The Unicorn Hunt (95 page)

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.

She had forgotten the reference to music. The strains at first hardly reached her over the chatter; then she realised what she was
hearing and sought Dr Tobias who turned aside, looking distracted, but was unable to help. ‘Ask Nicholas. There were no musicians that I remember in our time. The Cathedral plainsong, of course.’

The chamberlain, a Sicilian, was more forthcoming. ‘The taste for French music? It dates from the days of my lord’s grandsire: much of it was composed here. Lately, my lord has thought to renew it.’

‘He has found good singers,’ said Katelijne. She saw that, at last, Tobie had thought to look for M. de Fleury. She wondered why James of Cyprus, uninterested in music six years ago, had elected to introduce it tonight. But of course, he was in touch with the Venetian court. He was married to Catherine Corner, even though he had never met her. And M. de Fleury, she remembered, knew Fiorenza of Naxos, Catherine’s mother.

The strings wove their pattern; the voices twined; conversation gave way to some attention as courtiers took their ease on stools and cushions to listen, sipping wine, talking in murmurs. Dr Tobias, returning from somewhere, found a cushioned surface beside her and sat down. The ballads were gallant rather than explicit, but they varied little in theme:

Je prens d’Amour noriture

Nete et pure

Et doucement norissant;

Pour quoi doi bien estre amant

Jusqu’a tant

Qu’en mon cors la vie dure
.

I take my nourishment from love

Sublime and pure;

So lover must I stay so long

As life endure.

Katelijne said, ‘Did you find him?’ She concealed the impatience she felt. She could always find M. de Fleury if she tried. Of course, it took time and energy.

‘Nicholas?’ said Dr Tobias. ‘No. I’ll take you home soon.’

‘Why?’ she said. ‘Did he ask you? Where is he?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Dr Tobias. ‘He and the King have both gone.’

Chapter 45

T
HE GRAND VILLA
they took him to was one he knew: it was Venetian. For a moment, arriving there with his heavy escort in the dark, Nicholas imagined he was going to see the husbands of the two princesses of Naxos, and thought it might be quite amusing, with Zacco at his side. Then he realised that another member of the Corner family would be occupying it now.

The King, cloaked beside him, said, ‘You forgive me, Nikko, for stealing you from your little girl and my music?’ His tone was playfully insulting. He had his Sicilian chamberlain and a Florentine agent with him.

‘Not yet, my lord,’ Nicholas said. The heavy wooden gates opened on gardens: it was an ancient palace. A fountain played, giving him a moment’s unease. They were, of course, expected. His visit had been planned from the beginning, like his other arrivals in Cyprus; and by the same people, or some of them.

He had been restrained every step of the way and further hampered by the presence of the girl: on the initiative of Brother Lorenzo, he assumed; that powerful monk of St Catherine’s who would know Ludovico da Bologna so very well. The bones of the scheme had been apparent to anyone of intelligence long before, and Nicholas could have no complaint: for various reasons he had allowed it to happen. So long as it led him where he wanted to go.

A well-dressed man emerged from the light of the villa and bowed, his steward behind him. The King called, ‘Ah, mon père.’ And to Nicholas: ‘You know Andrea Corner, Marco’s brother? To him, more than anyone, I owe my present nuptial bliss. Come.’ And he dismounted by the lanterns in a billow of silk, his smile angelic. Just before leaving, Nicholas guessed, he had started to drink. Perhaps because Nicholas had done the same.

It was unlikely that Andrea Corner would notice. He made the King a full and practised salute and turning to Nicholas, greeted him in the flattering style of an equal. He was, of course, a rich man; or had become so since crossing to the King’s side from that of his sister. He had chosen to speak French, Nicholas observed, although Zacco knew Latin and could make himself understood, if he felt like it, in the argot of the Venetian Arsenal. When he liked, his tongue could rake like his leopards.

Now, of course, he was older. They both were. They were each watching and weighing the other, to see what experience might have added, or dimmed. Zacco took the stairs with the muscular drive of an animal and stood at the top to be admired, his lip curling. Nicholas suddenly smiled in return. So let battle commence.

The great salon on the first floor was not large, but a dozen could sit there in comfort, and seven were already there, standing as the King entered. One of them was the Patriarch of Antioch. Next to him, surely, was the new Venetian Bailie, the brother of Paul Erizzo, the dead hero of Negroponte. And next to him, rising from cushions, was a group of robed men whose leader, stepping forward, Nicholas knew from an encounter in Florence, a decade ago. Hadji Mehmet, senior ambassador of the lord Uzum Hasan, ruler of Persia.

