She could have wished that the two Portuguese spent less time in the vineyards and cane fields from which they returned, on occasion, with their servants behind them bearing sacks leaking with earth. When that happened, they were not anxious to stop and converse, but excused themselves until they were presentable. And presentable was an understatement for the way they were dressed when at last they came to table, the boy making at once for her side, and the father seated beyond, between the Lieutenant and the priest called Father John, who knew relatives of Senhor Tristão and conversed with him (knowing no Portuguese) in a species of terrible English.
Meanwhile, no message was delivered from Niccolò, secretly or otherwise. At first, she had set the monastery by the ears, inveighing against the Venetians for allowing Niccolò to be taken to Nicosia in such company. Indeed, she had refused to leave the monastery until word came, early one morning, that Niccolò was quite safe, and with King James. King Zacco, everyone called him. Before leaving, the Venetians told her that Niccolò would send for her, and she was to wait for him. Since the monks could no longer keep her in their wrecked cloisters, she was to be placed in Kolossi, with some tale that she was awaiting a message to help her rejoin Queen Carlotta. The Order had seen no Venetians. There was nothing to connect her or Niccolò with them. To the Knights of St John, she was still Queen Carlotta’s attendant, of whom they had heard before. And Niccolò, she was to tell them, had come to Carlotta.
The monks, in their misery, took no part in the plotting. The repairs to the monstery of Ayios Nikolaos had begun before she left, after the wounded animals had been cared for, or buried. She had watched, that first dusk, when the monks lit the lamps and then, as was their custom, gently struck the bronze bell. She did not wait to see how few were the shadows that came from the beach, or between the herbs and the citrus trees, or what scars they bore from their fighting. If there were vipers, now they would multiply.
Some time went by and, instead of sending for her, Niccolò appeared at the gates with three muleloads, two servants and a limp. From the guesthouse window, she saw him escorted over the south yard, and climb the steps to where Brother William, already summoned, stood to greet him. He was tidily dressed and climbed steadily, but not as a fit man would do. Her woman said, ‘They have beaten him. Look at his face.’
Even from such a distance she could see the unfamiliar patches where the broken skin had healed over. His eyes seemed very large, as they had during the fever. Primaflora said, ‘Why is he here? Unless … unless he has crossed to the Queen’s side? Go and find out. Go to the castle and listen.’
Her woman came back quite soon, a coin in her fist. She was grinning. ‘Did I need to listen? He saw me and called me over to ask if my mistress was well. He is with King Zacco, truly, but claims to have sailed here with you in order to join Queen Carlotta.’
Primaflora said, ‘And his appearance? How does he account for that?’
‘Captured by Mamelukes. The truth, near enough, except that he hasn’t said they took him to Zacco. The Venetians have never been mentioned. He claims he escaped on the way.’ The woman grinned again. ‘He has his wits, that one. He asks if you will go to Rhodes with him, or if you have found other patrons.’
Primaflora laughed. She took out her purse and took from it a coin, which she placed with its fellow in the woman’s lined palm. She said, ‘Why Rhodes? Never mind. Tell him I shall go where he goes, provided I can think of a reason. Whom has he met? I take it Father John wasn’t there?’
‘You’ve forgotten,’ said the woman. ‘He’s gone. They sent him to Kouklia, with a message for the Martini. He’ll be back in four days. I don’t know whom Messer Niccolò’s met. He’ll see them at dinner in any case. Remember you are the one who persuaded him, they think, to serve Queen Carlotta. The Queen is going to Rhodes. That, he will say, is why he must go there.’
‘And the real reason?’ said Primaflora.
‘One you would never guess. His army is there. He is going to join them.’
‘His army!’ She stared at the woman. ‘The men he left at Troia? He will join them? And then what? Will he bring them back to King Zacco?’
‘Of course. King Zacco has let him out on a very long chain, but it is a chain. It would take a better man than this Niccolò to escape it.’
‘Then I wonder,’ Primaflora said, ‘why they beat him?’
