Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
The Patriarch grunted. ‘I haven’t time for this rubbish. You thought you might come to Tabriz, then you found the two children were coming as well. That’s quite a nice little marriage. You’re jealous?’
‘Naturally,’ Nicholas said.
‘Well, thank God that’s a lie. What else are you lying about? Benecke said you were speaking of returning to Scotland.’
‘That was different. That was a joke,’ Nicholas said.
‘I imagine it was,’ said Father Ludovico.
Nicholas looked at him. The Patriarch said, ‘Yes, I know why you had to get out of your business. I made the Berecrofts boy tell me. As sins go, it marks a significant peak. But then, I never thought you would be satisfied by a little cheating, or a few simple betrayals and murders. It took an original imagination, I must say, to use your Bank to create such pure misery. Holy Father of Pity, sit down. I swore not to tell. Can’t you take the word of a priest?’
Nicholas remained standing. He said, ‘Of a priest? You’re a timber merchant’s son from Bologna who became a priest by a fluke.’
‘And who are you then?’ the Patriarch said. ‘An apprentice of eighteen, who never grew up. You wrote me a note, an idle letter from an idle man choosing a pastime. What about, you thought, a journey to the Shah
Uzum Hasan in Tabriz, some good company, some interesting fighting, and perhaps a permanent post with some money in it? And along with it, some holy grease to slide you in past St Peter?’
‘You have it exactly,’ said Nicholas.
‘And then you thought, No, it would be more amusing to sit in a boat and play robbers. Which is just as well. I have nothing to offer you.
Whoever is unsupported by the Mystery of Love shall not achieve the grace of salvation. Whoever shall cast love aside shall lose everything
. Track down these quotations one day. God doesn’t sell forgiveness, neither do I. I don’t care what you’ve done, and I wouldn’t waste my time trying to save you. I want you as much as I want the soles of my sandals: they get me where I want to go, and I’ll throw them away when they’re done. I don’t suppose that is water?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it’s empty.’ He threw the flask aside and sat down.
‘You did that last time,’ the priest said. ‘When your first wife died, and I got you out of Bologna. I nearly made you a man.’
‘That wasn’t you, it was Violante of Naxos. You got me out of it,’ Nicholas said, ‘and I ended in Cyprus.’
‘And you regret it? The time after that, you agreed to fight for Uzum Hasan against Turkey. Then you reneged. So would you have come if Adorne’s party weren’t going?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. He said it too quickly.
‘Brain getting sluggish?’ said the Patriarch. ‘No, I wouldn’t stop Adorne going. I don’t need to. And yes, you’d have been more use than Adorne. You know Muslims. I could do with your opinion of the trading future of Caffa. And Uzum trusts you. You don’t have an army any more — Oh, I know about Astorre and the rest. But you know a lot about guns, and about war. And you wouldn’t have got wet, in Persia.’
‘What do you mean,
you don’t need to
?’ said Nicholas.
‘Why are you asking? You’re not going. Benecke won’t get much for his timber, will he?’ the Patriarch said. ‘Late, and patched up with spare splits. I don’t fancy that bit over there. So, you’ll be in Danzig in a few days, and boarding the
Peter
soon after that. I’ll tell Julius.’
Nicholas, succumbing to, and emerging from a deep pang of nausea, recalled why he hated Ludovico da Bologna so much. He said eventually, ‘Julius? I thought he was in Cologne.’
‘No, no: I’ve just left him in Thorn with your agent. His wife is with him, the beauteous Anna. They were planning to come up to Danzig to see you. And, of course, to see Adorne and his niece. That was a pity,’ the Patriarch said discontentedly. ‘A nice marriage. But she would have made a good nun.’
‘Who? Anna?’ said Nicholas.
He spoke automatically, and the Patriarch replied with a broad snort
of amusement, getting up. The Patriarch said, ‘Well, I wager
that’s
sent you back to drinking water.’
B
Y
THE
TIME
that the big raft was ready to leave, you could say that, of all the people implicated in Nicholas de Fleury’s short visit to Mewe, one at least emerged from the mayhem with a sense of profound satisfaction. Battered, broken and bruised, balked of his conquest and forced to grovel to the Flemish child and her husband, Paúel Benecke was helped on board that afternoon with his privateering and personal career arranged, at last, as he wanted. Now Adorne’s niece and the boy were on their way north, taking his disapproving bloody Elzbiete with them. Now he had renewed his attachment to that fine woman Gerta. Now Colà and all his assets were to sail with him on the
Peter von Danzig
.
