The Spring of the Ram

by Dorothy Dunnett

  “So? But you are going away?” said the lawyer.

  “Quite a long way. To search out the marriage,” she said. “It took place in Florence. I shall go to Florence. And Thibault de Fleury signed the documents. I shall go by way of Dijon, and see him, and get copies of all the papers I can. Don’t you think that would be wise?”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. It was probably wise. If she could prove to the world that Doria’s marriage was false, then he would probably abandon Catherine. He would certainly have lost hope of her fortune. But neither of those things would help Catherine now. Indeed, they might do the opposite.

  Then he saw why she was doing it; and perhaps the only reason she was doing it. With his marriage invalid and Catherine freed, Pagano Doria would have no reason to tamper with Catherine’s protectors. She feared for Catherine. She feared as much, because she knew him, for Nicholas.

  She said, “I shall go as soon as I can, and I shall write you from Florence. Wait a reasonable time. You have a good staff, but they need a little more training. But if you fail to hear, or feel you must stand where you may be needed, you have carte blanche to go where you wish. In Venice, we have funds, and there news will come to you fast. Take lodgings, an office. It was what he meant to do anyway. And if you have to go to Trebizond, go.”

  He said, “The office can manage without me. Take me with you to Dijon.”

  She smiled, almost as she had done when Nicholas was there. She said, “I am so lucky to have you all. But you said it yourself. This, today, was the last time we can afford to show weakness. If I were ever to forget, I have only to look at that letter.”

  Later, she said, “Anselm Adorne. I keep few secrets from that family, but they are friends of the Doria.”

  “I shan’t tell them,” he said.

  She frowned. “And Lorenzo Strozzi? Nicholas stayed with his mother in Florence.”

  He said, “But Nicholas knew nothing of Catherine. The Strozzi can know nothing either.”

  All he had told her was true; but he still felt a traitor. He left as soon after that as he could, and plunged into long thought. Then he took paper and pen and continued, as usual, to make four copies for four different couriers of a long coded letter to Nicholas.

  The morning after the fire, Messer Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli of the wooden leg returned to Modon from Patras, missing the plague by a day. Arrived in Modon, he took one look at the hulk in the harbour and, after closely questioning the Bailie, sent polite word to the young Niccolò vander Poele, patron of the galley Ciaretti, that he no longer felt able to sail with him. He would be pleased, however, if the same young man would call at his rooms near the waterfront.

  The message reached Nicholas, but he did not respond until evening. By then, he had worked for twenty-four hours and knew that what John le Grant had said was correct. They could, after a fashion, row out of Modon tomorrow. But to do what ought to be done would take days. He couldn’t catch the Doria. It seemed to him uncommonly likely, however, that the Doria would take the trouble to wait for him; if only to witness his downfall.

  In one way, the new plan was unpopular. The morning of his wretched sessions with Tobie he perceived, by the galvanised work of his fellows, that the affair of the child was now known to them.

  Le Grant, the newcomer, sensibly ventured no comment. The priest, finding himself near at one point, volunteered information. “I have to say I am sorry. I saw the child, I think, in Porto Pisano. A pretty thing, with brown hair, in a page’s dress. Spirited; not unhappy; not under duress.”

  And he, not knowing what to say, had merely said, “Thank you.”

  To which the priest had added, “Not, of course, that any excuse exists for such conduct.”

  So much for Godscalc. Astorre, probably just after he heard, came thrusting into the conference he was holding with a pulley-maker and took a handful of his shirt at the shoulder and said, “I’ll kill him. Lead me to him. I’ll slit his loins and feed a dog up his belly. I’ll…”

  For the sake of the pulley-maker, he had fobbed off the captain in some fashion. His own language had been quite picturesque too.