Chapter 12
WHATEVER FATE watched over Nicholas it was not a benign one, or it would have warned him not to go to Kolossi. He had no premonitions. He arrived on the heels of a mild success, firstly with Vanni Loredano and then in a much more extended and vigorous interview with the King himself. He had come from that with the promise of all the concessions he wanted, provided that he returned with his army to Zacco. The intensity with which Zacco had delivered that promise still quickened his blood when he thought of it.
Nicholas entered Kolossi with that on his mind; and besides that, two matters of pressing concern. One was the wellbeing of Primaflora, about which he was reassured at the outset by her woman. The other was a probable encounter with Luigi Martini, the taciturn Venetian of the Doria. Martini managed the sugar crop for the Knights and, because of Nicholas, was about to cease managing the sugar crop for King Zacco. Expecting open resentment, Nicholas was not sorry to find that Martini was not at the Castle, and that nothing awaited him but a harmonious welcome from the Lieutenant and his brother Knights.
He had no trouble in playing his role, which was that of a leader of mercenaries on his way to serve Queen Carlotta. He was made to tell the tale of his capture by Mamelukes, and his injuries were both inspected and tended. He enquired politely after the lady Primaflora who had shared his journey to Cyprus. She had shown a most sweet relief, it seemed, when told that he was at liberty, and to leave for Rhodes soon – for she, too, was on her way to her mistress the Queen. They thought the lady Primaflora one of the most modest and devout of young women. Nicholas agreed. They promised he should meet her at dinner. Nicholas declared himself gratified.
That, at least was genuine. As the worst of his ordeal receded, so he had recovered the dismantled memories of what they had shared, in which coercion had played no part. He was conscious now that his anticipation ran beyond merely a willingness to think of her. He fished out, for her entertainment, his fur-edged Venetian doublet to wear at the dinner he had been promised, and presented himself in due course in the big chamber, below the vast painted Crucifixion with the coat of arms of the absent Louis de Magnac in its corner.
She was there already. Another time he would have laughed aloud, because her robe was simple and dull and without ornamentation, and her hair, drawn into its severe inflated caul, showed none of the artifice which made men long to unplait it. A demure Primaflora had been created for the Hospitallers, as a timorous Primaflora had been fashioned for Thomas, and – he supposed – a seductive Primaflora for himself. His heartbeat changed now at the sight of her and he saw her face, turned towards him, become vivid. But she said, as any well-trained maiden might, ‘How pleased I am to see you, my lord! I was afraid for you.’
He said, ‘There was no need, demoiselle. A little rough usage, but I won free before worse could happen. And you?’
‘I am well,’ she said. ‘No princess of the blood could be better treated than I, and my Queen will hear of it. And you? You travel to Rhodes?’
‘To join my army. We may travel together. Brother, we are guests at your board. Place us where you wish.’
He was seated beside her. She talked to her partner, and so did he. Beneath the board, her hand found his, and her foot. He smiled, all the time he was talking. Then, at last, she turned to him. She said, ‘What did he do?’
‘Tzani-bey? Enough to deserve a little reciprocal attention, which he will receive, one of these days. As you see, I have my life and my limbs, and freedom to rejoin my army.’
‘In order to do what?’ Primaflora said.
‘To reach a decision,’ Nicholas sai
d. ‘But perhaps we need privacy to discuss it. Why are there so few at the table?’
‘Half of them are at work. The sugar ship is due soon. And a few have gone off to Kouklia, including someone you know. Do you remember a priest called John de Kinloch at Bruges? I met him there with the Hospitallers. Of course, he has no idea you are in Cyprus, and I somehow failed to tell him. He will be the most surprised of men on his return. Is that awkward?’
She knew so little about him. There was no need to tell her all he recalled about the middle-aged, narrow-faced Scotsman who had served the St Ninian’s altar in Bruges. John of Kinloch knew all about the boyhood of Claes the apprentice in Bruges: how often he had been flogged for his escapades; how many girls he had tumbled; whom he had enraged to the point of unreason. It didn’t matter what he knew. All that was behind him. Nicholas said, ‘Not at all. I’m delighted. I might be more delighted if Master John wasn’t an idiot. But as it is, all Bruges knew we were joining Carlotta, and what he has to tell will confirm our credentials. When is he due to come back?’
