to an inch, where to go next. And then, quickly, he would leave.
Afterwards, sane, he wondered how he could ever have been so naïve.
Tobie, who was frightened, had tried to prepare the girl a little, since Nicholas seemed to be on another planet. He couldn’t believe, yet, that he was on a ship sailing into this harbour with Nicholas, who had never felt moved to talk about what had happened six years ago at Famagusta, or what had happened at the fort of St Hilarion, where his brilliant attack on an enemy had turned to desperate tragedy. As his attacks so often did.
Of course, there had been lighter moments. Tobie had described some of them to the girl. The Arthurian joust, for example, with himself as the Loathly Damsel and John le Grant as the Lion, and Nicholas in two yellow plaits got up as Guinevere. And then he had come to a halt,
remembering how it had ended, with the death of Lucia’s husband. Lucia, whose own death Katelijne had seen.
He had talked, a little, of the siege of Famagusta, and the last starving days of the city, but had not explained that Nicholas had shared in that agony, or that this was where the mother of Henry had died. Kathi did not even know that Katelina and Nicholas had been lovers.
He had hinted at the youth and beauty of Zacco, but had said nothing else. He knew that she sensed something imminent of more importance to Nicholas than the acquisition of gold. She had no way of knowing that he had come for his son. He didn’t realise that, thinking of Zacco, she would draw other conclusions or that she, too, was grieved, and not only at the prospect of two months in a convent of the Clares.
She had been silent on the voyage; watching M. de Fleury; sympathising with whatever dilemma was producing all the hurried anecdotes of Dr Tobias. She knew, in the part of her mind that her tutors admired, that Cyprus was a vast, fertile island in the eastern part of the Middle Sea; and that Venus had been born there a long time before St Catherine, and that Cleopatra, who had lived in Alexandria without meeting St Catherine, had been presented with Cyprus by her lover Mark Antony.
She saw Dr Tobias was afraid, and that there was therefore no point in mentioning that she personally was panic-stricken. And that someone had to do something about M. de Fleury.
She stood grasping the rail as the vessel bucked its way into the harbour at Famagusta, seeing nothing but a large crowded port smelling of fish, tar, weed, wood smoke and hot cooking-oil. It did not seem to her odd that the trader, instead of waiting for guidance, dropped its sails and rowed in a busy way past all the other vessels swinging at anchor until it reached a spot immediately under the city’s sea-gate, where it lodged.
On the quay before the sea-gate was a carpet, upon which stood a man in elaborate half-armour, flanked by two files of soldiers. One of them held the Lusignan banner, the crimson lion and the Cross of Jerusalem, which also flowed from the walls of the city and from the building she took to be the Citadel. A skiff put off, to the sound of trumpets. A skiff painted in red and gold.
She saw M. de Fleury look round. The master of their little vessel was suddenly nowhere to be seen. The skiff arrived, and M. de Fleury walked down the steps and crossed to the ladder. Then he came back to Dr Tobias.
‘The Royal Bailie is waiting to welcome us. We are to go to the Archbishop’s Palace. Leave the boxes. Servants will bring them.’
‘We were expected?’ said Dr Tobias.
‘We were brought,’ said M. de Fleury.
Of course, he was right. From the moment they stepped foot on Cyprus, it was obvious that everything had been planned: the day and night in Famagusta, with its luxurious lodging and deferential ceremony. Then the journey of over thirty miles to the King’s capital, performed with every attention to the rigours of the late summer heat, the requirements for rest, shade, delicious refreshments.
Veteran of seven months of travelling, of the angularities of the journey to Rome; of the discords of Alexandria and Cairo; of the miseries of the wilderness, Katelijne blamed her recent weakness for the loathing which Famagusta instilled.
She was used to ceremony. She was not vain: the glorious silks of Damascus, swiftly sewn into robes, veils, chemises, were grand enough for her standing; as they provided suitable coats and doublets for the two men, who were treated like princes.
Her sense of terror came from the two men: from the doctor, who walked through his part stony-faced; talking, bowing; conversing. And from M. de Fleury, who behaved at the beginning like the man in black at Leith strand, amused, urbane, wholly detached from reality. Because, to begin with, he was dealing with strangers.
Then, later, he was not. Entering the Palace, he stopped when a monk, gliding forward, clasped his hands. At the banquet, which their deprived interiors could barely enjoy, a nursing brother of the Order of St John had stepped forward and holding his arms, had embraced him. When he was entertained at the Citadel the following day, a woman had broken from the small crowd at the door and, kneeling, had kissed his feet. She had had a child at her side.
He had knelt and raised her, and spoken to her for a little, before the procession moved on. Beside her, Katelijne could hear Dr Tobias swearing in various languages he thought she didn’t know. When they caught up with M. de Fleury, he smiled at her as he usually did, but only glanced for a moment at Dr Tobias.
Later, setting out for Nicosia, she heard Dr Tobias say, ‘Don’t go, Nicholas. Unless you know it is there.’
And M. de Fleury said, ‘Do you think, by any chance, that I haven’t already refused?’
‘And?’ said Dr Tobias.