  But the most excitable exchange, of course, had been with Julius, who seemed to want to fight him for concealing the discovery. With justice, in a way. Julius had on occasion bear-led Marian’s two little girls, just as he had tutored Marian’s son and beaten Marian’s apprentice. It was Julius who, after a series of furious questions, had suddenly taken it upon himself to plan, accelerate and execute the whole complex operation in order that they should put to sea, not in twenty-four hours but before dinner. It had taken le Grant and Tobie to explain and quieten him. At first, the crew, too, were dashed by the change of plan. But only at first.

  His mind full of rope, Nicholas finally rapped on the door of the Greek’s lodgings and was led to his parlour. He was between trips to the pitch-maker, the ironsmith’s and the cooper’s yard; he hadn’t eaten since midday, or done much to better his clothing. The one-legged Athenian, who was in fact of Florentine descent and connection, rose in his perfect gown and swathed hat, and greeted him with a pleasantry.

  “It’s the new Charetty colours,” Nicholas said. “Ship and doublet to match. Forgive me, monsignore. I have had no time for grooming. I am sorry, too, that we are to be deprived of your company to Constantinople.”

  “Stamboul,” said the Greek. “You must revise your term, now the Turk has possessed it. And Pera, over the water. You will meet my brother there, whom your Scottish king helped to ransom. Or no, it was not your Scottish king, but my lord Simon’s. You enjoyed your first voyage at sea? Until, of course, this sad occurrence.”

  “I enjoy most things,” said Nicholas. “We sailed past Tolfa. The Roman alum is still undiscovered, I hear.”

  The Athenian smiled. His face, dark and bearded, was not young, but remained handsome and suave as the day Nicholas had seen it first on the quayside at Damme, eighteen months ago. And last, in September, on board a Venetian galley at Sluys, when he had met Violante of Naxos, and the trip to Trebizond had been mooted.

  There was gold belonging to Nicholas lodged in Venice. There was also a respectable deposit in the name of the Charetty company. They did not talk about that; for much of it came from their private and continuing fee for locating alum near Rome, and then keeping silence about it. Venice valued her Turkish alum monopoly. Now Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli said, “Of course, someone will find Tolfa one day, as you and your physician did by deduction. The Pope’s godson da Castro is seeking it. Should he find it, the Pope will seize and exploit the alum. But every day that passes meantime makes my brother happy, and equally, surely, the Charetty company. So you go to Trebizond, despite your small mishap?”

  “It is what we set out to do,” Nicholas said.

  “And you will cherish, as well as you may, those generous colleagues of yours and mine, the Venetians?”

  “In so far as I can,” Nicholas said. “The Genoese consul Doria is going to be troublesome. We suspect him of causing the fire.”

  “You do!” said the Greek. “Then I share your concern. He sails ahead of you?”

  “Into Constantinople. Stamboul. We don’t know his influence there.”

  “He knows the Greeks,” said the Athenian calmly. “All the Doria family do. He will have friends among the families the Sultan has induced to resettle. As for the foreign colony over the water…my brother will tell you what goes on in Pera. The Genoese are disliked there in general, and the Venetian Bailie is the Turks’ preferred spokesman. Did the silk survive?”

  “Yes,” said Nicholas. “The fire was very selective. You were going to tell me about alum.”

  The other man looked surprised. “I thought I had.”

  “We talked in Flanders, on the galley. You spoke of alum near Kerasous.”

  “Dear me, did I?” said the Greek. “But that is a little way along the Black Sea from Trebizond. And the mine is not on the coast, but in the hills some way to the south. And the lo
ads that can be brought into Kerasous are subject to quite terrible taxation as they pass through the straits of the Turks. It is complicated.”

  “I can see that,” said Nicholas.

  “Hardly worth pursuing at present,” the Athenian said.

  “I can see that, too,” said Nicholas. “But your brother the lord Bartolomeo could, I’m sure, advise me. Will he come with me to Trebizond?”

  “With you?” said the Greek. “Ah no. His business is in Pera. Alum, silk. Much like your own. There may be a passenger or two he could put your way. The Emperor sends merchants, courtiers. The Emperor likes buying silk, collecting news. You may find yourself with some such aboard.”

