There were men of God in such crags, but also robbers. The Genoese, as was prudent, had turned in formation at the sound of massed horses. Then their captain lowered his arm, recognising the pennants of Charetty and Florence, and the familiar flamboyant helm of Astorre. Through the ranks, you could see the tired faces of the women attendants, reflecting some faint hope of rest or remission. The face of their mistress, turned also, showed the same smudges of dust and of weariness, but beneath them, the hardness of basalt. Then she saw who they were. She said nothing. But Tobie caught, for an instant, a glitter of something like fright. Then Godscalc was alongside and saying, “Demoiselle. Let us come with you.”
Behind, Astorre and the Genoese captain were talking, low-voiced, as the cavalcade rearranged itself. In this country of brigands, thirty armed men were sure of their welcome. There was no welcome on the girl’s face. She said, “My lord is ill at the monastery. I’m going to the monastery. Perhaps he’s dying.”
“Then we’ll go all the quicker together,” Godscalc said.
She looked at him, two fine frowning lines between her blue eyes, but could not think, it was clear, how to counter that. She said, her voice almost angry, “He nearly died, trying to save him.”
“It was good of him to have the messenger sent,” Godscalc said. She stared at him speechlessly with her frowning, colourless face and he added, “Master Tobie is with us, demoiselle. We shan’t trouble my lord Doria any more than we need. But we must find and bury them.”
Now, thought Tobie, she will cry. As she should; as she needs to. He saw a short, jerky breath overtake her. Then she pulled down her chin and her mouth and said through a tight nose, “That is what you are paid to do. I am Genoese. I have my husband to think of. Captain! Do you want us to ride in the dark?” And brushing past, she set her horse into motion.
Beside him, as they dropped back, Tobie saw Godscalc’s lips move. It was not the girl, he knew, he was cursing. Tobie said, “What was it you called Doria? Frivolous?”
Godscalc turned and looked at him. His large face had returned to calm. He said, “What was it we said of Nicholas? Vengeful, deceitful. A man who secretly causes others to suffer. A man who secretly causes others to die.”
Tobie was silent. They had said all those things, and they were true. Was the spoiling of Catherine de Charetty better or worse than the ruin of Katelina van Borselen? Doria had killed. But Nicholas had killed more subtly, more often. He said, “They were the same man, I suppose. They were both Jason.”
“You could say so,” Godscalc said. “I have noticed that those with a quest are often those with something to escape from; and that applied to them both. Their quests, of course, were quite different. But we are going to see the survivor. We should keep an open mind.”
The dusk after all overtook them. They trotted ringingly into the gorge: a metalled cortège drawing the flashing sunlight after it. The sun, withdrawing stealthily from the beech and the ash, the chestnut and the elm, lingered a long time on the pine trees on the upper reaches of their deep, winding valley; but already the change was upon them. The torrent at the foot of the valley increased its voice, so that all other movement was soundless. The sharp outline of spear and breastplate vanished in the lightless profusion of leaves. The undergrowth sprang thick to their shoulders: fixed among it, the massed mouths and trumpets of flowers spoke with their scent, but when you turned showed only flat moth colours. From the leaf ceilings over their heads, festoons of cindery lichen caught their spears and brushed humming over their helmets. Far above that, the sky was an amphitheatre for wheeling birds whose cries could not be heard; and beneath their feet, red fungus yielded and liquified.
At a hamlet of small wooden houses, shuttered and silent, a hog’s back bridge took them over the river. Behind them, a dog, knowing nothing of brigands, barked hysterically and then was suddenly quiet. Ahead, eight hundred feet up the sheer cliff, was the monastery of Sumela. They sent an agile equerry of Astorre’s off to warn them, and lit the torches they had brought, and started the climb.
The toiling ascent, after the journey, was more than the house-women could manage. Their ponies were led, and two of the soldiers carried them. The demoiselle paid them no attention. It was only by edging close that Tobie saw the sharpness of her cheeks and the stains under her eyes, staring ahead. Although her face was quite blank, tears had begun to pass slowly down either cheek.
