Domagaya could not believe the audacity of his brother, to be telling this girl that she was as beautiful as a sunset and that her eyes were the colour of a mountain lake and that her cheeks were as brightly speckled as the trout they caught there! He had never heard him be so gregarious, and it took a while before he realized that the woman understood not a word of what was being said.
Promptly, he joined the act as well. He told the ladies present that he’d cut off their dresses and plunge his fingers between their legs and kiss their breasts until they hollered. He’d bring them the shank of a king’s stag to munch upon, the balls from one of the king’s bull-cows to admire.
Taignoagny was furious at his brother’s rude incursion and told him so, raising his voice, but his brother carried on as the women giggled, becoming more daring and explicit with every line. He wanted to press the women against the wall of his bedroom at Fontainebleau, and told them so. He wanted to wrestle them on the floor of the pigs’ barn, and splash with them in the fountain where the water flowed upward towards the sky in defiance of nature before it spilled back down to earth, and he wanted to press their bodies to him while they rode in the back of a carriage through the streets of Paris.
Incensed, Taignoagny warned his brother to mind his tongue or he would cut it out. Domagaya reiterated that the women did not understand a word. They could speak as they pleased as long as the language remained Iroquois.
Taignoagny took the initiative to speak French, the language understood by animals, and perhaps, as he’d recently thought, the language understood by women in need of a man. His gentle words escaped his lips in a halting, tentative style the women found endearing. He asked the girl with the flashing green eyes and the great bundles of black hair if she would come with him back to his room.
This time, Domagaya’s eyes went wide. His mouth fell open. He seemed to stop breathing. He sat down in the chair behind him, and trembled.
The young women continued giggling, their faces pale as they furiously fanned themselves and looked at one another, wondering whether they ought to break into hysterics or run. The large woman who was new to court, Francine Tousignant de Tocqueville, did not take her eyes off Taignoagny’s. When the giggling around them had ceased, everyone present—with the exception of the still-quaking Domagaya—remained motionless, and the woman said,
“Monsieur le Sauvage, comme te veut.”
The two went off alone to Taignoagny’s chambers, and Domagaya, gripping himself in a fierce hug, fell upon the floor, quivering. The other women mopped his brow with silk handkerchiefs and called for wine and warmed him with their hands and soothing words. They counselled the servants to take him to his room while they traipsed along behind, all atwitter.
At the port of Palermo, Cartier was greeted by three odd-looking, black-robed monks dispatched by the cardinal to escort him to the nearby village of Monreale. One short, another tall. One smiled, another frowned. Two bowed often, one did not—he of average height and moderate disposition. The four men travelled in a pair of open carts pulled along by donkeys, the dusty journey drawing them through a cool day into a sweeping valley before they ascended, by late afternoon, towards Santa Maria Nuova and the immense cathedral of Monreale. The donkey carts came to a halt before the extraordinary Romanesque bronze doors, with their inlaid carving that depicted Biblical scenes across its forty-two panels. Cartier nodded approval, hoping that this sudden stop marked the limit of his sightseeing for the day. The monks jumped down from the carts and to his dismay led their visitor through the imposing doors.
The Frenchman was guided to a central spot in the nave from which he could properly view the cathedral’s mosaics, created in an extravagant, grandiose sprawl across the vast walls of the interior. The monks stepped back. Two bowed slightly, while the third turned and walked out, probably to water the donkeys. The distinguished captain was left alone to experience the artwork in the fullness of its glory.
Jacques Cartier understood that his appreciation was being solicited. Disconcerted by this tangent after the lengthy journey, he nevertheless accepted that he remained at the mercy of his hosts and shook off the road grit. He turned in circles—at first fairly quickly, glancing around at random, then slowly, as he gazed upon the walls’ murals and those on the heights above. The mosaics were brilliantly coloured, exquisitely detailed. As he relaxed, they instilled in him a sense of tranquility, even of solemnity, and he felt the comforting motion of being on a ship at sea. Virtually the complete surface of the walls was covered by the artwork, from two metres above ground to the ceiling vault, each one set upon a background of gold tiles. The full length of the interior ran a hundred metres. Gazing out upon the astonishing glitter of storied mosaics from above the chancel was the Christ Pantocrator, a portrait of Jesus more than forty metres wide and thirteen metres high, stunning in its impact. The seafarer, who had impatiently entered the church suffering from the undesired delay, now stood still, transfixed.