Filled with ale and contentment, the captain sat with the steersman in the sunshine, waiting for Colà. It did not even alarm him too much to see a couple of mules and three poor-looking pedestrians descend to the jetty, and discover that the Patriarch of Antioch was stepping on board, with the object of demanding a passage to Danzig. Now and then, Benecke had nursed a concern that Ludovico da Bologna might damage Colà’s instinct for adventure. Now, with Paúel himself in the party, it was more likely that Colà and he would frighten the life out of the disgusting old brute. Benecke grinned through swollen lips at the Patriarch, and showed him where he could sit and stow his frayed baggage.
The Patriarch, looking about, nodded to the men who were crossing themselves and enquired if Herr Benecke would like a departure prayer, one that mentioned the current off Ostaszewo and the sandbar at the Mottlau junction. Herr Benecke replied in the affirmative, adding that he thought Nikolás de Fleury, when he arrived, would especially appreciate it.
‘Ah!’ had said the Patriarch. ‘Then I’ll say the prayer, and you can leave. He isn’t coming.’
The captain felt his face growing hot. The last time he saw him, Colà had been no drunker than he was, and still walking. Colà had no reason for staying in Mewe, unless he had secret designs upon Gerta. This was more likely to do with the girl Katelijne. Colà had wanted her: maybe he’d got her for good, with Elzbiete’s diligent help. Maybe he’d gone north with Katelijne and her complaisant young husband. The captain enquired, breathing heavily, if this were the case.
The Patriarch had pulled out a Gospel and was riffling the pages, releasing a staccato odour of onion followed by a closing gasp of fried goat. ‘Oh, no, no, no, no,’ he said. ‘That little girl? No, no, no. He’s going to Thorn, after the other one.’
‘Thorn?’
The town of Thorn was where the King came. Where the
Court came. Where Callimaco came. Where Colà had previously elected, with good sense, not to go. Where, in the course of its travels, the entire mission, led by the Patriarch and Adorne, would be arriving. Colà had inexplicably changed all his plans and, without informing him, had gone south to Thorn … ‘after the other one.’
‘What other one?’ had asked Paúel Benecke after an interval.
And Father Ludovico da Bologna had answered him with unstinted good cheer. ‘The Gräfin Anna, of course. That black-haired German beauty who married his notary Julius. Anna and her husband are in Poland on business. Now Nicholas knows, he’s going to meet them in Thorn. I was to tell you.’
‘What were you to tell me?’ said the captain softly.
‘That you weren’t to wait for me,’ said Colà’s voice. ‘But I thought I’d better see you myself.’
Paúel Benecke stood. Colà was looking down from the edge of the jetty, bare-armed and broad, with his contusions clear in the daylight. You could see the older marks, too, from all the other times: from the bear-hunt; the wrangle outside the Artushof; the scuffle they’d had over that girl. Paúel said, still speaking softly, ‘Come aboard.’ His crew, grinning, were gathering round him.
‘And have them punch me until I agree? You won’t persuade me that way.’ Colà spoke gently as well.
‘Maybe not. But it would please me a good deal, and men would see what it means when you try to make a fool of Paúel Benecke. Or,’ said Paúel levelly, ‘they could quite as easily join you up there.’
‘Well, of course. But think of all the sailing we’d miss. I can’t join you just now, but later, or next season, we could still do something together. Iceland? Africa?’
Paúel Benecke gave a faint, distorted smile. The movement he made was quite slight, but as he made it, fifty men leaped from the raft-edge to the jetty and laid hands on Colà, who resisted querulously for a moment, then gave in. Paúel Benecke emitted a laugh. Then he stretched up his good hand, for something was pricking his neck under the dressing.
It was the priest’s eating-knife. Benecke started to turn. The priest’s powerful arm bent round his chest, and the knife-point dug deeper. ‘Tell them to let de Fleury go and come back,’ said Father Ludovico da Bologna peaceably.
It was ridiculous. The man was an idiot. And in any case, priests didn’t kill. Benecke, no longer smiling, began to make the crooked, disabling move that would free him, and unexpectedly yelled. Fresh blood gushed down his neck. The priest said, ‘Tell them.’
He told them. The men on the jetty hesitated, then, freeing their captive, began to scramble back on to the raft, their expressions ranging
from amazement to cheerful derision. ‘That’s right,’ said the priest. He still gripped both Benecke and the knife. ‘And now tell them to cast off and get away. And no turning back, and no reprisals, or you’ll blubber in Hades. I show God’s mercy to imprisoned spirits, but I have this free hand with flesh born in corruption.’
