It appeared to be acceptable: the Genoese and the Florentine made a hearty meal while describing the constipating excesses of Duke Philip’s grand banquet the previous night. They had drunk Beaune wine exclusively. The banqueting hall, specially built for the Duke, had been bigger than the one he built for his bride when he founded the Order. Last night, the hall had been hung inside with the cloth of gold Gideon tapestries, worth ten thousand écus, and fitted with shelves of gold and silver plate which was not even needed, for the Duke had as much besides as would serve all his guests. The revelry, with music and dancing and jesters, had gone on nearly till morning, although it had, of course, lacked the extreme brilliance of the original banquet. There had been no wild men thundering in on roast pigs, or pies with bleating blue sheep fixed inside them. But fifty different courses, served to fanfares. There was munificence for you.
None of it was new to Gregorio, who had heard tales of what went on at the Princenhof, and had a rough idea of the annual income of Duke Philip of Burgundy, king among princes. De Camulio’s enthusiasm appeared to be genuine. Nicholas had said he was ambitious, but quarrelsome. Like Astorre, he enjoyed the displays of his betters. And, of course, he would have to prune his account for the ears of his own Duke of Milan. A former condottieri who had won his dukedom through his own strong right arm and a marriage, the Duke lived in relative simplicity and saw power in different terms.
And Alighieri? It would be an odd circumstance if he were impressed. The court of Trebizond, surely, could match this for concentrated wealth and outmatch it in historic ceremony. It, too, employed etiquette as a weapon. Gregorio could make nothing so far of Alighieri, a smallish uneasy man with dark skin and an appeasing manner belied by extremely sharp eyes. In Florence, he had delivered a harangue in Latin, people said, on behalf of the Observatine friar his leader, who claimed to have forgotten his learning. On the same grounds, he had taken part in the audience with the Pope, and had handed to the Duke of Burgundy the Pope’s letter introducing his delecti filii, the Eastern delegates. He looked to Gregorio like the sort of sharp, lettered man who sets himself up as secretary or tutor to the great, and very soon takes the place of his masters.
The talk remained disappointingly harmless. De Camulio said, “You know, of course, that Brussels offered the Duke twenty thousand Rhenish florins to let them host the Golden Fleece meetings. They were even ready to build him a hall for the banquets. But St Omer got them for nothing.”
“He had his reasons,” said Alighieri. “I’d want to please the men of St Omer if I had a French army spilling over my borders. I don’t know how we’re going to get through to Mehun if France invades Burgundy or starts trouble in Calais. And the French king may be dead before our embassy arrives there.”
“I think,” said de Camulio, “that you should refrain from worrying. The English war is favouring the Dauphin’s side and not his father’s. Your greatest misfortune, so far as I see it, is that before you can get there, poor King Charles will have gambled away all his money.”
Gregorio recalled Adorne’s view of this delegation, quartering Europe for troops and money to drive back the Ottoman armies. He said to Alighieri, “You don’t in fact expect France to pay for a crusade at this moment?”
Alighieri said, “Speaking personally, I don’t expect anyone to pay for a crusade until the English war is settled, and even later. They all have enemies enough of their own without looking beyond Christian lands.”
Gregorio said, “The Order of the Golden Fleece was founded to clear the holy places of the East. I remember, even from Padua, hearing of the feasts that were held, and the vows taken.”
De Camulio, unsure of him, nodded. “The Vow of the Pheasant, seven years ago. They could have chosen the Peacock, the Heron, the Swan of Lohengrin to swear upon. The Phasianus, the bird of Colchis, matched the Duke’s theme. The Duke’s obsession, as I hear it. As Jason went forth to achieve his impossible task, so the heroes of today would free the Holy Land from the heathens who hold it. Everyone remembers, of course, the cost of the tournaments, and the fact that nothing happened. But indeed it might have done, but for unrest at home. Some of these men did, on their own account, cross the sea and lay down their lives for the Faith.”
“All rulers understand that,” said Alighieri. “So does the Church. Even the Observatines vowed to personal poverty, who send out delegations such as mine.”
