Race of Scorpions by Dorothy Dunnett
On their flank was the Hospitallers’ war fleet, in the harbour called Mandraki with the chain locking its entrance. South of that was the trading harbour of Rhodes, full of shipping. On a long pier at its end, a new fortification was being built. ‘The bastion of St Nicholas,’ said Primaflora. Excitement or fear had given her skin a glow normally concealed by her art; her eyes were alight. Today, too, she had replaced her sombre clothes with the style of the court. Her sleeves were ribboned under her mantle which itself had a trimming of ermine, and her hair was concealed by a high rounded hat that displayed the pure lines of her face. He had felt the same impulse to make a gesture, and had dressed finely, for once, to escort her. She appreciated it, but it also amused her. She pursued the question of the new bastion. ‘Are you proud of your saint’s work? See how the ship bows as it passes. Built with the Duke of Burgundy’s money. He vowed to launch the world’s greatest crusade, but in the end, it was easier to build a new tower for Rhodes.’ She paused. ‘What is this man Simon like?’
Nicholas, too, had been watching the jetty come nearer, and was scanning the crowds on its length. A band of Knights, naturally, to greet the ship and its officers, and receive the report of its master. The Brethren whose business was imports. The merchants looking out for their cargo. The dock workers, the cranemen, the lighter-men. The customs officers and the searchers and the harbourmaster and his officials. And beyond, by the walls, the stalls of the scribes and the moneychangers. The hawkers of bread and fruit and tavern accommodation. The friends and families of the crew, looking for presents and wages before it all got drunk. An emissary perhaps of Luis, King-Consort of Cyprus, come to inspect the illicit goods which had been spirited off under the noses of Zacco and the Venetians. An emissary of the Queen or the Order, come to see what else of Zacco’s might have arrived.
And presumably, somewhere, Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren, come to greet his wife’s brother and his half-Portuguese nephew Diniz. And, one fervently hoped, nowhere at all, Astorre or Thomas or Tobie, to share in the moment when Simon looked up and saw, grown to hated manhood, the child born to his wife who called himself Nicholas vander Poele.
Meanwhile, he had been asked a question. Nicholas said, ‘What is Simon like? Look for the most beautiful man you have ever seen except maybe for Zacco. He has your own colouring apart from his eyes, which are blue.’
He could feel her surprise. She said, ‘I imagined, from what I heard, that he envied you.’
He laughed. ‘Thank you. No, he doesn’t. He is older, though. About the same age as Tristão.’
‘The boy is dark,’ she said. ‘But yes. Also a pretty face, and a delectable body. It is a pity you kept us apart.’
He didn’t answer. The ship, her sails down, rowed smoothly in. The harbour was crowded with masts and banners. There were other banners as well on the wharf. Then he saw the one that he knew, and felt again the hurt, and the loss. Primaflora said, ‘Is it where you are looking? I see no Apollo.’
‘No,’ he said. Because now he saw that Simon wasn’t there, waiting in front of the liveried servants under the insignia of St Pol. Instead of Simon, there stood a brown-haired young woman of middle height in a cut-velvet cloak over a gown which looked equally sumptuous. Her face, full of character, had the potential of beauty marred, at the moment, by a harshness amounting almost to anger. But her grooming was perfect; her hair skilfully dressed under a two-horned headdress with a slight veil, which under no circumstances could be described as a hennin. Her chin was up, and her unplucked eyebrows were drawn, as she stared intently over the water.
He looked at her for a long time. It was a long time since he had seen her. Who is Katelina? This, my dear, is Katelina. The girl who asked an apprentice called Claes to initiate her into the rites of love – not once, but the length of two nights. The girl who conceived a son as a result and, marrying Simon, allowed Simon to think the coming infant was his. The girl who then discovered (unfortunately) that Nicholas was born to Simon’s first wife. And that, all his life, Nicholas had been reared to believe Simon his father. Simon hated Nicholas, as a symbol of what he thought was his first wife’s betrayal. Katelina van Borselen hated him with far, far more reason.