Shaking with rage, the captain heard himself giving the orders. His eyes never left Colà. He said, ‘Sheltering beneath a priest’s skirts.’
‘Have you sniffed them?’ Colà said. ‘I didn’t know he’d do that. I didn’t need to come here. You gave me a good winter, and I tried to give you the same in return. We will sail. But I can’t do it now.’
‘I don’t believe you. Why?’ Benecke said. They were already moving out into the river.
‘Why am I going? I’ll tell you some day.’
‘Don’t trouble. You’re right. I’m not in the mood to exchange confidences either. Go off and kill yourself without me.’
The raft jerked, turning into the current, and the priest’s knife jabbed deeper in sympathy. Benecke yelled. The priest, viewing the space which now existed between the raft and the bank, withdrew his arm, and then the knife, which he wiped on his robe and resheathed. Benecke lifted his fist.
Colà, on shore, called for the last time over the water:
‘Krzywousty!
He’s the Patriarch of Antioch! They really would hang you!’
And, of course, they would. He had to let the old man sit down, the stupid priest whom he and Colà had been going to make fun of. He was going to have to take him to Danzig. He was going to have to sail without Nicholas de Fleury.
Benecke stood, his kerchief pressed to his wry neck, and voiced his opinion of Flemish bastards and
bougres
of Italian priests in a way that would have earned him excommunication, had not Father Ludovico found himself temporarily occupied with his satchel. But secretly, the captain was not quite so angry. Colà had come, risking something, to tell him himself. And one day, surely, they would terrorise the sea lanes of Europe together.
Chapter 7
O
N
T
HURSDAY
the nineteenth of May, Anselm Adorne, Baron Cortachy left Danzig to lead his Mission of the Three Princes to Thorn. With him rode two Danzig councillors whose task was — of course — to smooth the way of the ducal ambassador, to oversee his reception in Thorn and to make quite sure that nothing happened detrimental to the interests of Danzig. Thick-set, hard-drinking and voluble, Jerzy Bock was related by marriage to Bischoff, whose second wife had been so hospitable to Kathi. Johann Sidinghusen, elderly part-owner of the
Peter von Danzig
, was even more insistently affable. Adorne suffered it all with civility. He was on his way to Thorn, knowing that Nicholas de Fleury would have arrived there before him.
Until recent years, Adorne had thought of Nicholas, if he thought of him at all, as his protégé. Only gradually had it become apparent that Nicholas, grown, was a man of exceptional ability, whose genius for finance and trade brought him to vie for the same markets as Adorne himself. Adorne had accepted the challenge with equanimity, as a good merchant should: giving no quarter and expecting none. But he had also learned, as the years went by, that the whispers about Nicholas were probably true. Other men, suspecting injustice, fought it in the open. Nicholas met it underground, by devious channels that ended in ruin and death. Especially the death of his own closest relatives.
It was because of his family — the dead mother, the foolish husband who repudiated her — that Nicholas had done what he had done in Scotland. Now, barred from the West, Nicholas was here — looking for power; perhaps looking for vengeance against those whose trust, at last, he had destroyed. Adorne had never believed that Nicholas would waste his time at sea.
The success of his mission mattered a great deal to Adorne, the more so that he was alone and the future of his house lay with him. He was uneasy about Nicholas de Fleury, and hurt, although he would not admit
it, that his young Kathi seemed more concerned over the wretched man than over himself. He had felt relief, therefore, when Katelijne and her husband returned unharmed from their visit to Mewe, even though their encounter with Benecke had produced no advice, good or bad, that affected the affair of the
San Matteo
. And from what Robin volunteered, nothing seemed to have emerged, either, from their foolhardy encounter with de Fleury, except that the man had convinced them that he did intend to spend the summer at sea. Adorne had hoped it was true. From Kami’s face, he guessed that the meeting had been a disappointment and, on the whole, he was glad.
Then, a day later, the priest had arrived, like a thunderclap in a play, and everything changed. Unkempt, unwashed and reeking of fish, Ludovico da Bologna had tramped in from the wharf and, throwing himself on a brocade cushion, had announced casually that Benecke was back in Danzig and about to set off with the fleet on his own. The Baron Belch-trees was not going with him. That is, de Fleury had changed his mind in midstream, and was making his way south to Thorn.