Race of Scorpions (31 page)

The Portuguese hesitated. Then he said, ‘It would not be fitting to tell me in what way this man has offended?’

‘You found him agreeable company?’ said Katelina. ‘Most people do. He finds it easy to make himself liked. He is devious. Those who cross him are ruined, or killed. If he can, he will harm you and Diniz. I can say no more than that.’

The other had sobered. He said, ‘I can hardly believe it, but of course, I must. I shall warn Diniz. He is already much attached to the lady. It is a trouble to me. Ah, here he is.’

He sounded surprised. His son, though unruly, at least observed the rules of good conduct in company. But now he burst into the room as if it were a stadium. He said, ‘Father!’ and stopped.

‘Come in, Diniz,’ said Katelina politely.

The boy flushed and gripped the door. Then he said, ‘I saw your messenger. The one who went to the Palace, senhora.’

‘Yes?’ said Katelina.

The boy looked at his father. ‘He was telling his friends about how the Queen had made a great lord of this nobody Niccolò. And how a lady of the Queen’s suite had been told to take him in marriage.’ He turned. ‘Father! The man Niccolò is a scoundrel! My aunt here says he is a scoundrel; and he is to marry her!’

‘He is to marry the lady Primaflora?’ said Tristão gently.

The boy nodded. The father turned to Katelina. She said quickly, ‘It should be prevented. She is a – a –’

‘I know what she is,’ said Tristão. He didn’t look at his son.

Katelina flushed. She said, ‘Vander Poele would be lucky to win her. I was thinking of the lady’s welfare. Whatever she wants, or deserves, it couldn’t be this. This man marries only from expediency. His last wife made him a rich man, and died a year later.’ She had run out of breath. She drew another and added, ‘She should be told.’

‘Would you tell her? Would you? And warn her?’ said the boy. But the father shook his head at her, frowning.

She ignored him. Her mind was on Primaflora, who had spent days, perhaps weeks, perhaps months in the company – in the bed, she knew it – of Nicholas. From that, a woman would emerge believing anything that he told her. Nicholas, she was sure, had been convincing, in bed and in throne room. But it would be Primaflora, her own trusted attendant, who persuaded the Queen that Nicholas was truly the loyal knight that he seemed. Katelina looked at Diniz. She said, ‘We are traders. We cannot interfere with the affairs of a royal household. A lady-in-waiting must obey her Queen. But perhaps, away from the Palace, one might do something. I shall send the lady a message. This is an evil man, and no woman deserves to be tied to him.’

When the message arrived from Katelina, Primaflora took it at once, smiling, to Carlotta her mistress.

Since she returned to Rhodes, Primaflora had taken care to prove herself once again the most elegant, the most amenable, the most useful of all the Queen’s servants, and never again had she given the Queen reason to doubt that her mistress was the object of all her solicitude. She had betrayed her private feelings once, with Ansaldo, and knew now what a mistake it had been. She had also absented herself for an extremely long time, although she had taken care, while in Italy, to send reassuring messages to keep Carlotta from interfering.

The result, naturally, had been a loss of trust between herself and the Queen, and she couldn’t guess how long it might take to restore it; or to restore it to the same degree as before. Carlotta never truly placed her trust in anyone. Since their reunion, the Queen had seldom let her former attendant, graceful, complaisant Primaflora, out of her sight.

With Luis there, on the other hand, the task of making herself indispensable was made easier for the same attendant. The Consort and his courtiers crowded the Palace, filling it with witless clamour. To his royal wife, the understanding presence of Primaflora was both soothing and a source of mild stimulation. The Queen enjoyed testing the girl, and Primaflora tolerated the malicious fencing. Of the two, she thought she was the better swordsman.

So, presenting herself in the Queen’s chamber, she disregarded its disorder, and the high colour in the Queen’s sharp young face. The kingdom needed an heir, and after courting the princes of Europe, Carlotta’s severest trial, her servants thought, must be the duty of courting her own cousin and husband. So Primaflora entered, curtseyed, and standing before the royal chair said, ‘You foresaw correctly, Serenissima. The Flemish lady is disturbed by the favour shown to Messer Niccolò. She wishes a meeting with me. After the marriage contract is signed, the serene Queen might permit me to agree to this?’

The Queen stretched out her little ringed claw. ‘Show me. No, translate it into Greek.’ Primaflora drew up a stool and sitting, read smoothly aloud, while the Queen’s nails dug into her shoulder. Then, finishing, she was silent as the Queen considered.