Eventually, the monks came for him and, in silence, guided him away.
Their travels continued.
He assumed his destination to be the Castellaccio, atop Mount Caputo, about five kilometres farther north, but really was too exhausted to care. Accustomed to command, the captain did not ask questions of lowly monks. The donkey carts headed off in the direction of the fortress castle, yet when they took a circling trail around it, Cartier was not dismayed. Finally, he understood their objective. His friend had chosen to meet him within the safety and privacy of San Martino delle Scale, the Benedictine monastery a few kilometres along.
Night had fallen before they arrived. Weary, disgruntled, Cartier was greeted with surprising warmth by the monks there, shown to his quarters and advised that a meal would presently be served.
After a modest feast, he was led into a small chamber lit by a torch on each of the four walls. He sat before an olivewood table on a monk’s long bench, and waited only a few minutes before his friend, Cardinal Medici, entered alone. Cartier knelt before him, kissed the honoured ring, then was pulled to his feet and the two men kissed each other’s cheeks. They cordially held one another’s elbows to express their pleasure at the reunion. The diminutive but muscular cardinal, who possessed the body of a peasant, barrel-chested and thick-necked, took a seat on the bench opposite Cartier. A monk stepped into the room with port, a bottle and two glasses, served a portion for each man and quietly departed.
The cardinal smiled a moment before his expression turned sombre. He reached under his robes and removed a small leather pouch. Upon the table he spilled out the contents: a half-dozen diamonds and twenty small nuggets of gold.
“As requested,” the cardinal intoned.
“As agreed,” Cartier acknowledged. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Although he was not an expert with respect to gems, Cartier picked up each of the small pieces and nodded appreciatively.
“You understand …” the cardinal commenced.
“I do,” Cartier assured him.
“My family is large and famous.”
“The name Medici is renowned throughout time and Christendom. I understand the situation.”
“My name, of itself—”
“I understand,” Cartier repeated.
“—might misconstrue—”
“I do understand.”
Medici knit his hands together. “Did you enjoy the cathedral today, Jacques?”
“I have not seen its equal.”
“Sofia, so they say, in Constantinople. Honestly, it’s difficult for me to imagine the possibility, although each in its way, I’m sure, offers its magnificence to God.”
“Magnificence,” Cartier remarked, curious about the conversation’s direction.
“One feels a sense of history, Jacques, here, and in the cathedral. A sense of awe, as though we find ourselves in the presence of our Lord’s majesty. In your explorations, you are privileged to create a history, are you not? Surely you must feel the presence of God’s glory in the New World.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Tell me once more about this island.”
Cartier nodded. The terms of the transaction were yet again being negotiated.
“Hochelaga, the name the Iroquois give to their village, is set upon an island in the middle of a most magnificent river, Your Grace, truly the most immense river yet discovered by man. It has no equal. No corresponding Sofia. The river is navigable into the heart of the continent, until it reaches an island—”
“An island with a mountain!” the cardinal burst out with rare enthusiasm.
“A mountain, such as this one here, at Monreale, yes! There, rivers meet, and the riches of a continent are guarded by this mountain island.”
“Yet you have not yet been there yourself. You have not yet found this river.”
“Savages speak only truths. They have no purpose to lie. The mountain on an island in the middle of the greatest river in the world lies in wait of my voyage. This time I will find it.”
“The mountain island awaits its destiny.”
As the cardinal shifted on his bench, the wood squeaked. Torches flared in a draft, and the shadows cast by the two men’s bodies shook upon the walls of this cool, damp chamber.
“I’ve had a vision,” the cardinal revealed in a soft voice, as if even within these stone walls he might be overheard.