She stood on the wharf, the girl called Katelina, who had come to Rhodes, it would seem, instead of Simon, and who knew what Simon knew to his detriment, and would use it. Unconscious of anything else, Nicholas stood and gazed without seeing her, and remembered two long, sweet nights, from which had come an abomination. Nor did he see Primaflora, her eyes wide open, watching him.
The ship moved in to its destination. The servants of St Pol fidgeted in their livery. The girl Katelina waited while the ship berthed, disregarding the cold wind that tugged at her cloak. She remained, civilly smiling, while the gangplank was lowered and Tristão Vasquez walked, surprised, towards her, the boy following. She allowed Vasquez to kiss each hand in turn and, smiling again, permitted the boy to plant his lips on her cheek. From the shelter of the deck, it was possible to see her brows rise in animation as questions were asked and answered. In Portugal and Madeira, she and Simon shared a family business with Tristão Vasquez. She must be well acquainted with Simon’s sister and her family. Perhaps, when staying there, they used the same fondaco. It looked as if the acquaintance were cool rather than intimate. The boy burst into speech and her face altered, politely. She was listening, no doubt, to an account of the pirate ship’s interception.
It could only be a moment before she learned of the boy’s hurt, and then of how it had been tended. Too far to lip-read, Nicholas could guess how her questions then sharpened and changed, as her face did. Sooner than he expected, she turned deliberately and looked up to the deck, and along it, and found him. Across all the noisy space that lay between them, he met her eyes.
Primaflora said, ‘Your Simon is not there.’
‘No,’ Nicholas said. ‘That is the lady Katelina his wife. His second wife. Come and let me present you to her.’
Chapter 14
FOR TWO YEARS, since their last meeting in Bruges, Katelina van Borselen had been in no doubt that one day, in a place of her choice, she would confront the cold, whoring servant who had used her to impose an incestuous child on her husband. For part of that time, Nicholas – Claes – had been out of her reach, first in Trebizond, and then wandering no one knew where. Once, in Venice, her husband had caught him, but nothing had come of it, and Simon had been embroiled in his own affairs since, while always expecting and planning to compete with Nicholas, and to outwit him in whatever he did. Believing the child to be his, Simon didn’t know that Nicholas had already overmatched him, now and for all time to come. Simon despised Nicholas, and could be driven by temper to attack him. Simon didn’t have the reason she had to pursue Nicholas, and punish him, and make him forfeit his life.
She had learned in Anjou that Nicholas – Claes – might be fighting in Italy, and hoped that the Angevins, instructed by Jordan, would kill him. They did not. She had been told that Nicholas – Claes – had been invited to join the Queen of Cyprus, and hearing that he had vanished from Italy, concluded that Cyprus was where he had gone. Then she had learned that Carlotta of Cyprus, returned from begging, was to launch her renewed bid for her kingdom from Rhodes.
The company of St Pol & Vasquez had business in the Levant. It also produced wine and sugar, and had reason to interest itself in its competitors. It was easy to suggest to Tristão, who knew nothing of Nicholas, that he should visit Rhodes, making an excuse on the way to see Cyprus. He had required a little persuading, but had agreed. When he left, taking his son, he had expected to meet Simon on Rhodes.
Once, Katelina would have let Simon go, to finish the business between himself and Nicholas, Now, she was determined to do so herself. Simon didn’t know, she discovered, that Nicholas had been invited to fight for Carlotta, and she saw no reason to tell him. After Tristão had gone and Simon, without his wise guidance, had begun as usual to see more of his mistresses than his desk
For all the times she had travelled by sea, the voyage always upset her, and the journey to Rhodes had been terrible. Then, arrived there, she had found Nicholas vanished again. He was not on Rhodes, and not spoken of anywhere. Only, asking at court, she found her hopes rise again. His army was here. It had arrived, expecting to meet him, and expecting to serve Queen Carlotta. So report said but, of course, report was quite wrong. Katelina had presented herself before the Knights of the Order and Queen Carlotta, and told them what Nicholas was, and why they should suspect him.