  “With horse trappings?” Nicholas said.

  The Athenian looked at him and laughed. “You have heard. The Persians breed pretty horses, but their envoys have their brains in their hooves. If it is true that the Sultan is assembling a fleet, you will be able to confirm it. What he has will be in Gallipoli, which you will pass. You will hear rumours about whom he will use it against. Some say it is purely defensive, in case our mad Ludovico of Bologna stirs up some crazy duchy against him.”

  “So you don’t advise me to stay clear of Trebizond?” Nicholas said.

  The Athenian examined him. “No. And, my cynical friend, I say so as much for your own good as any it may do Venice or Florence. I did not deceive you in Flanders.”

  “No,” Nicholas said. “Why should you, when there are so many others?”

  He was given something to drink, and they talked, to some point. Then he left, to tackle his next six engagements.

  At the end of five days, he was able to sail out of Modon. His mood was not one of happiness but more of dark and positive determination.

  He was aware of the fact that only one stage now lay between him and the Fleece. And that unlike Jason’s, his wooden oracle had preferred not to embark.

  Chapter 12

  MESSER PAGANO DORIA’S patience with his young lady wife during the passage from Modon to Constantinople, City of the Thrice-Blessed Virgin, ex-Tabernacle on Earth of the Bride of the Lord, was regarded as something amazing by everyone on board the Doria, from Michael Crackbene his captain right down to Noah, his eager black page. There were those who put it down to infatuation, and those who remarked, and rightly, that my lord Pagano Doria was an unusually equable man. There were still others who thought of another possibility.

  A man of experience, Doria could see for himself that the incidents at Modon had quickly lost their diversionary value, so that he had to rely on the marriage bed. It was not a penance. Her attraction for him was considerable. She was one of his most promising pupils and, when he could, he devoted himself to her, forgiving the stray acts of wilfulness. Someone else, eventually, could train her out of those. So single-minded did he make himself that, when he turned off the terrible nurse (with his wife’s eager approval) in the last days at Modon, he had selflessly replaced the bitch with two of the plainest servingwomen he could find. It had not entirely pleased Catherine. Incomparable women had pretty maids: only the plain chose the ugly. He apologised, charmingly.

  As for Catherine herself, it was quite painful at times to deny his embraces, but she felt it was good for him. She had tamed Felix her brother by refusing approval and companionship, and Felix had liked her better than Tilde. The escapade at Modon had proved an unplanned test of her power over Pagano. It began as a kind of joke. Unknown to him, she would dress in her page’s costume, attach herself to his suite and, unnoticed in the darkness, observe her mother’s husband. Since her ultimate lesson in carnal knowledge, she found it less disturbing to think of her mother and Nicholas. She could understand an old woman’s temptation. She found it less easy to understand Nicholas, who presumably had no idea what he was missing.

  Standing there in her pretty costume, she found herself speculating on what Nicholas would say if he saw her. Then he looked straight at her. She was sure, even then, that in this dress and setting she was unrecognisable. And then she had seen his face alter. Become strange and alter, and all because of her! She realised she ought to run for Pagano’s sake, but was laughing with excitement so much that it brought on the hiccoughs and someone had to half drag her along. Noah, the little black bastard (as her late nurse frequently called him); who went and told Pagano as soon as he arrived on the round ship.

  But by then she was standing, showered in soot at the ship’s rail, lost in the spectacle of the Florentine galley on fire, and when Pagano walked over, looking hot, she was thinking of nothing else. She had rushed to him and said, “Did you do it? You did it, didn’t you?” in sheer delight, because although they had talked of ways of keeping Nicholas and his ship in harbour, fire had never been mentioned.

  Immediately, he had looked a little less rigid. He had said, “How could I have had anything to do with it? I’ve been ashore all evening.”

  “Is it bad?” she had said.