The room was crowded with ikons. By the shrine in the corner, a relic encased in silver stood below the jewelled cross. Everyone fleeing from infidels bought their way into a pension and grace by purveying holy bones of some sort. Cathedrals all over the west were filling up with apostolic skulls, and Carlotta was never one to bypass a marketable commodity. She was also devout. But she was less devout than she was shrewd.

Waiting, Primaflora thought of her last audience, when the knighthood for Niccolò had first been mentioned, followed immediately by the news that the Queen intended to marry her to the young man.

The proposal had disturbed Primaflora. It was true that Niccolò was a lover she liked. She was, of course, accustomed to making the best of things. But, occasionally, in her profession, one found a partner equal in imagination and finesse, if not in experience. Such a discovery was a matter for delight, and one to be explored and savoured over the years. But marriage had no place in a courtesan’s life, and no man of standing would dream of accepting her. Only because he was young, and base-born and presumably ignorant did the Queen feel able to impose such a marriage as a condition of Niccolò’s service, or even as a reward which would keep him loyal. The Queen never underrated Primaflora’s powers to enchant.

The scheme had, of course, other benefits. As his wife, Primaflora could spy for Carlotta. And as his wife Primaflora, too, was deprived of an independent career and would be well advised to see that her husband chose the right path, and flourished. It was perfectly obvious to Primaflora that the Queen would judge her by her willingness to go through with the marriage, and that she might have to comply. And if that were so, she might as well make the most of it. For example, a loving couple should not be forbidden to meet.

So, offered marriage with Niccolò, Primaflora had hesitated only a moment. ‘As the Serenissima wishes.’

‘As the Serenissima wishes?’ the Queen had said. ‘Do you not wish it? He has, I take it, proved himself vigorous?’

‘There is no difficulty,’ Primaflora had said. ‘But he may try to talk his way out of marriage. On the other hand, he is young and vain: he would respond to fatherhood. That is why I do not think he and I should be separated.’

The Queen lifted her fingers and, caressing a wisp of the other’s blond hair, tugged it briefly. ‘I know you,’ she said. ‘Really, we must observe the proprieties until the contract is signed. On the other hand … He has not heard you are barren?’

She shook her head. That she had no children and could have none was, in many ways, her greatest asset.

‘Then you had better contrive to see him,’ said the Queen. ‘But discreetly. It is most important. I command you.’ As she had always believed, Primaflora found herself proved the better swordsman.

Now, she waited for the Queen’s decision on the Flemish woman’s communication. At length, it came. ‘You will meet her. This cannot wait for the contract. See the woman van Borselen. She has friends in authority, and we must not offend her. Tell her the truth: that we are fully aware of the risks we are running with this mercenary troop, and that we shall take steps to see that the man does not cheat us. Satisfy her.’

‘I suspect,’ said Primaflora, ‘that she will not be satisfied.’

‘No,’ said the Queen thoughtfully. ‘Then let us find out what she wants and harness it.’

‘It may be his death,’ said Primaflora.

‘Or yours. Be careful,’ said the Queen. ‘She must understand that your marriage with the man Niccolò is an arranged one. She must not conceive that you want him. My advisers say no, but I think this is a spurned woman. She could be useful. If this young scoundrel does cheat us, we can help her to punish him. Unless you object?’

Primaflora showed amusement. ‘The world is full of young men.’

The Queen’s expression remained thoughtful. ‘Yes. I know your weakness, Primaflora. But, remember. At this moment, you are my protégée, and your conduct must be impeccable.’

Leaving the room, Primaflora forced herself to walk slowly. She had won a meeting with Niccolò – perhaps several. The Queen knew her, that was true. Envied her, even; for the Queen’s own conduct, however impeccable, was wringing no heir from the limp flesh of her poor cousin Luis. Even so, she was unlikely to imagine quite how much Niccolò differed from other men. In a way, Primaflora was sorry.

And Katelina, the lady she was going to meet? The Queen was wrong. The young apprentice of Bruges would hardly have spurned the kind of girl Katelina must have been several years ago. Or if he had, his singular abstinence could scarcely have caused the notorious rift between himself and Simon, the lady’s good-looking husband. So had Niccolò made Simon a cuckold? It seemed unlikely. The feud predated the lady’s marriage, and since the marriage, according to Niccolò, he had met her once only in public. Of course, this might not be true. To discover the truth was one reason why Primaflora was calling on this high-born demoiselle from the Low Countries. For in one thing the Queen was quite right. Where Niccolò was concerned, Primaflora was not objective.