‘Look out of the window,’ he had answered. But she knew already what he meant. Since they landed, they had been guarded. And watched. And surrounded.
She had tried to question Dr Tobias. He had been soothing. ‘You know monarchs. They like their own way. And the convent of the Clares is in Nicosia. They were very good – they are very good. Of course, we want to see you settled and happy, and ready for your uncle to come in November.’
Then they entered Nicosia and instead of being taken to the Clares, she found herself in the women’s quarters of a magnificent villa, with maidservants and a page to look after her. Tired from the journey, she had still gazed upon it with some respect as the cavalcade came to a rest at its gates.
Neither of the men looked overwhelmed, or at least, not with gratitude. Dr Tobias indeed had exclaimed something aloud, although not in French. ‘The bastard!’
‘Well, he is,’ had said M. de Fleury. And observing her face, had added, ‘We lived here once before. The King wishes us to stay as his guests. We are to attend him at the Palace tomorrow.’
‘Katelijne as well?’ the doctor had said.
‘Yes,’ said M. de Fleury. And again, had turned aside from any possible questioning.
They were sent robes. This, she discovered, was usual. One had to become accustomed to the mingling of the Byzantine with the French with the Venetian. The one for M. de Fleury fitted exactly. They cut a cubit off hers and had it hemmed before she was up, wakened by an acrimonious exchange in French the import of which she did not then understand. Then the official escort arrived and, embedded in prancing horses and plumes, they went to the Palace.
The building was grander than the royal apartments at Holyrood but not as grand as the Princenhof in Bruges, or what she had heard of the Sultan’s apartments in Cairo. There was a lot of marble, because of the hot weather. Otherwise, its style was vaguely French, with some Milanese painted furniture. The Palace was less gripping than the man who lived in it.
Most of the men about him wore Western court dress: doublets and jackets in light silks because of the heat; small hats; fine jewels. Many were dark-skinned, perhaps Spanish or Sicilian; and a fair number – the marshal, the admiral, the chamberlain, she later learned – made their bows as if they knew M. de Fleury and the doctor very well. The King’s mother, Marietta of Patras, wasn’t present. That is, you would notice someone lacking a nose.
The man on the throne was all Dr Tobias had told her except that he was not young: she guessed him to be near the end of his twenties, like M. de Fleury. He was tall, too; and held himself as freely, beneath the rich clothes. His hair was loose and waving and brown, and his face was lean and amused. He stood as the announcements were made, and she dropped into a well-practised salute, and Dr Tobias and M. de Fleury advanced and bowed. Then M. de Fleury walked forwards and knelt.
That was in order. Now he would have presented his credentials, except that he had none, not having sought this encounter. Nor would an envoy have lifted his chin after kneeling and dared to look the monarch straight in the eyes.
James stood, holding the gaze. Then he laughed and, stepping down, crossed the space between them, touching M. de Fleury lightly on the shoulder as he passed to stand, in a waft of jasmine, before Katelijne herself. She dropped into a still
lower curtsey and he stepped back saying, half smiling, half impatient, ‘No, no. Let me see.’ And studying her, continued over his shoulder, ‘She is very small, mon compère, but very well. Well enough. How old?’
He was addressing her. ‘Nearly seventeen, roi monseigneur,’ she said.
‘Sixteen. The age of young Diniz when he stayed with you. The age of my wife. You know I am married?’
He had turned back to M. de Fleury. M. de Fleury said, ‘I had heard, my lord King.’
‘Something told me,’ said Zacco of Cyprus, ‘that you had heard. Would you not be better standing? Have you nothing to give me?’
M. de Fleury stood. He said, ‘My lord, I had not expected this honour.’
‘But you do not object?” said King James. His face and that of his guest were as bland as the occasion demanded. Physically, it was different. They stood facing one another, Katelijne fancied, like two heraldic animals at once opposed and supporting; violence only an inch away.
M. de Fleury said, ‘There are compensations.’
Beside her, Dr Tobias drew in his breath. James of Cyprus said, ‘I hope so. You knelt. But I would give you the kiss of a friend.’ And laying a long-fingered hand on the other’s shoulder, he leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘There,’ he said, stepping back slowly. ‘You see. You had something to give me, after all.’
Dr Tobias stirred. M. de Fleury said, ‘Monseigneur, I am glad. I only hope that the King thinks it sufficient.’
They were not speaking loudly, but the very silence in the room added to the weight, it seemed, of every breath that they took. For a moment nothing was said. Then the King smiled. ‘I had forgotten your style. Other men, who love you less, might be offended. Today, of course, you are surrounded by lovers. Come. Meet them all. Take wine. Listen to my musicians. Later, refreshed, you and I will open our hearts, and it will seem as if the years between had never existed. Yes, my Nikko?’
She was already tired, and the hours that followed were a labour, although in normal times she would have fallen ravening upon the feast spread before her of opposing personalities, of conflict, of emotion. Some sense of it came to her, and an appreciation, too, of the etiquette, part Byzantine, part Savoyard, which regulated the conduct of both sexes, and ensured that she was placed in the keeping of women of birth who spoke Italianate French and saw to her comfort.