  And he had put his arm round her and said, “It’s not as bad as it looks. Nicholas is quite safe, but of course he can’t sail for a while. Caterinetta, I have to scold you, but I have a lot to do first. This smoke is bad: I think you should go below and get the girls to make your boxes secure. If I see a chance, I might set sail this evening. Then poor Nicholas will have no hope of reaching the Black Sea before us.”

  She was so pleased that she relented. She put her arms round his neck, coughing a little, and said, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t think he would see me. And you were away the whole evening.”

  He had rested his hands at her girdle. When he rearranged them she recognised, with complacency, that she had won. “Well,” he said; and he was smiling. “I shall be away for a little more of the evening, until we are ready to leave. But after that, there will be the whole night, and tomorrow, and many days and nights after that to make up for it. And then I shall show you Constantinople, Queen of Cities.”

  They smiled. He joined her below decks, and they mined pleasure out of each other, warm and blind and enclosed, as long as the seam yielded gold. He fell asleep with the last gleaning half reached for. She didn’t hold it against him, but lay stroking his hair between her two, new, blue-veined breasts, round and swollen as Tilde’s.

  Her mind wandered to Nicholas, and the way he had looked when she had surprised him on shore. She had the impression that Pagano didn’t mind so much, now, if Nicholas followed them. She was glad. She wanted Nicholas to see her being received, properly dressed, at the Imperial Byzantine court at Trebizond. She wished he could see her now, being kind to Pagano. Then he could go home and think about it, in Bruges with her mother.

  Far from launching an idyll, that night was the last she and Pagano were to share for some considerable time. First, bad weather struck. Then, the small gift of God, once so longed-for, made its second appearance: an inevitability which no one had reminded her of. Her new and plain women were less practical than the old nurse, and also less shrewd. They called her affliction the Curse, without reverence; and smiled behind their hands at her angry resentment. (This—this!—was a bodily insult she must now expect to contend with for most of her life.) Of course, they slyly remarked, Madonna might get her husband to remedy it. She learned what her husband had to do with it, and became very thoughtful, hugging her hot brick as she clung first to one side of the mattress and then the other, while her head and feet changed heights continually.

  When she did come on deck, Pagano said they were in the Aegean Sea, and if the clouds cleared they could look behind and see the clouds on Mount Athos. He quite often produced names of places as if she had been here before, and ought to know them. Mount Olympus. He had been boring about Mount Olympus, and he was even boring when he talked about Jason and the Golden Fleece. When she told him so, he switched to Helen of Troy, which was better.

  The Charetty household had not been a great place for stories, and Felix’s tutor had never tried to teach geography at the same time. She had also seen plenty of seagulls at
Bruges, and fish, for that matter. The sea was full of islands and rocks, and the coast was just cliffs and rocks too, with fishing huts no bigger than pebbles. During the day there were plenty of boats about, moving from island to island, and Pagano thought she might want to look for their flags, but she didn’t. None was as big as their own although she saw two smaller cogs sailing ahead, on the same route as themselves. They passed flocks of fishing boats every night, with their flickering torches and the men in the bows with their tridents. The boats, when you saw them in daylight, were loaded with wriggling objects like cockroaches. Pagano asked if she preferred squid or octopus. She was meant to know he was joking. If they were selling fish, she thought they must be in a poor way of business to have to rely on passing ships for their market. Pagano, when she opened the subject, wasn’t interested. Pagano liked the sort of business you did over a pitcher of wine, with gold changing hands, and other men handling the cargo. For a sea prince that was, of course, as it should be.

  In fact, the Doria didn’t stop anywhere until they reached Gallipoli and even then it was only to satisfy the Turkish governor, who was also an admiral. The harbour and shipyards were full and they were not allowed on shore. When she complained, Pagano said they were in a hurry, because the north winds started in March. She didn’t see that they could be any worse than the winds that were blowing already. A round ship was supposed to be comfortable compared with a shallow galley that took in seawater all the time. But the draught from the sails was bone-chilling, and the cold and the damp got in everywhere. There was mould on her new velvet dress.