‘In four days, he told me. You have time to improve on your story. Is your army really at Rhodes?’
‘So they say. I’ll know when I get there. Are we the only guests?’
‘All but two Portuguese. They are eating outside, I suppose.’
He would have to check who they were. He did not, even then, experience a real sense of danger. ‘I must meet them. From Bruges, or the Duchess of Burgundy’s suite? Does John of Kinloch know them?’
She smiled. ‘No. They are Portuguese from Portugal, going to Rhodes: nothing sinister, that I can see, about them. The son would like to take me to bed.’
‘So should I,’ Nicholas said. ‘We must arrange it.’ Her eyes responded; he smiled and turned his attention elsewhere. His mind dwelled, as it should not, on Primaflora. It was an effort, when dinner ended, to think of anything else. He took her with him, cloaked against the bleak afternoon, when he left the castle to stroll round the sugar mill and the factory. They had hardly walked to the mill race before she pointed out the two Portuguese, standing conferring by the cold, rushing water. The younger, seeing the girl, walked forward eagerly. His face, changed by adolescence, was mildly familiar. The face of the elder was one Nicholas recognised instantly. It belonged to Bruges as well as to Portugal. It belonged to the family that, of all others, abominated Nicholas vander Poele. Nicholas spoke to Primaflora. ‘You didn’t say the son was a child.’
He felt, without interpreting it, a fleeting surprise, followed by pleasure. Then she said, ‘Sixteen, and a virgin. Shall I take him? It would be exhausting, but one must do something. You really don’t look very well.’
‘What is he called?’ Nicholas said. He was sure. It was as well to make perfectly sure.
‘Diniz. A pretty name. Senhor Tristão, Senhor Diniz, let me present a Flemish gentleman, Messer Niccolò vander Poele.’
It was too late to stop her from mentioning his name. There was little point anyway. There was a chance, a slight chance, they had never heard his full name, had never noticed a dyeworks apprentice. Nicholas waited, keeping still. The older man gave a slight bow and a smile. The younger lost his smile and held out his hand, which was dirty. Nicholas shook it while his eyes, despite himself, searched the boy’s face. The father said, ‘Forgive us: we Portuguese are farmers at heart, and spend all our time in the open. Niccolò is not a Flemish name?’
They didn’t know who he was. The man spoke in French, the language Primaflora had used, and with no more than a native reserve. He was dark-skinned and dark-eyed, and the boy took after him. ‘I am a merchant,’ Nicholas said, ‘and spend a great deal of time in Italian cities. You are going to Rhodes?’
‘If a ship will come to take me,’ said the other man.
‘You would look far for a better island to live in. I hope to go there myself, for a visit.’
‘Oh, mine is purely a visit,’ the man Tristão said. ‘I have some small company business to execute. A business colleague is waiting on Rhodes to assist me. By the spring we all expect to go home.’
‘But with some connection to bring you back, or your son, or your partner? All men of spirit should have some reason for sailing east. Or will you join the family business in Portugal?’ He turned to the boy, who reddened and looked at his father.
The father said, ‘Diniz would prefer not to go home. What young man would not? But we shall see. And now, what can we show you? If I may usurp the privilege of the brethren, perhaps I may take you to see something of their estates?’
‘I should like that,’ said Nicholas. ‘If the lady will excuse me. She must have seen it a thousand times. Or perhaps Diniz would keep her company?’
He caught, before he turned away, the flash of delight on the boy’s face, and smiled at him. After a moment, the young man smiled back. Walking beside him, the father said, ‘He is young.’
Nicholas said, ‘I can vouch for the lady’s good manners. He need not think of me as a rival. You have never been to Flanders, then?’
‘I lived there once,’ the Portuguese said. ‘With the Duchess of Burgundy’s household. It was where I met the lady my wife. But that was a long time ago, as you may tell from the age of my son, and I have seldom returned. And you? You have been long away?’
