Order of Darkness

by Philippa Gregory

  Confidently, he tossed it into the scales and showed her the weight. ‘Fifty-four grains,’ he said. ‘A full noble is 108. They all are. Always. They are perfect coins.’

  ‘It looks like new!’ Freize exclaimed. ‘As if it were fresh from the mint.’

  The man nodded. ‘As I said, they’re very fine coins,’ he confirmed.

  ‘But how can it be so shiny and fine?’ Ishraq asked him.

  ‘Since it must have come all the way from England, from the royal mint in England?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Actually, it came from the English royal mint in Calais,’ he said shortly. ‘You can tell by the signs on the coin if you look closely.’

  ‘They hardly look like coins at all,’ Freize said, accustomed to the worn and jagged currency that he usually carried, coins that had been snipped and clipped by people wanting to break them down into smaller currency, or worn smooth by years of use.

  ‘Put it away before someone with less discernment takes it off you,’ the merchant recommended. ‘And before you make people think that there is something wrong with it.’ He glanced down the row of tables. Some of the traders were watching them. ‘We all exchange money here, the town depends on trade, like it depends on water. Nobody wants anyone looking at a coin and wondering about its value. A good piccoli buys you a loaf of bread and a fish for your dinner. Tell people that a piccoli is not really worth a penny, but only half a penny, and you’ll only get a loaf and no fish. Faith in the currency is what makes trade in this town. We don’t like people questioning our coins. Our coins are good, these nobles are exceptionally good, everyone else is trading them for more than two ducats. I shall put up my price again tomorrow. You are lucky that I have these at this price today. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘Indeed I wasn’t questioning it,’ Freize said pleasantly. ‘I was admiring it, I was so impressed by the quality. Thank you for your patience.’

  He bowed politely to the money changer and then the two of them turned away and strolled towards the Rialto Bridge. ‘Let me see it,’ Ishraq said curiously. ‘What’s the coin like?’

  In answer, Freize handed it to her. It was as bright as newly minted, newly polished gold. There was a picture of a king in the prow of his ship on one side, and an eight-petalled heraldic rose on the other side. In English currency it was worth three shillings and four pence, a sixth of a pound; in Venice it could be exchanged today for a gold ducat, tomorrow it might be more or less.

  ‘It looks like new,’ Freize remarked. ‘Whatever he says.’

  ‘But who would be minting fake English nobles in Venice?’ Ishraq wondered aloud.

  ‘And that’s the very question that Milord has set Luca to answer,’ Freize agreed. ‘But I can’t help but wonder why Milord is so interested. It’s hardly a sign of the end of days. It’s hardly a holy inquiry. Since Luca is appointed to the Order of Darkness to travel throughout Christendom and find the signs for the end of the world, why would he be ordered to discover the source of gold coins in Venice? I would have thought it was rather a worldly question for an Order that was established by the Pope to discover the date of the end of the world. What do they care about the value of English nobles?’

  He saw, in her downturned face, the same scepticism about Milord that he felt. ‘Ah, you don’t like him any more than I do,’ he said flatly.

  ‘I don’t know him,’ she said. ‘Who does know him? He has never let any of us see his face. He didn’t tell us anything, beyond ordering us to come to Venice in disguise to find out about the coins. He commands Luca and Brother Peter as the commander of their Order but he gives us no reason to trust him. He hates the Ottomans as if they were poison – well, I understand that – they have conquered Constantinople, and he thinks that if they reach Rome then the world will end. But I don’t see how to trust a man who lives his life as if he were always on the very edge of world disaster. His whole work, his whole life is waiting for the end of the world. He’s an angry man and a fearful man, I really don’t like him.’

  ‘And so you let his enemy into our house,’ Freize said gently.

  ‘I let him out of the house,’ she corrected him. ‘I heard the Ottoman Radu Bey on the stairs, I don’t know how he got in. He said he had just visited Milord and I let him out of the house. I didn’t know that he had threatened Milord. I don’t know that I even care if he did.’

  ‘Milord said that the intruder was an Assassin. That he could have been stabbed as he slept.’

