Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
The noise of the swollen river increased. A roaring made itself heard. Turning a corner, Tobie saw before him another pool, white with foam, into which tumbled a cataract. The cliffs, high on either side, enclosed a dim sky streamered with cloud. Below it, Loppe’s torch burned steadily at the brink of the water.
On the ground at Loppe’s feet lay a still figure, half in and half out of the stream. Astorre joined Nicholas. Tobie dropped the reins and strode forward into the mud, leaving the soldier to tie up the horses. Primaflora stayed in the saddle, and Tobie took time to hope that she would stop Katelina dismounting. But as he knelt by the fallen man, he heard her footsteps stumbling towards him.
Before he touched him, he knew he was dead. The arrow that killed him lay broken beneath him and blood, already half washed away, lay black on the grass and mould by his body. His hunting cap had fallen aside, showing the thick dark hair, and the olive skin, and the calm, elegant profile. Tobie rose slowly to his feet as Katelina came up, her face marked by fear and by mud. He said plainly, in Flemish, ‘I am sorry, demoiselle. It is Ser Tristão, and he is dead.’
Chapter 18
T
HE RAIN BEAT
into the ravine, and hissed into the water, and pattered unnoticed on the group of men and women and the dark-haired man at their feet. Nicholas, who had seemed to move, was now standing quite still. Astorre swore. The soldier stepped up as if to come to the support of Katelina, but she stood rigid, warning him off. Tobie said, ‘The arrow went clean through the heart. It would be quick.’
The soft, organ-voice of the negro said, ‘They killed him from a distance and then came to make sure. There are their footprints. Three men, if not four. He had his sword drawn.’
‘The boy?’ said Nicholas. His voice was so quiet, Tobie hardly heard it.
‘I have found a boot mark. Wait,’ the negro said. His torch moved off. The others remained, looking down. Watching the young woman, Tobie saw her eyes were dry, though her face was very pale. The dead man had been her husband’s new partner as well as his brother-in-law. Katelina must have come to know Tristão Vasquez a little; must sometimes have shared the same trading quarters, although perhaps no more than that. His death was clearly a shock rather than a matter of intimate bereavement. And a shock made no less by the fact that she had feared it. This would leave Simon’s sister a widow, and the boy fatherless, if he lived still. And what did it make Nicholas? Pleased, perhaps? Tobie cast about him aggressively.
Nicholas sat on his heels, gazing at the dead face. He had met the man at Kolossi, it appeared, and sailed with him from Cyprus. A short acquaintance, based on deception. His face at the moment was grave, his earrings motionless. There was mud to the knees of his white lawn, which had begun to smell strongly of horse sweat. The woman Katelina said, ‘Then the boy must also be dead.’
Nicholas rose slowly, and spoke as if thinking aloud. ‘He had drawn his sword. He may have been defending the boy. When he died, the boy may have fled.’ He turned his head suddenly.
Primaflora said, ‘I heard it, too.’ She urged her horse forward, and the smoke from her torch veiled her hair. ‘The killers may be still here, under the cliff, in the bushes.’
The soldier said, ‘Then that’s easily dealt with,’ and drew back his arm with the torch in it.
Nicholas grasped his shoulder. His face, streaked with mud and speckled with soot, seemed merely watchful. ‘I shouldn’t do that. The negro’s gone over there, and he doesn’t show up in the dark. Tobie?’
But Tobie had already started to run to the cliff, feeling for his sword hilt with slippery hands. He could hear Nicholas following. Nicholas said, ‘Lopez? Are you listening? Be careful. Tobie, don’t draw your sword. Astorre, stay with the women, and you, sir.
Lopez!
’ His voice on the one word was raucous.
Echoing, the negro’s voice answered him. ‘There’s a cave, senhor. There’s someone in it. Ah! I have got you!’
Someone screamed inside the cave. Nicholas said something wildly and shouldered past Tobie, whose torch lit only glistening cliff face and boulders. Then he saw the dark entrance and Nicholas disappearing into it, so that the mud of its ceiling turned rosy. He dashed to follow.
It was not a large cavity, but formed a passage of reasonable length, scoured by flood water and ejected boulders. At the far end a light silhouetted the curled head and broad shoulders of Loppe, crouched over something. He said in Portuguese, ‘Senhor, we are friends. The Knights have been looking for you. Your aunt the lady Katelina is outside. Are you hurt?’
The boy. Not his killer, but the boy himself. His neck bent, Tobie scrambled further in. His hair sizzled, and he laid down his torch. Nicholas, ahead of him, had come to a halt and was not advancing. Beyond him, he could see nothing for Loppe’s bulk, although he could hear the murmur of voices. He said, ‘Let me past. Is he hurt?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘A sprained ankle. They shot at them both from above, and thought he’d run off when they came down to check. Four, he says.’