De Camulio said, “But one accepts, too, that there are other reasons. You, sir, are a merchant. Trade needs peace. Traders for that reason often make the best envoys, and no one will blame them if they make some profit out of their journeyings. The Golden Fleece came into being from the highest of motives, but it serves other purposes.”
And that was true, Gregorio thought. It represented the Duke’s dramatic retribution for the capture of his father, long ago, by the Turks. It displayed the Duke’s wealth and his power and his magnificence, so that the common herd might be proud to call themselves Burgundians. It bound the princes from all the different lands he had swallowed; and gave them a feeling of comradeship and pride in being consulted.
As for the high motives, they could have little outlet just now. In secret session tomorrow, the Order would talk of a holy war, but inconclusively, one had to suspect. The rest was more like the business of some jousting society. A mild inquisition into the moral condition of every knight, with amusing punishments for amusing faults—although sometimes the Duke would use the occasion to force disgrace upon someone who deserved it. Then the casting of votes to fill the places of those recently dead, followed by the induction of the new knights and the presentation of the fiery Collar to each. Gregorio wondered, listening to de Camulio, why he had troubled to find out so much. Perhaps he thought the Duke of Milan ought to have been proposed for membership, or his son Galeazzo. But the Order was drawn from French-speaking Flanders and the two Burgundies, not from friends of Milan. Which might, in itself, explain the diplomat’s interest.
Gregorio said, “I hear Louis de Gruuthuse made a brilliant embassy to Scotland early this year. Carried the Duke’s condolences to his niece on the death of King James; met the new youthful sovereign; encouraged the Dowager Queen to think again before supporting the French king and the Lancastrians. Such a man, would you say, deserves the highest accolade his ruler can offer?”
Prosper de Camulio smiled. “You too have seen the size of the house Louis de Gruuthuse has rented. Yes, my friend. It is no secret, I think, that by the end of tomorrow, the Golden Fleece will have a new knight in that fortunate family. And now I have something to ask, before I return to my duties. Your Messer Niccolò spoke of sending some alum from Constantinople. Have you word of it?”
“Ask me in a week’s time,” Gregorio said. “If our agent Zorzi had alum waiting, it could have arrived in Pisa by now.”
“It is a pity, paying those prices,” de Camulio said. “But I suppose it is fortunate that we can get it at all. Before I joined the Duke of Milan, I remember the constant concern of the Adorno, the Spinola. No alum meant no cloth and no leather.”
Gregorio said, “In Bruges, it is the same. By the way, I asked Anselm Adorne about Pagano Doria. You know he left Florence as Genoese consul to Trebizond? I think we should have been warned about that.”
“By whom? By Messer Anselm?” said the Duke of Milan’s envoy. “But, my friend, are you not expecting too much? It is like the Fleece. Beforehand, it is not wise that men should know who the candidates are.”
“Do you know Doria?” said Gregorio.
“No more of him than Messer Anselm has already told you. But here is a man who knows everything about everyone. I give him my place. Messer Gregorio, my heart is touched by your hospitality. We shall speak more, and at leisure. I must leave.”
He got up, removing a trace of grease from his mouth with a little silk handkerchief. His pourpoint collar, though black, was edged with fine silver sewing. Gregorio made the correct sounds, rising also; observing Alighieri’s expre
ssion; guessing who the newcomer was even before he strode in from the door.
“Ah,” said Fra Ludovico da Bologna, leader of the Eastern delegation to Europe. He stood and stared, first at Gregorio, and then at Michael Alighieri, his fellow-traveller. “I find you both. You were to wait for me, Michael. You had forgotten.” The Duke of Milan’s envoy, bowing, left with a smile behind the friar’s back. The friar said, “And I find you in sin.”
His eyes were trained on the half-eaten meats on the trestle. It was, without doubt, the Minorite friar whose denunciation of Julius in Florence—encouraged by Pagano Doria—had so nearly stopped the whole Charetty expedition. “A bear,” Nicholas had written. “A bear taught young to dance. He will dance, too, into bearpits and out of them, and never notice the spikes. He is wholly innocent, I think, of any plot with Doria. He is wholly innocent of most things, including charity.”