A delegation to the King of Cyprus from the third greatest Muslim prince in the world. No. Correction. A delegation, not yet official, not yet recorded, to assess the consequences of the Turkish conquest of Negroponte, and to discuss an alliance against the Sultan of Turkey between the powers whose interests were represented here. A league of defence. A league of offence was not out of the question.

He wondered, as the introductions were made, who represented the Sultan at Cairo. He wondered who represented the Knights of St John and the other Italian states. He wondered what in detail they wanted of him: his ships, his army, his debtors, his wealth. He understood absolutely what Ludovico da Bologna had done to bring him here and why. And he thought, with a lift of the heart that turned him dizzy, that this time he would get what he wanted. They could not afford to deny him.

He shook hands with the others but embraced Hadji Mehmet, dredging up the kind of Arabic he had forgotten and seeing his pleasure reflected in the other man’s face. Ten years ago, after the fall of Constantinople, Ludovico da Bologna had come to the West trailing a delegation like this, begging for troops and for money.
Since then, Nicholas – and John in his absence – had cultivated the agents of Uzum Hasan, and had exchanged artisans and letters. It was one of the reasons why Venice was lenient with Nicholas. It occurred to Nicholas that he himself might be held to represent the Sultan of Cairo.

Then the King had made his way to the single chair and seated himself, and the business began.

It lasted three hours and packed into that period, allowing for the requirements of diplomacy, as much as a group of able men might manage in the way of presentation of facts, of argument and counter-argument, of ideas, and of conclusions. As issues became revealed, so did personalities.

Zacco, to whom they nominally deferred, declared his position in an odd combination of boredom and vehemence. He reminded them of the danger that Cyprus might be taken, for example, by the duchy of Milan, and planted with Genoese. He reminded them that he, the King, had sent men and ships to the coast of Turkey. If he weakened himself any further, the Turk might conquer his island – a far deadlier master than Cairo. The Sultan would deny Venice trade and ruin him by imposing impossible dues. As it was, unless the Sultan of Cairo reduced his demand – five thousand, eight thousand, at one time sixteen thousand ducats a year – he, the King, could not even afford to repair his forts, never mind pay for troops and cannon.

Having said what he came to say, he seemed in no mind to repeat it; but if the argument ran in another direction, he showed impatience and, towards the end, even some violence. His chamberlain, murmuring, sometimes restrained him. The Florentine agent Squarcialupi reported a rumour from Italy: the Pope planned to summon Italian princes to Rome to pledge money and troops against the Ottoman army. The outcome of such a meeting must, of course, affect all those in the path of these dogs.

The proposed Italian league, Nicholas noticed, was not new to Ludovico da Bologna, or to the envoys of Uzum Hasan. Any non-Christian alliance, naturally, would have to be sanctioned by the Pope. Long practised in foreign petitioning, the Latin Patriarch and the Turcoman lord were the most rewarding, perhaps, to hear and to watch. In many ways, it was the Patriarch, below the impossible barrage of outbursts, rebukes, contradictions and disclaimers, who was leading the meeting. And Andrea Corner was his ally, not only for Venice, but for the Knights of St John, the fighting Order which battled the Turks from their island of Rhodes.

There was a castle of theirs in the south of Cyprus. ‘What does the Grand Commander of Kolossi have to say?’ Nicholas said. He doubted if there was one. They had promoted the last one, John Langstrother, to head the Order in England and Scotland, where the man came into favour every time the Lancastrian King was in power and out of favour every time it was York.

Like Anselm Adorne. And like Adorne, the Order favoured the Genoese. And was disliked by the Sultan of Cairo. And was tolerated, you might say, by Venice … He knew his face was perfectly bland.

Andrea Corner said, ‘What can I say of this great nursing Order, this bulwark against the Ottoman Turk? Except that, being of many nations, its voice is divided. You know, Ser Niccolò, of the prejudices of the man who has served in Kolossi, in Scotland, and in Bruges as John of Kinloch. You know, more seriously, of Anselm Adorne, Baron Cortachy, who has tried to imprint the Genoese point of view upon the Sultan of Cairo; whose itinerary is to embrace, we are told, this island of Cyprus, and that of Rhodes; and who will no doubt pause at Chios and Lesbos before travelling home by who knows what route. He plans to go to Naples.’

‘On pilgrimage?’ Nicholas said.

‘Adherents of the Knights of St John have every right, we suppose, to consider themselves to be pilgrims,’ Corner said. ‘But in this instance, the clarion call for aid may be confused if men hold back, thinking they must be supporting either Venice or Genoa. There is no doubt which can summon most aid against the Turk. The Order has the men and the will to support them most ably. Properly guided, they will fling their might, as King James has already done, to support the emirs of the Anatolian coast against Turkish attack: they will guard the seas against onslaughts on Crete or on Cyprus.’