The boy’s voice, raised, said, ‘That is Senhor Niccolò.’
Loppe turned, giving Tobie a view. Diniz lay rigid on the rock floor, his mask of mud streaked by his tears. Loppe said, ‘He led the party that came to find you. And here is Master Tobie, his doctor, to help you.’
Tobie pushed forward. The boy did not move. He said, ‘My father is dead.’ His eyes were on Nicholas.
Nicholas said, ‘A nobleman’s death. I want to find who killed him.’
‘Why?’ said Diniz.
‘Why should they live?’ Nicholas said.
The boy was in shock. Tobie passed his hands over the swollen ankle and then leaned back. The boy said, ‘They are still close at hand. Two of them. Two others took fright and fled.’ He gulped and said, ‘There are snakes here. In the cave, and outside. My father trod on one. He cried out. The men heard him, and killed him.’
Nicholas said, ‘They are still looking for you? What do they –’
He didn’t finish, because of the scream outside the cave. The boy sobbed. Loppe turned round. Nicholas said, ‘Stay there,’ and without his torch edged round and flung himself towards the cave entrance. Disobeying instantly, Tobie followed.
Katelina lay collapsed on the ground by the dead man. Rising beside her was Captain Astorre, a blur of silver and white. The torches had been extinguished. Primaflora said, ‘They shot her. From above the waterfall.’ Her voice was quite out of its normal pitch. A horse trampled and Tobie caught sight of the soldier from the Palace, one foot in his stirrup.
Nicholas said to him, ‘No. Stay.’ He was bending over Katelina. Astorre said, ‘She’s all right. I pushed her. The arrow went through her cloak. What do you mean, stay? They’re up there, the murdering villains.’
‘I meant, our friend should stay with Lopez and the women. You and I will go and catch them.’
‘No!
’ said Primaflora. Already mounted, Nicholas looked at her and she said, ‘If something goes wrong, you will be blamed.’
‘Astorre will be with me,’ Nicholas said. He looked amazed.
‘And me,’ said Tobie. He rose from beside Katelina, who was stirring, and made at a run for his horse. ‘Why is nobody blowing a horn?’ He got into the saddle at the same time as Astorre and they both followed Nicholas, already setting his horse towards the quickest way out of the ravine. Behind them all, the soldier’s horn blared. That would bring help. And now, away from the water, Tobie’s ears picked up the sound of horses not far away, galloping. Only two of them. The sound was receding. He set himself to catch up with Nicholas, who was following it.
It was now almost dark. They carried their torches unlit: the danger of unknown ground was less than the risk of a bowshot. The men ahead, invisible against rising ground, had the advantage of knowing the territory. It was odd that Nicholas had left behind the only man familiar with the whole island. It was not odd, if Nicholas didn’t want Primaflora’s soldier to meet the murderers of Tristão Vasquez and learn who had paid them.
But in that case, why not let the killers escape? Why ride like this, crazily crashing through vineyards, between dimly-seen olives, into streams and through trenched plantations? Once, Nicholas
hadn’t even known how to ride, until Astorre taught him. Astorre, galloping now at his side, would raise no objection no matter what Nicholas did: his fool boy, his villainous boy; his successful boy. On the other hand, the same boy had let Tobie come, and Loppe stay. Loppe, now stationed behind with Katelina and Diniz. But then, the soldier was there also, with Primaflora. Nothing could happen, surely.
A tree loomed, and Tobie swerved. He could hear Astorre cursing, with an undernote in it of pleasure. They seemed to be gaining. And there were only two horses ahead, and three of themselves. Nicholas was still in front. Tobie had no idea what the man was going to do. Just now, Nicholas had seen Tristão dead, and Katelina supposedly dead, and had given away nothing, unless you counted a certain coarsening of his voice. In the cave, calling to Loppe, he had betrayed something real. It had sounded like fear. Was it fear? Was it fear that was driving him on, not some knightly compulsion to punish? For of course, one must not forget that Nicholas was now a member of an order of chivalry, sworn to uphold Christianity, honour, and the Queen of Cyprus. Nicholas was a Knight and, dressed as Guinevere, was riding across the island of Rhodes preparing to kill somebody.
They were getting very close now, and their quarry’s cover was patchy. Occasionally, against a patch of pale rock or stubble, Tobie could see the two horses flying ahead, and the dull glint of helmets. They must know, now, that they couldn’t escape. Black on indigo, a stand of pines loomed ahead, and beyond that, the broken outline of what might have been primitive buildings. The killers’ horses disappeared into the trees, and the beat of their hooves became muffled and irregular. Then, sharp and clear, the beat resumed again on the far side. Bursting through the trees after, they glimpsed the horses ahead. Astorre said sharply, ‘Slow!’