She was listened to. She was a van Borselen, of a family connected with royalty and with the counsellors of Duke Philip of Burgundy. Her husband had business in Genoa, in Scotland, in Portugal. He was also the son of Jordan de Ribérac, France’s foremost financial adviser. So the Queen and the Grand Master heard her, and asked questions, and appeared much disappointed. The army of Nicholas, under its captain Astorre, was put into custody until its future should be decided. Katelina found a place for herself among the merchants of Rhodes and had no trouble in pursuing, in the interval, her legitimate business. And in the wind and the rain of a clammy Rhodes winter the court, and the Order, settled to await the arrival – for surely he must arrive – of this subtle apprentice, who had made himself a rich and dangerous trader called Nicholas.
Despite that, the manner of his coming caught Katelina unprepared. Expecting a ship from Kolossi, she joined the other merchants who walked down to the jetty to meet it. It held, as she had hoped, Tristão Vasquez and his young son. She saw the surprise on their faces: they had expected Simon. Waiting for them, she was aware of some excitement; an eddy of movement that spread from ship to shore and rebounded. Tristão, with Portuguese courtliness, would not be hurried through the niceties of his greetings and enquiries. The boy, bursting with news, interrupted. They had been boarded; there had been fighting; he had been wounded. She let him describe it until, as she listened, a dazzling suspicion was born. She spoke as soon as the boy’s chatter slowed. ‘So, Diniz, you had a Hospitaller on board? With a lady?’
Tristão said, ‘We misled you. Our Samaritan was a lay guest, a young merchant from Flanders. Niccolò vander Poele is his name. He had heard of Simon; it may be you know of him? He is there, still on board.’
He had walked into the trap. Out of arrogance, he had walked into the trap, even believing that Simon was here, waiting for him. And Tristão Vasquez, clearly, hadn’t been told who he was. She said, ‘Diniz. The seigneur in the long robes over there is the Grand Commander of Cyprus. Will you make him my compliments and ask him to join us?’
The boy hesitated, exchanging a glance with his father. ‘Now, if you please,’ said Katelina van Borselen.
The boy left. Tristão Vasquez said, ‘Forgive me. You do know the young man, Senhor Niccolò?’
‘Yes,’ said Katelina. ‘He knew who you were, but it didn’t suit him to say so. You have both been deceived.’ Her gaze on the ship, she spoke with a fierceness she kept out of her manner. Nicholas thought Simon was here. Openly or not, he would be sure to be looking for him. And openly, there he was: Nicholas, Claes, immediately marked by his height and a tilt of the head that she remembered. Oh, she remembered it.
Of course, he had been studying her. As she watched, he began to walk forward and, reaching the gangplank, stepped surefooted down it. His face, foolishly agreeable, remained turned towards her, half obscured by a large furry hat with its brim tilted up at the back. There was a woman, a beautiful woman, walking behind him. Louis de Magnac, led by the boy, approached Katelina looking puzzled. ‘Madame?’
Katelina said, ‘The young man disembarking. That is Niccolò vander Poele. He has come on a ship of the Order, I cannot understand how.’
The Grand Commander of Cyprus turned, surveying the subject. ‘Nor can I. I know nothing of this. I shall warn the Palace. Can you delay him?’
‘Probably not. You will need some excuse. And some men-at-arms. Is the Treasurer free?’
The Commander was already speaking to his secretary. He turned. ‘Not at the moment. I shall stay with you.’
Tristão Vasquez said, ‘I don’t understand. Here Messer Niccolò comes. What am I to say to him, and to the lady?’ The boy was silent.
Katelina said, ‘I don’t think they will stop. He wouldn’t dare.’