‘Long enough,’ Nicholas said. ‘If there is time, why don’t we walk towards Limassol?’ He kept his voice free of anxiety, wishing, for several reasons, to hear if Vasquez would excuse himself. Instead the other man agreed, and made no counter-suggestions. The walk they took was not long, considering its repercussions. Nicholas was able, for example, to see what he had been curious to see. And as they went, he and the Portuguese chatted. The name of Senhor Tristão’s company, he learned, was St Pol & Vasquez. It had formed an interest in Madeira, developing vineyards and sugar fields there. It was a supplier to the Duchess Isabelle of Burgundy, whose brother Dom Henry had begun the Madeira plantations. And the Scottish lord Simon, brother of Senhor Tristão’s wife, was working personally with the company. ‘In Portugal?’ Nicholas asked. ‘Or do you both stay in Madeira?’
‘We have homes in both places,’ said Tristão Vasquez. ‘My wife prefers Portugal, as I think does the lady Katelina, the wife of her brother. It is more congenial, when we are both away, as at present.’
‘You sail with your own goods?’ Nicholas said. He wore his clown’s face, feeling it stiffening.
‘Sometimes,’ the Portuguese answered. ‘Sometimes, as now, we travel to test out a market for something new we plan to export. That is our purpose on this journey, although Simon has travelled ahead of me. If you are coming to Rhodes, you will meet him. You may even have heard of him. He is a famous jouster, in his own country of Scotland. Simon de St Pol, of a family estate called Kilmirren.’
‘I think I have heard of him,’ Nicholas said.
Re-entering the castle, he ached as if he had been abused again. He found his room, and lying down, attempted to think. Unless he did something quickly, disaster faced him both here and on Rhodes. Here, because John of Kinloch would warn the Vasquez of the vendetta between Simon and Nicholas, and advise the Knights that, pursuing it, Nicholas was unlikely to side with Carlotta. And on Rhodes, because Simon was waiting there. If Nicholas went to collect his army, he couldn’t avoid him. And Simon, too, would be sure that Nicholas had arrived for no other reason than to bring down both the Queen and St Pol & Vasquez.
He must go to Rhodes. Without clear direction, Astorre could fall prey to either party without him. It seemed to Nicholas that he could deal with Simon – perhaps – when he landed on Rhodes, for he had Primaflora, whose goodwill was becoming his greatest asset. On the other hand, he must silence the chaplain. He wondered with uncharacteristic bitterness why his game should be spoiled at the outset by the hand which, always, came over his shoulder and changed the pieces. Taking up the thread of his life, he had stumbled upon an amusement, an interest, even an absorption. He had abandoned Bruges, and Geneva, and V
enice. But the past had risen up once more to frighten and plague him.
That night, rival of Diniz as he was not, he spent with Primaflora; and by morning, his stiffness had gone. By then, she knew all that he needed to tell her, except for one thing. He kept that till morning. Then he said, ‘The Portuguese.’
She was smoothing her own breast with his hand. ‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Their name is Vasquez.’
‘That is so. Tristão and Diniz. You know them?’
‘I know who they are. They don’t know me or my name, and it’s important they don’t find out any more about me. Unfortunately, John of Kinloch is in a position to tell them. If he does, it could spoil all our plans.’
‘How?’ She closed his fingers over the tip of her breast and watched the tip rise to fill them.
‘It relates to an old feud. It doesn’t matter. But it could lead both Master John and the Portuguese to deduce that I wasn’t interested in Carlotta or Madeira or Genoa. They might advise the Knights that I am probably working for Zacco. And the Knights might keep me from leaving.’
She said, ‘I thought you hadn’t decided yet who you were working for.’ This time, she had arranged his hand somewhere else, making him jerk. His concentration broke, for a moment.
‘After last night?’ Nicholas said. ‘I thought it was all too clear who I was working for. To the bone. This morning also, I notice. Christ Jesus. Unless you stop, Mass will take place without us.’