She needed to cry, but not like that. Tobie felt Godscalc’s hand on his arm, but shook it off with a frown. He was tired, and he had had enough of Godscalc’s forebodings. He rode firmly to Catherine’s side and putting an arm round her shoulders said, “My horse is fresh. Let me take you.”
Her push nearly sent him off the path. Her face, in the torchlight, was that of a princess assaulted. “Take your hands off!” said Catherine de Charetty. And as, aching, he stilled his shuddering horse and righted himself and his belongings, she kicked her own horse ahead, her head turned to her shoulder. She said, “I have my own doctor.”
Soon after that, they saw the glimmering lights of the monastery, as if through a tattered blanket stretched over the stars. From it crawled a long line of fire which turned into servants with flambeaux. The monks were at their devotions, but the guest-master greeted them at the stately stone entrance and led them down to the courtyard where men took care of the horses and soldiers. The cressets smoked in the damp air, which smelled of the hollow stone of the mountain, and the sweet peppers of incense, and the faint odours of stalled beasts and latrines. A deep chanting made itself heard. At first, looking about him, Tobie imagined that it came from the mountain itself. Then he saw on his left the lamp of a shrine, and around it angels rushing with bladed wings and great oval eyes, painted in ochre and dark blue and red earthcolours. Particles of gold glittered. The voices, suddenly vibrant, opened into a passionate hymn whose words could be heard. Godscalc’s head turned.
“The church. The katholikon,” Tobie said. He paused and said, “They sound confident enough.”
“O gladsome light. It’s…a canticle. They probably think they have reason,” said Godscalc.
Then they were led to the guest quarters, and the sickroom of Pagano Doria.
As was right, Catherine entered alone. Outside the thick door, Tobie could hear nothing and stood without speaking beside Godscalc. Astorre had been debarred, to his annoyance, from the interrogation. Alone of them all, he had preserved his vigour to the end of the ride. No doubt he was resting at some laden table. Tobie, for his part, was glad enough to stand.
When after ten minutes the girl had not emerged, the monk beside them, tapping diffidently, opened the door. Before it closed they caught a glimpse of Doria, seated on a high-backed wooden settle packed with cushions. His head was bent over his wife, who crouched on a low stool beside him, her hands fists on her lap. He had one bandaged arm round her shoulders. A moment later, the monk came out and they were admitted, with a friendly reminder. Messer Doria was not yet very strong.
“You are kind. We shall remember. Messer Tobias is himself a doctor,” Godscalc said. The door closed behind them.
The floor they trod on was chestnut-red marble, with pale fossil ovals and rings patterned through it. The walls, although white, bore a heavy jewelled cross and an icon whose metals gleamed yellow and white under the many candles of a heavy wrought stand. There was a stool and a prayer desk, richly covered, and a table bearing a ewer and basin. A covered stove, to one side, made the room warm. This was not part of the hostel for pilgrims, but rather a cell from the Imperial suite. In the middle, as they had seen, sat Pagano Doria, but Catherine had moved to one side where there stood a low bed and a chest. As they came in, she took her seat, with some care, on the chest. Her face, hastily wiped, still showed some streaks from the journey, but was now faintly coloured. Then her lips parted and, turning, Tobie saw that Doria had risen slowly and stood, looking up to the priest. He said, “I am deeply sorry. For them both, and for you.”
&nb
sp; He had whitened. The act of rising had caused him genuine pain. The monks had given him a loose robe which fell to the ground, concealing most of his injuries, but the way he held himself told some of the story, and the cloths that showed at the shoulder and bound the whole of one arm and hand betrayed the rest. For all that, he had been carefully shaved and his smooth, shining hair, rather long, fell across a face still comely and cleanly incised, with sadness in its fine eyes. Godscalc said, “Please sit. You are far from well.”
“But I am alive,” Doria said. He waited until Tobie, finding stools, dropped on one and slid the other to Godscalc. Then, equally slowly, he sat. He said, “You want to know where to find them.” He smiled faintly, and glanced at his wife. “Catherine thinks you want to blame me, or even accuse me of killing them. I told her that you are fair-minded men. And intelligent.”