Nicholas kept to himself, as a rule, what he thought of his betters. When he made an exception, Gregorio had learned to take note of it. Before him was planted a middle-sized man in an elderly cassock whose reddened face and tanned tonsure appeared to have been cleared by the razor from a carpet of cocks’ feathers. Gleaming hair sprang from the backs of his fingers and hung over his eyes, fed by pulsing, vigorous veins. Gregorio said, “Some of us have dispensation. Please join us, brother. There is some good fish going waste.”
“Dispensation?” The voice came from a deep chest, in good order.
“From the abbot of St Bertin.” It was a profound lie, but he was curious about how much Observatine monks knew of Burgundian politics.
“The son of a priest and a nun,” said Fra Ludovico. “The know-all of Burgundy.” He sat down on the stool vacated by de Camulio.
“The Chancellor of the Golden Fleece Order,” said Gregorio, on the mildest note of reproof. “I hear he and his predecessor have deposed Jason for his failure to meet private obligations and have replaced him as patron by the labourer Gideon, of the wet and dry fleece. Preferring the Holy Spirit to Ovid; the Holy Scriptures to the Metamorphoses; and truth, as ever, to fantasy.”
“Nôtre Dame, Bourgogne et Montjoie St Andrieu!” bellowed the friar. He helped himself, with calmness, to the fish. “That is, I understand, the Duke’s warcry. Since he has not attempted to combine it with the names of Jason or Gideon, I cannot understand why he does not revert to St Andrew, the Order’s first patron; missionary saint to both shores of the Black Sea. Until the rainy weather discommoded the knights, they always held the Chapter on his feast in November. Now, of course, that stinking Greek turncoat the despot Thomas has the head of St Andrew in Rome, and is using it to pay for his bottomwipers. You’ve never heard of Santameri?”
“Santameri?” said Gregorio obediently.
“The Frankish castle of St Omer. St Omer in the Morea. The Pope and Milan sent Thomas soldiers, but he didn’t get on with them. If he had, the inhabitants of St Omer would be alive now. There is, I take it, no bread?”
“I shall have more brought,” Gregorio said. “Will the Duke lead your crusade, or finance it?”
The friar plied his knife. There was lard on his chin. He said, “You want me to talk about how one jewel from the tournament prizes would kill twenty Saracens? I’m an Observatine, my boy. We’ve been pricking the conscience of kings since we were founded. I’ve lived in Jerusalem. Calixtus sent me to Persia and Georgia as nuncio to the Latins. He tried to get me into Ethiopia. I’m not a little monk with a bell from someone’s carpeted chapel. I’ve the power to preach and hear confessions and confer sacraments and baptise. I work. I don’t expect greedy people to help; I make them do it. I thought your man Julius was pig swill.”
“So did Cosimo de’ Medici until we proved otherwise. You should make sure of your facts,” said Gregorio.
“That’s what I’m saying. I thought he was pig swill; about to fill his pockets from both sides and get out before anything happened. The rest of the company too. I was wrong. You were sending soldiers to Trebizond. I’ve just heard it.”
“How did you hear?” said Alighieri.
The Franciscan took both hands away from his mouth, which was full, and glanced at his fellow-delegate. “A friend of a friend,” he said. He switched his attention back to his food. “Who will they fight for?”
Gregorio remained calm. He said, “For their leader Astorre, under Nicholas. Niccolò. Naturally.”
The friar, peacefully groaning, was exploring his gums with a needle. He withdrew it, shrouded with food, and sat twirling it idly between thumb and finger. “I meant what you thought. For whom will child Niccolò fight?”
Michael Alighieri said, “Brother, all his resources are committed to the Emperor and the Medici. I am sure he is a man of good faith. But even if he is not, what other option has he?”
“He could fight for himself,” said Fra Ludovico. “Abandon the company. Take the money and go somewhere safe. Venice, perhaps. I’m sure Messer Prosper de Camulio is uneasy. I’m sure you got remarkably little from him today. Of course, he had Michael here with him.”