  ‘Milord says a lot of things,’ she replied. ‘But it was Radu Bey for sure who got into his room and pinned his own badge over Milord’s heart as he slept. He could have killed him, but he did not. I can see that he and the Ottoman lord are enemies – they’re on either side of the greatest war there is: the Jihad to one, the Crusade to the other – but that doesn’t tell me which is the right side, which is the better man.’

  She had shocked him. ‘We’re Christians!’ he exclaimed. ‘We serve Luca who serves the Church. The Crusade is a holy war against the infidel!’

  ‘You are,’ she pointed out. ‘You four are. But I’m not. I want to make up my own mind. And I simply don’t know enough about Luca’s lord – or about the Ottoman lord either.’

  ‘We have to follow Luca’s lord, we can’t desert Luca,’ Freize pointed out. ‘I love him as a brother and your lady won’t leave him unless she has to. And you?’ He gave her a quick sideways smile. ‘You’re head over heels in love with him, aren’t you?’

  She laughed. ‘I’m not head over heels for anyone,’ she said. ‘I keep my two feet on the ground. He makes my heart beat a little faster, I grant you that. But nothing in this world would send me head over heels, I like to be right side up.’

  ‘One day,’ Freize warned her solemnly. ‘One day you will find that you are head over heels in love with me. I pray that you don’t leave it too late.’

  She laughed. ‘What a mistake that would be! Look at how you run after other women!’

  ‘And on that day,’ Freize predicted without paying any attention to her laughter, ‘on that day, I will be kind to you. I will take you in my arms, I will allow you to adore me.’

  ‘I’ll remember that!’ she said.

  ‘Remember this too,’ Freize said more seriously. ‘Luca is sworn to obey the lord of his Order. I have promised to follow and serve Luca. You are travelling with us. You can’t support our enemies.’

  ‘And what of your friends?’ she challenged him. ‘And Luca’s mysterious errands for his Lord? A servant of the Church coming to Venice in carnival time, ordered to speculate in gold and trade in a cargo? Is this holy work in your Church?’

  The bell of San Giacomo started to ring over their heads and flocks of pigeons fluttered from their roosts in the church tower, interrupting them. ‘One o’clock,’ said Ishraq. ‘And here, I think, is Father Pietro.’

  The two of them watched as an elderly grey-haired man wearing the undyed wool robes of the Benedictine order came from the church, still crossing himself, his forehead damp with holy water, and walked across the crowded square. Traders, merchants and passers-by greeted him by name, as he threaded his way through the crowd, making the sign of the cross over a child who ducked for the blessing, until he arrived at the foot of the Rialto Bridge where a small stone pillar – usually used for hitching boats – served as his seat.

  He took his place, and the servant who had followed him through the crowd set up a small table for writing, unfurled a long, rolled manuscript and presented the priest with a pen. Father Pietro looked around him, bowed his head briefly in prayer and then dipped his pen in the inkwell and waited, pen poised. Clearly, he was open for business, but before Ishraq or Freize could speak to him a little crowd had gathered around him, shouting out the names of missing relatives, or asking for information.

  As Ishraq and Freize watched, the friar looked through his list, noted down new names, reported on ones he could find, and advised the supplicants. For one young man he had great news: his c
ousin had been located in the occupied lands in Greece, and the master was ready to sell.

  Much of Greece had been invaded by the Ottoman Empire and the Greeks had to serve the Ottoman lords and pay an annual tribute. This man was labouring as a slave on a farm of one of the Ottoman conquerors. The lord had named his price and Father Pietro thought it was a fair one, though it was a lira di grosso – ten ducats, a year’s pay for a labouring man.

  ‘Where am I to get that sort of money?’ the man demanded.

  ‘Your church should make a collection for your kinsman,’ the friar advised. ‘And His Holiness the Pope makes a donation every year for the freeing of Christians. If you can raise some of the money I can ask for the rest. Come back when you have at least half and we will convert it into the English gold. The slave owners only want to be paid in English gold nobles this year. Even the tribute from the occupied lands has to be in English nobles this year. But I will get you a fair rate from the money changers.’