Nicholas had already reined in. Clear and light, they all heard the patter of receding hooves. Clear and very light. Astorre said, ‘That’s an old trick. They used the trees to dismount, and let the horses lead us on without them. They’re here somewhere. We’ll catch them. They can’t get far without horses.’
‘They could always seize ours,’ Nicholas said. ‘They have bows. So what do you think we should do?’ With Astorre, Nicholas was always meticulous.
‘Right,’ said the captain. ‘They need cover, and they want us out in the open. They’re either still in the wood, or over there in those buildings. I need a volunteer.’
‘I knew you would,’ Nicholas said. ‘Stay with Tobie, then. If I don’t report back, you can keep my dress.’ He had dismounted. Crossing his arms, he pulled up Guinevere’s gown and dropped it in a heap. The next moment he had vanished, and Astorre and
Tobie, dismounted also, were standing under the trees, gripping their horses. Tobie, his wimple dragged down, unhooked his shield and stood listening.
The rain had stopped. The trees rustled. Where Nicholas had gone, he could see nothing but flat ground interrupted by indeterminate objects and, in the distance, a huddle of shapes which seemed to include a low oblong edifice like a shed. Astorre, a stout pine trunk at his back, had his sword in one hand and his shield and reins in the other. Outside the grove, the wind whirred through the heath and thornbushes and whined among the buildings before them.
The whine was fast and high, and ended in a thud. It was not the wind, but an arrow arriving. A flock of them followed. They came from the rectangular shadow, and sprayed the ground between the watchers and the buildings. No one called out, and there was no sign of Nicholas. Tobie said, ‘Are the bowmen inside the shed?’
‘If they’re stupid enough. Fools!’ said Astorre. ‘They might as well surrender.’
Tobie said, ‘They’ve spotted Nicholas, then.’
Astorre’s head swivelled round. ‘Heh? That’s why he’s there, to be spotted. Tie the horses, and let’s go and find him.’
Nicholas found them first, reappearing to crouch bare-armed and bare-headed in the dark beside Astorre. He was breathing quickly but, like Astorre, merely critical. ‘They’re in the byre. Mud bricks, reed thatch, double doors and one window they’re using to shoot through. It’s the only intact building. The farmhouse is a ruin. There’s a well, a broken waterwheel, and a crushing trough. Someone’s still using the place for the olive harvest. Captain?’
Astorre said, ‘Exhaust their arrows. They’ll have to surrender.’
Tobie said, ‘Why don’t we wait for the Knights?’
No one appeared to hear him. ‘All right,’ Nicholas said to Astorre. ‘But even then, they won’t want to come out.’
‘There are ways of dealing with that,’ Astorre said.
‘So there are,’ said Nicholas. They both sounded happy. Nicholas said, ‘Tobie? Do you want to stay, or do you want to ride back for the Knights?’
Tobie said, ‘I should prefer to stay.’ His wimple, rising, interfered with his chin. He saw Nicholas was looking at him, but couldn’t decipher his expression. Nicholas said, ‘All right. All the better. We are three to their two: seeing that, they won’t be likely to rush out until they’ve had a shot at picking off at least one of us. We’ll draw their fire. All you have to do is show yourself now and then so that they know you’re still there. But be careful. These bows have a long range, and you’re bound to be within it.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ said Tobie.
He saw a brief gleam from Astorre’s decayed teeth. ‘That’s my boy,’ said Astorre. It annoyed Tobie to be Astorre’s boy as well.
Nicholas said, ‘And, Captain?’
They were moving away. ‘Yes?’ said Astorre.
Nicholas said, ‘I want them alive. Alive. Alive. Do you hear me?’
‘Of course,’ said Astorre’s voice. Its tone was professionally reassuring.
Tobie was now alone. Wherever Nicholas and Astorre had gone, he couldn’t see them. From the byre and its surroundings no sound emerged: the arrows had stopped. It became again very quiet. Somewhere in the muddy darkness, a channel of water was trickling, and even further off, a donkey brayed and went on mournfully hooting. A gust of wind shook the trees, and Tobie shivered. The Loathly Damsel’s tunic hampered his movements. He tied it up and, picking up his shield and his sword, moved from bush to bush, his shield-arm protective. He almost missed the hiss of the arrow when it came. It tipped his shield and bounced harmlessly off. Before it reached the ground he was running, throwing himself into the shelter of something solid and cold, that gave off a strong reek of olives. The crusher. He lay there, getting his breath back, and immediately heard the whicker and thud of arrows beginning again. He stiffened. This time, it came from some distance away. Astorre, or Nicholas, had diverted the archers’ attention.