“Your Grace?”
“A great city shall rise upon this island.”
“I understand.”
“A city of churches. I have seen this with my own eyes.”
“Perhaps, one day, a cathedral as magnificent—”
The cardinal held up a hand to caution Cartier before he overstepped a bound. To imagine outdoing the cathedral at Monreale would be impudent, even sacrilegious, which might cause an ill wind to blow across a ship’s course.
“Therefore, the name given to the city will be vital,” the cardinal stressed.
“A name honoured by God, I should say,” Cartier attested.
“In your circumstances, under the stress of your position … other persons of influence … of influence greater than that of my humble station—”
The seafarer, this time, was the one to raise a hand of caution. “I understand explicitly, Your Grace. These matters are to be accomplished with discretion, with care. The power is now in my hands, thanks to you and to the grace of Our Lord.”
“Not without risk, Jacques,” Cardinal Medici de Monreale noted.
“I understand, Your Grace. May God be with us in this affair.”
The cardinal nodded. Then grunted. “Jacques, adieu! And Godspeed.”
The mariner carefully picked up the diamonds and gold nuggets and gave the stones another examination, as though committing their facets to memory, then returned them to the pouch. He placed the pouch in the inner pocket of his vest, and rose, only to kneel as the cardinal came around the table. He bowed, and kissed the ring of his host. As he stood again, the two friends embraced and departed for the night. Cartier was led away by a monk holding a torch, then was released to the moonlit darkness of his chamber, and to the light of his dreams.
By mid-morning, Jacques Cartier was on a different ship, returning to France, his mission completed to his fullest expectation.
Upon entering Domagaya’s rooms at Fontainebleau, Cartier was surprised to find a bevy of young women scurrying into flight. They were fully clothed, so he could not categorically pronounce their activities illicit, but the savage was wearing very little while seated upon his bed, and apparently had been showing his muscles to the young ladies of France.
“White-skinned women like Domagaya,” the lad said in Iroquois.
“Domagaya likes white women,” Cartier candidly observed. The Indians had been brought over specifically to create a stir, to arouse widespread interest in his explorations so that the king might feel obliged to finance his trips. If that attention included winning the affections, or merely the idle curiosity, of women at court, then so be it. “I need to speak with you,” Cartier told him, switching to French.
“You go long time away, Jacques.”
“Far, yes. To another tribe in the white man’s world.”
“Someday Domagaya go with you.”
“First, I need you to do something for me.”
“For you, I do what you want Domagaya do.”
“Most important, never speak of this matter we discuss today to another man or woman—not here, in France, nor to any white man or white woman, here or in your land. This will be an accord between me and you.”
Domagaya looked curiously at him, for he did not understand the French word
accord.
This required a time spent working through both languages, trying to find a word that would be understood in the bargain being struck. Eventually, after a lengthy pantomime, the two men shook hands, pressed them to their chests to imply the swearing of oaths and settled on the word
treaty.
Each spoke the word in the other’s language.
Then Cartier broached the issue that concerned him. From the hidden depths of his garments he brought out the dagger that Domagaya and Taignoagny’s father had given him on the Gaspé shore the summer past.
“Knife, my father,” Domagaya said, curious.
Cartier removed a small sack from under his coat. From it dropped stones that sparkled like starlight on a wave and more stones that seemed to reflect sunlight. “Diamonds, gold,” Cartier said in a hushed tone. He’d taught Domagaya the words before, but now they gazed upon their meaning.
Domagaya remained still, quiet, watching.
“I want you, Domagaya, to attach these stones to your father’s knife, and speak of this to no one. Use only the materials of your world, and only the tools of your world. Deer hide, beaver skin, the thread from a moose tail, and your own knives. We have the materials with us from our last voyage. Your father told me with great pride when he gave me this knife, that it was made for him by his first son, Domagaya. Now I want you to make it a very special knife that will have great magic. Will you do this for me?”
Domagaya looked from the weapon to the captain’s eyes, back to the dagger, and asked, “Why?”