  ‘God bless you! God bless you!’ the young man said and darted away into the crowd.

  A few other people drew near and had a muttered consultation, and then Freize and Ishraq were before the friar’s little table.

  ‘Father Pietro?’ Freize inquired.

  ‘That is my name.’

  ‘I am glad to find you. I will bring my master to you – he is anxiously seeking his parents who were taken into slavery.’

  ‘I am sorry for him, and for them. I pray that God will guide them home,’ the man said gently.

  ‘Can I bring him here to you, tomorrow?’ Freize asked.

  ‘Yes, my son. I am always here. It is my life’s work to seek out the poor lambs stolen from the flock. What is the name of his father and mother?’

  ‘Their family name was Vero and he has had news of his father. His father was Gwilliam Vero, said to be a galley slave on a ship owned by . . .’ Freize slapped his hand on his broad forehead.

  ‘Bayeed,’ Ishraq prompted. ‘But we were told that was some years ago. We are not certain where he is now.’

  Father Pietro inclined his head. ‘I know of this Bayeed. I will look through the lists I keep at home, and ask some newly released slaves tonight,’ he said. ‘Bayeed sold one of his slaves to me a little while ago. Perhaps that man will know of Gwilliam Vero. I hope I will have some sort of answer for you tomorrow.’

  ‘Bayeed himself sold a galley slave to you?’ Ishraq queried.

  ‘He is a merchant,’ Father Pietro said calmly, as if nothing in the world could surprise him. ‘He trades in slaves like the merchants from England trade in cloth. Christian souls are a form of merchandise to him, like any other, God forgive him. He sold a slave to me for ten ducats – though he insisted on being paid in English gold – so we sent him eight English nobles – they were worth less then than they are now.’

  ‘Why don’t they take their ransom in ducats?’ Ishraq asked. ‘That’s the currency of Venice, surely?’

  ‘They always want either solid gold or a currency that they can trust. This year they want the English nobles because there are always 108 grains of gold in each coin. They know what they are getting when they get English gold. Some coins of other countries are made with very impure metal. You will find the piccoli here contain hardly any silver at all. They are almost all tin. Beware of forgeries.’ The priest turned his gentle gaze on Ishraq. ‘And you, child? What are you doing so far from home? Are you enslaved or free?’

  ‘I’m free.’ Ishraq blushed behind her veil. ‘My mother came to this country of her own free will and I was brought here with her.’

  ‘Your father is a Christian?’

  ‘I don’t know my father,’ she said, her voice muffled with embarrassment. ‘My mother never told me his name. But she said they were married. My father was a Christian and my mother was free.’

  ‘And what is your faith?’

  ‘My mother taught me the Koran, and the Christian lord who brought us to his home read me the Bible. But now they are both dead. I practise no religion, I am afraid that I have no faith.’

  He gave a little gasp of dismay at her lack of godliness, and shook his head. ‘My child, I shall pray for you, and hope that you can find your way to the true faith. Would you come to me for instruction?’

  ‘If you insist,’ Ishraq said awkwardly. ‘But I am sorry to say Father that I am not a good student of religion.’

  He smiled at her, as if her boldness amused him. ‘Because you are such a good scholar for other studies? What do you read, my learned daughter?’

  She nodded, ignoring the gentle sarcasm. ‘I really am a student, Father. I am interested in the new scholarship,’ she said. ‘The learning of the Greeks that the Arab scholars are starting to translate, so that we can all learn from them.’

  ‘God bless you, my child,’ he said earnestly. ‘I will pray that God moves your heart to come to Him, and that you become content to learn through revelation, not through study. But don’t you want to go to your home again?’

  She hesitated for a moment, struck that this was the second time a stranger had asked her of the home she could barely remember. ‘I don’t really know where I would call home now. The house where I was raised – the castle of Lucretili – has been claimed by a thief – my friend’s brother – and I am sworn to help her get it back. I’d be glad to fight for it and see it returned to her. But even if we win, even if she goes home to live there – I won’t be able to say that it is truly my home.’ She looked at him with her direct dark gaze. ‘Father, sometimes I fear that I don’t belong anywhere. I have neither father nor mother nor home.’