She was wrong. Instead of attempting to pass, her betrayer walked directly towards the waiting group, his hand in the arm of the woman. He was chatting to her. Telling her what? And who was she? No one had mentioned a woman. As he came close, Katelina tried to read his expression. The round face of Claes the apprentice had gone, although it had left behind its distinguishing features: the thick lips, the arched nostrils, the eyes large and shining as lily-pads. She could just see the white seam on one cheek, the legacy he owed to Jordan de Ribérac. At close hand, his expression was still agreeable, but no longer foolish. He stopped and looked at her. Then he smiled at Tristão and said, ‘I know the lady’s husband. I should have told you. Demoiselle Katelina, I wish you to meet the lady Primaflora, come to rejoin the suite of the serene Queen of Cyprus. And am I right in addressing the Grand Commander?’
The Grand Commander of Cyprus considered the other man; an experienced soldier judging another. At his back, their swords sheathed, were the men-at-arms of his escort. He said, ‘Louis de Magnac. We have not met?’
Nicholas said, ‘I have not had the honour. I recognised your coat of arms from Kolossi. But I expect the lady Primaflora is known to you.’
‘Yes,’ said Louis de Magnac. ‘Yes. In the suite of Queen Carlotta. I recall her clearly, of course.’
He had hesitated at the reminder, as well he might. How had Nicholas got hold of this woman? Katelina said quickly, ‘The Grand Commander is arranging for the lady to be taken to the Palace immediately. Then these tiresome formalities needn’t disturb her.’
The woman spoke. The timbre of her voice matched her carriage and the excellent taste of her clothes. Katelina suddenly understood. In Rome, the conduct of the ladies of Queen Carlotta’s suite had been the subject of comment. The woman said, ‘I have nothing against formalities. I prefer to linger, I think, with Messer Niccolò.’
Tristão Vasquez said, ‘What formalities?’
Katelina displayed surprise. ‘The Treasurer and the Grand Commander will know better than I. But after a ship is attacked, do the passengers not require to give evidence of what has been stolen, or what they saw, that might lead to the arrest of the pirates?’
‘We have done that,’ said Nicholas. ‘And we are tired after our voyage and would prefer to make for an inn. Senhor Tristão has made some recommendations.’
‘There is no need,’ said the Grand Commander. ‘Here is a footservant who will carry your luggage, and my men to escort you. I shall merely ask you to wait while I confirm that the ship’s master has no more need of your testimony.’
He gave a small bow and walked off, his secretary following. The group of men-at-arms, left behind, formed a small and far from casual circle. Katelina turned to Tristão Vasquez. ‘There is no need for us to wait. Here are porters. The house I have taken is near, in the Chora.’
The Portuguese said, ‘I wish to know what is happening. Why is this gentleman being detained? He has brought an army to serve Queen Carlotta. His wishes should be consulted.’
How had Nicholas won over Vasquez? But of course. By paying the boy some attention. Shrewd, percipient Nicholas. But at least the Grand Commander had gone. Katelina spoke just loudly enough to convey the quality of her scorn. ‘I
Nicholas preserved his appearance of patience. ‘How unwise,’ he said, ‘if you expect them to fight for Carlotta.’ It was all he said. He didn’t ask where they were. Tristão was still looking at her. The Grand Commander was coming back, without haste. With equal repose, Nicholas stood and watched his allotted servant load chests on a barrow. Brutally large and black as lamp oil, the man swung them up as if they were empty. The boy Diniz spoke to Nicholas. ‘You didn’t tell us.’
Nicholas removed his gaze. ‘No. It was awkward. Your uncle Simon and I crossed swords a few times, in trade and for personal reasons. I thought the quarrel was over. Otherwise I should hardly be here.’
‘And my wife?’ said Tristão Vasquez. ‘Does this feud extend to her?’
‘Of course not,’ said Nicholas. ‘She has probably never heard of me. I don’t intend any harm to you or your son, as perhaps I have proved. Or even, believe it or not, to my lord Simon. I should simply like to collect my men and get out.’