The Basilica Mercatorum was the trading hub of the City, where merchants met to do business, and the Bailie settled disputes. Built inside the harbour wall, it was not far – not at all far – from the Square of St Sebastian, and the house of Louis de Magnac. Naturally, Primaflora was escorted to the Basilica; but was permitted to leave her protectors ouside the galleried entrance, taking only her woman as chaperone. The men, she knew, were paid by the royal household. As Zacco was doing with Niccolò, the Queen had let her out on a chain. Having lost sight of her once, Carlotta was taking no chances.

Inside, the rooms were busy, for ships came and went all through winter, exchanging the products of Greece and Italy, Asia and Africa. There was always money to change, and bills of payment to sign. The brokers, the notaries, the moneychangers all had their tables, and the merchants congregated, as the Knights did, according to tongue. Except, that is, for the Jews, who were familiar with every language. Modestly dressed, Primaflora passed among the dealers from Venice and Genoa, Marseilles and Ancona, Damascus and Chios, Crete and Sicily, overturning the tilth of their attention like the lightest of harrows. There were one or two Portuguese, but none from the family Vasquez, who had presumably completed their business. Nor did she see merchants from Florence. The ship from Constantinople had sailed, and their transactions were over. Eventually, a boy in the livery of St Pol appeared and led her upstairs to a gallery. In one of its many small rooms, she was again introduced to Katelina van Borselen.

The Flemish woman had been dictating, and a clerk was just leaving with papers. He stood aside for Primaflora, his eyes flickering. Primaflora smiled, and smiled again at the page, who closed the door on himself and her attendant. The room held a side table, a desk, a book box and two chairs, and no one else but herself and the woman called Katelina. Katelina van Borselen said, ‘It was kind of you to come. Please sit. I have some Candian wine. You see in me an envoy of my young Portuguese nephew. You have a disciple in Diniz for life.’

Primaflora sat, and pushed back her cloak. She had expected passion, but instead the young lady seemed remarkably calm. Then she saw the wine spurt from the flask, and realised that, like herself, the girl had been much about courts and was used to dissembling. And that in fact, she was angered, and even somehow afraid.

Primaflora said, ‘I thought your nephew had changed his mind. My young friend Niccolò said that he would. The child fancied himself in love with me, and no doubt thinks I have given my heart to someone else.’ She shrugged and smiled. ‘How difficult if marriages were truly thus! Or – Of course, demoiselle, your own is
certainly of that order. I was thinking of my young fiancé, whose second matrimonial venture this is. And perhaps of my friends, who like myself, cannot afford the luxury of marriage except for reasons of policy.’

The wine flask clattered as Katelina put it back. She raised her cup, and they each drank. Katelina said, ‘We know Nicholas well in Flanders. I wondered if you had heard of his first marriage. It was successful, until his wife died.’

Primaflora, though polite, was less than serious. ‘There was nothing ominous, surely, about that? He was absent, I supposed, at the time.’

The younger woman reddened, but persisted in a level voice. ‘He was absent, with his step-daughter. He owes all his fortune to the help of his wife although, by merest accident, he failed to gain control of her original company. The step-daughters now have it, or one of them, and are determined to have nothing to do with him. He did well in Italy, after his uncle’s business was ruined. He succeeded in Trebizond, after his Genoese rival had died.’ She paused. She said, ‘He has nothing to gain from your death, that I know of. But of course, he will secure the goodwill of your Queen through your marriage. I have only to say to you that, in view of what I have told her, the Queen’s goodwill may not last. And neither may this marriage.’

Primaflora allowed her face to become sober. She put down her cup. ‘You are saying that Niccolò is capable of violence to gain his own ends? And that the violence may be used against me?’

The Flemish woman looked down. She was attractive enough, with a slim neck and bold features and an excellent complexion, abandoned to Nature. With some attention to that, and her brows, she could have found lovers anywhere. She said, ‘I have already warned Queen Carlotta that he is dangerous. Men discount him because of his upbringing. But even in Bruges, he was clever enough to get the better of anyone he took a dislike to. It doesn’t spring from ambition. It is his idea of … of sport.’