  ‘Or perhaps you are free,’ he said quietly.

  It was so novel a thought that she said nothing in reply.

  He smiled. ‘To belong somewhere is always to owe something: a debt of loyalty, your work or your time, your love or your taxes. You are an unusual young woman if you do not belong to a man nor to a place. You are not commanded by a master or a father or a husband. That means you are free to choose where you live. That makes you free to choose how you live. The service of the Lord is perfect freedom.’

  ‘I am . . .’ Ishraq stammered. ‘It is true. I am free.’

  He raised a finger. ‘So make sure you choose rightly, my daughter. Make sure that you walk in the way of God. You are free to live freely inside His holy laws.’

  He turned to Freize with a gentle smile. ‘And you, my son in Christ?’

  ‘Oh, I’m of no interest to anyone,’ Freize said cheerfully. ‘First a kitchen boy in a monastery, now a servant to a young master, never enough money, always hungry, always happy. Don’t you worry about me.’

  ‘You attend church?’ the father prompted.

  ‘Yes, of course, Father,’ Freize agreed, feeling a tinge of guilt that though he regularly attended, he seldom listened.

  ‘Then walk in God’s holy ways,’ the Father urged him. ‘And make sure that you give to the poor, not to gamblers.’

  Ishraq raised her eyebrows, surprised that the priest had seen them gambling with the cups and ball game. ‘Are they always there?’ she asked.

  ‘Every day, and God knows how many piccoli they collect from the foolish and the spendthrift,’ he said. ‘They are a trap for the unwary and every day they leave here with a purse full of silver coins. Don’t you waste your money on them again.’ He smiled and raised his hand over them both in a blessing. ‘And tell your master, I will see him tomorrow.’

  The gondola arrived back at the grand house, to find Isolde, Brother Peter and Luca waiting for Ishraq and Freize. Isolde had unpacked the new clothes that had survived the journey from Ravenna, and had looked all around their new grand quarters. She took Ishraq upstairs to their floor, as Freize, in the men’s quarters, told Luca that they had found Father Pietro.

  ‘It’s the most beautiful house I have ever seen,’ she confided in Ishraq. ‘Lucretili was grand, but this is beautiful. Every corner is like a painting. There is an inner courtyard, on the side of the hou
se, with a roofed walkway on all the four sides which leads to a pretty walled garden. When the weather is warmer we can walk round the courtyard and sit in the garden.’

  ‘Surely we’ll walk on the quays and the piazza? And we’ll take the gondola out?’ asked Ishraq.

  Isolde made a little face. ‘Apparently, the ladies of Venice don’t go out much. Maria, the housekeeper, said so. We’ll have to stay indoors. We can go out to church once a day, or perhaps to visit friends in their houses. But mostly ladies stay at home. Or visit other ladies in their homes.’

  ‘I can’t be cooped up!’ Ishraq protested.

  ‘That’s how they do things in Venice. If we want to pass as the sister and companion of a prosperous young merchant, we’ll have to behave that way. It won’t be for long – just till Luca finds the source of the gold coins and sends a report to Milord.’

  ‘But that could be weeks, it could be months,’ Ishraq said aghast.

  ‘We can probably go out on the water in our own gondola,’ Isolde suggested. ‘As long as we are veiled, or sit in the cabin.’

  Ishraq looked blankly at her. ‘We are in one of the richest, most exciting cities in Christendom and you’re telling me that we’re not allowed to walk around it on our own two feet?’

  Isolde looked uncomfortable. ‘You can probably go out to the market with Freize or a chaperone,’ she said. ‘But I can’t. I wasn’t even allowed to listen to the lecture, even though it was held in the chapel beside the church.’

  ‘What lecture?’ Ishraq was immediately interested.

  ‘At the church there is a priest who studies all things. He is part of the university of Venice, and sometimes he goes to Padua to study there. He was giving a lecture after Sext and Luca waited to hear him. Luca talked to him about the rainbow mosaic in the tomb of Galla Placidia.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘Brother Peter brought me home. Brother Peter does not believe in women studying.’