“Then what happened?” said Tobie.
With painful clarity, he told them, and they listened in silence. Catherine had not approved of his hunting trip, but he had felt the need to escape—he hoped the Emperor would forgive him—from the stifling attentions of the court. He had taken a few men, and had found the hunting good, and had camped not only one but two nights, and then, trusting to his wife to forgive him, had thought that he might indulge himself by continuing further. Who knew, he might even come across Nicholas and be invited to go with him to Erzerum. “For whatever rivalry there may be between us,” Doria said, “it does not extend to the Tabriz caravans, for there is enough there for everyone. As for the rest, he is a young man who enjoys games and I, too, find life sometimes a little too serious. They are dangerous games, I admit; but not mortal. He has not tried to harm me, nor I him. Our main quarrel, I know, is over my marriage to my Caterinetta, but love will not always submit to old men’s rules, or old women’s either; and as you see, she has come to no harm.”
“So you caught up with him?” Tobie said.
“Before the Vavuk pass. I was considering a camp for the night when I heard horses on the road I had left. The light was failing; they didn’t see me. But I did notice that they were Kurds, and riding armed, as if ready to attack. In fact, as I watched, they left the road and took to the turf, as if they hoped to surprise someone. I thought of Nicholas. It was rash, I know, but I took my men and followed, keeping also to the soft ground. But when I reached them, they had already surprised his camp, and were among the tents, slaughtering. I did what I could,” said Pagano Doria; and fell silent.
Godscalc said, “You saw Nicholas fall?” The girl, who had sat as if frozen throughout, drew a short breath.
Doria looked at her. He said, “Yes. I saw him die, and Master Julius. I don’t suppose you want me to…”
“Perhaps later. We want to find them. And all the rest of his company?”
“Some ran off. They rode after them, until they were all dead. Then they took the tents, and their plunder. When I woke, there was nothing left except bodies.” He moved his bandaged hand. “They had torn off my rings and cut through to see if I carried money. I was afraid they would come back, and took a stick and tried to get as far as I could while it was still dark. Two of my servants were still alive and came to help me. I didn’t see where Nicholas lay. I am sorry. It was too dark, and I was too weak.”
“They thought you were dead,” Tobie said. “Your servants were lucky.”
“They were not worth pursuing,” Doria said. “They wore no armour, and carried nothing but hunting weapons. But all the same, two of them died.”
“I am sorry,” said Godscalc. “If Astorre finds them, he will bury them also. We have a guide to whom, if you will, you could describe the exact spot.”
“If I could, I would come with you,” said Doria.
“There is no need,” Godscalc said. “Astorre will manage on his own. We ourselves are returning to Trebizond because of the company.”
“Of course,” said Doria. He lifted his free hand and rubbed it over his eyes. “Poor young men. I had forgotten, thinking of them, what it means to you all. You will go back to Bruges?”
It was odd to remember that once that is what they would have done. From curiosity, from pity for Marian de Charetty, from greed, of course, for the wealth the venture might bring, they had set out in Nicholas’s wake, and promised themselves that, if they fell out with him, they would make their way home (although Julius might come over stubborn, and Godscalc might stay to be confided in). Today, with Nicholas gone, return to Bruges had never even been mentioned. Now Godscalc said, “It would hardly be the best way of serving our mistress. For at least a year, we are committed to serve the Medici, and our station will stay, whether or not one or other of us goes back with our first cargo.” He looked at the girl and said, “The demoiselle your mother is a good employer. This was not her venture, I know, but she had some stake in it. With the death of Nicholas, his rights revert to his wife. We shall not fail her.”
“Then you wish to stay,” Doria said slowly. He looked up. “Well, I don’t see why not. You have done brilliantly in his absence, I am sure. And no one knows better than the Emperor or the others of the trading community how hard it has been for you to hold the company together without a real leader. You haven’t been anxious, I know, to make known your disagreements, but it has been plain to us all that you had found Nicholas wanting. His failure shouldn’t be laid at your door. I shall give you letters to the Emperor, saying so.”
“You’ll what?” said Tobie.
The girl turned her head at his voice.