“Against your orders?” said Gregorio. He had realised it some time ago. He might as well risk it.
“Of course,” said Fra Ludovico. “What does he need to learn about you? You and the woman who owns you are not going to matter. What matters is that fellow out there. Niccolò. That’s someone the Devil’s got his mark on.”
“I heard what happened in Florence,” Gregorio said. He felt cheerful. He said, “All the same, Messer Alighieri and I could have a useful talk, I am sure, that would do you no harm. He could tell me something of Trebizond.”
“He could,” said the monk. He broke open and abandoned a loaf; found a fresher one, and took it. He said, “He could tell you old women’s stories of Trebizond that might make you call your precious Niccolò back, considering the way the princes are rushing to help us all here.” He emptied his mouth and gazed at Gregorio. He said, “I don’t want him back. I want him and his soldiers in Christian Asia.”
“Dead?” said Gregorio.
He was answered by a light shower of wet bread. “He’d die in grace, wouldn’t he? He won’t get the chance. There’s no more danger now than there was when he went. You’ll get your profit with things as they are: you don’t need to worry. It’s to spare you worry that I asked Michael here not to trouble you.”
Gregorio said, “Even if the demoiselle reversed his orders, they wouldn’t reach Nicholas—Niccolò—for four months.”
The friar wiped his knife and put it away. “But they might reach him,” he said. “Safer to leave things alone. But you can write. Tell him that Fra Ludovico apologises for his error in Florence. Next time he’ll make sure of his facts. And if the facts were to show that Niccolò has used that army against his own kind, tell him that Fra Ludovico plans to make a cassock cord from his bowels and have his liver cooked and served up on biscuit. You heard the Duke called us Magi?” He got up.
“Of course. Why not?” said Gregorio. He remained seated beside Alighieri. He had no intention of being browbeaten by this man. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alighieri shake his head and begin to get to his feet.
“Yes! There is something for you and Michael here to tell your friends the Medici. Here are the Magi from the East, said the noble Duke. They have come to the star they perceive in the West: the star of the Fleece, the light of which illumines the Orient, and guides her princes to you, who are the true image of God.”
“But you don’t expect him to give you anything?” Gregorio said.
“He will,” said the friar. “But not perhaps as he expects. You will not see Michael again, despite the signals he is trying to give you. We are here to sell Jesus, not gall nuts. Give my regards to your Jason in Colchis, and remind him that the Order has now distinguished not just the fleeces of Jason and Gideon, but six different skins, with as many praiseworthy qualities. For Jason, magnanimity. For Jacob, justice. For Gideon, prudence. For Mesa King of Moab, fidelity. For Job, patience. For
David, clemency.”
“For me,” said Gregorio, “I should find Jacob sufficient.”
“Then you are as young as your master,” said the friar.
Chapter 24
THE NEXT DAY WAS the last Gregorio spent in St Omer. In it, he saw Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren, as he had planned.
No, not as he had planned; although he believed he was ready for most things. Instead of the gown of his profession, he dressed in the ordinary pleated tunic, short sleeves over long, that he wore when about his own concerns, with a stiffened cap without ornament. With it, he knew, he lost ten years from his age. Because he had a nose like a duck, he had a face excessively droll (Margot said) for a lawyer except when framed in black lappets. Freed, his hair fell into coils even less suitable, which he kept ruthlessly trimmed. The rest of his person he could do nothing about, except keep it resilient. Dressed as he now was, he could have been of any rank. Even the good dagger in its worn sheath at his side was only what you might expect of a traveller. He didn’t conceal it. He meant what he had said to Marian de Charetty.
The hour arrived. Seated below their heraldic devices within the tapestried walls of Nôtre Dame, the Tenth Chapter of the Golden Fleece began their deliberations. And Gregorio of Asti, civilian, called at the house of Louis de Gruuthuse and asked for the lord Simon de St Pol. By good fortune, the steward he spoke to was new. He said, when asked his identity, that he was a servant of Monsieur Anselm Adorne, the Bruges nobleman.
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