Doria’s handsome face was compassionate. He said gently, “As you yourself said, the right to establish this station was given by the demoiselle and by the Medici to Nicholas personally. Perhaps you forgot, in your distress over his performance. But the Emperor is well aware of it. You yourselves, able though you all are, are merely paid officials.”
The pain in Tobie’s arm proved to derive from Godscalc’s four fingers digging into it. Godscalc said, “When a captain falls in battle, his deputies fill his place, until a replacement can be appointed. Fortunately, we have the understanding and trust, I think, of all the company’s clients. There is no need, therefore, for your endorsement, although we thank you for it.”
The wounded man, his face clouding, looked at his wife. He said, “Catherine, forgive me. You know these men, and they have been kind to you. But however high my regard, I have to be plain, and from the start.” He turned back, wincing a little, and then holding himself nobly. He said, “I must ask you to forgive me too, at this distressing time. But without letters from me, Father Godscalc, Messer Tobias, it will not be possible for you to continue your business. With Nicholas gone to his rest, Catherine is her mother’s representative in Trebizond, and Catherine’s rights and privileges are now mine. Of course, if you wish, you may meantime remain as our employees. You will work well, I am sure, alongside mine: you know many of them already. If it becomes necessary to turn anyone off, be sure it will not be done without generosity. I shall make all this clear to the Emperor myself, when I am well enough to return. Meanwhile, let us put our minds to what matters most. Finding these poor fellows and giving them Christian burial. And, of course, finding their murderers.”
The grip on Tobie’s arm tightened but hardly checked the blood thundering through his body. Godscalc said, in a firm voice, “You are saying, Messer Doria, that you believe you have the right to represent the Charetty company in Trebizond?”
Pagano Doria’s face remained open and mild. He said, “I think so. But of course it is my wife who has the authority. Ask Catherine, if you will.” Again, he turned his head.
She had got, now, the drift of what he was saying, and was patchily flushed, as if a cool wind had roughened her skin. Beneath the tight control, emotions fought to escape: anger and anxiety, fear and resentment. Tobie watched. When her husband, smiling, turned fully towards her, she looked at him for a moment as if she could not think who he was. Then she said, “He is my husband.”
Pagano Doria sent her
, with his eyes, a smiling look straight from the bedchamber. Then he said, “And you are content, sweetheart, that I act for you?”
She said, “Yes.”
Godscalc said, “My lord, forgive me. I am not perfectly clear. How can you act for the Charetty company if you are also acting for my lord Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren?”
God bless Godscalc. God bless all devious priests. Nicholas, you bastard, at least you gave us the key to all this before you got yourself killed. Tobie let his arm hang relaxed. Catherine de Charetty said scornfully, “Simon! What has he to do with us?”
“Ask your husband,” Godscalc said.
Doria’s smile hardly altered, but his eyes were for a moment unseeing.
Godscalc said, “It is known in Bruges as well as here. The round ship Doria doesn’t belong to your husband, Catherine. Perhaps he didn’t tell you. Its name was the Ribérac, and it was taken from his father by the Scottish lord Simon, who then employed your husband to sail east in his name and set up a rival station in Trebizond. You will know, perhaps, of the feud between my lord Simon and Nicholas.”
She didn’t collapse, or burst into tears any more than she had that morning. She turned to Doria, her eyes burning and said, “You didn’t tell me.”
Doria got up and, moving awkwardly away from the two men, sat down on the low bed by Catherine. He said, “No. Or we could never have married. He hired me to go into business for him, and make that business so successful that it would ruin Nicholas. You know Simon? He seems a silly, short-tempered lord, easily offended by slights which, I gather, Nicholas has unwisely offered him. I have a low opinion of Simon, but he pays well. I knew nothing at all of young Nicholas. I agreed; and then you and I met.” He shook his head. “Sweetheart, what could I do? Nicholas represented the Charetty company, your company. I couldn’t ruin that. But I needed his boat to give me my own start in business, so that I could support you without running, cap in hand, to your mother.”
The Spring of the Ram: The Second Book of the House of Niccolo Page 44