‘But you hate Venice!’
‘Hate … Maybe. I don’t care about the gondolas, and the chairmen, and the dances, and … any of it, really. This house was my father’s, so I love it for that, but it is not my home. And for God’s sake, it is the oldest building in Venice, or nearly so! Truly, I meant what I said about moss – I swear I feel it growing on me as I sleep.’ She came over to me and drew me down to sit next to her on one of the heavy, ugly Venetian settles that lined the walls of the room. ‘I love this city – all the streets, and the water, but it’s true: I hate it as well. It’s like living inside someone’s guts, and not just the smell. And I loathe the constant talk of money, money, money … So no, we do not need any of it. But are you ready to go back to sleeping under trees? I do quite like our bed, I will admit.’
‘Me too,’ I said warmly, and she gave me a shove. But then she snaked an arm around me and kissed me gently on the mouth.
‘Let’s see if we can just fade away,’ she murmured. ‘If we can, if no one comes after us, we’ll quietly dissolve the bank and disappear. If there’s a fuss, we’ll have to come back and do it more officially.’
‘God.’ I took a deep breath of the warm, spiced air. The dire warnings of Doctor Scotus stirred in my mind like spidery things moving beneath a stone. But was there any need to turn that stone over? We seemed to be fading away of our own accord. The storm had not come. We could put down our roots, bury them deep, somewhere else.
‘Yes. Yes! All right. It can’t possibly be that easy, but …’
‘We’ll say we’re going on a pilgrimage. To Jerusalem. No one can say anything against that.’
‘Then let’s go! Just to ride with you again, like we used to. I don’t really want anything else.’
We left the next day, before dawn, the first tendrils of mist curling up onto the worn steps that descended into the canal. As the boatman waited to take us across to Mestre, I pulled Iselda to me and we held each other tight as I felt the warmth of her body seep into mine.
The going was easy across the flat, fenny plain of Lombardy, for a shaky truce was holding between the Guelphs and Ghibbelines, the emperor was down south, and Ezzelino was keeping to himself in Padua. We picked up the Via Francigena at Piacenza and slid into its river of noisy pilgrims from the north: Germans and Swedes hoping to get to Rome and back before the weather turned nasty, smug Frisians and Scots on their way home. We rode into Lyon at midday on the first Tuesday in August, and went straight to the Two Foxes, where I always stayed whenever I was in the city. It was run by a surly bastard, but he was discreet, the food was excellent and the beds did not smell, a rarity in a city as busy as Lyon.
The landlord, a thin, hairy fellow with a brewer’s nose, welcomed me with his accustomed sneer.
‘Here for the crusade, sir? You’re a bit late.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, pulling off my cloak and tipping the stable-boy who was hovering at my side. I wasn’t really listening to the landlord, but I caught the word ‘crusade’. ‘Do I look like a crusader, man?’
‘It was a pleasantry,’ he told me, stiffly. ‘But the crusade’s been and gone, regardless. A good month ago. He’ll be on the sea by now.’
Now I was listening. ‘Wait. The king is not in Lyon? He’s already been here?’
‘What I said, sir,’ said the landlord, humouring me with difficulty.
‘All this way for a jest? I will eat their livers!’ I seethed.
‘Ach, my love, they’ve done us a favour. Come and sit down.’ Iselda looked more exasperated than anything else. But I was furious.
‘If any man thinks he can make merry at our expense and take our silver into the bargain …’
‘Wait, Patch – at least until after lunch. I’m starved!’ She was regarding me with tired amusement. I shook my head, too angry to say anything more, and stormed out of the door. It was a short walk to the offices of the Banco di Corvo Marino, and by the time I got there I was seething. The agent, Marc, a gentle, middle-aged man with a Paris education and a large family, was in the counting house. He stood up in evident surprise when I burst in unannounced.
‘Messer Petrus! To what do we owe this unexpected—’
‘Unexpected? I am surprised you care to jest with me, sirrah! What is the meaning of this?’
‘Meaning of what, sir? I don’t understand.’ Marc was regarding me with utter confusion.
‘You sent a letter to me in Venice, telling me the king was expecting to meet me here at the beginning of August. I am here, against my will, and the king is not. I ask again: what, in the name of Mary’s womb, is the meaning of this?’
‘I sent you no such letter!’ stammered Marc, wringing his thumb with a clenched fist. ‘I do not know what has happened, but … but King Louis was here, and left perfectly adequate provision for his debts, and even asked me to convey to you his warm regards whenever I should happen to write next. The last letter I sent to you was three weeks ago, regarding the Bruges cargo …’
‘Which plainly I have not received,’ I snarled.
‘And … and before that, at the end of April, in the matter of sundry loans to the Crown and a shipment of wool that foundered off the Nore.’
‘Of course I got that,’ I snapped. ‘But a letter sits on my writing table, in Venice, with your seal and signature, summoning me here to meet with Louis Capet. Who is not here. Who has not been here for a month or more.’
Marc bit his lip. He was sweating, though the stone-walled room was not warm. ‘I do not know how that could be,’ he muttered. ‘I – you must believe me, sir – sent no such letter.’
‘Someone did. With your signature.’
‘It is possible that I signed a letter, in haste, to which I had not given my full attention. One does that, from time to time, if the thing is a petty matter.’
‘Does one? I do not,’ I said. That was a lie, of course, but I did not intend Marc to know that. ‘How many letters go out from here, with your signature and seal, that you have not read?’
‘Not many, and I remember all of them. This year, exactly two. One near the Epiphany, a reply to some solicitation. The other … let me see.’ He squinted. Marc had an all but flawless memory, which was why the captain had hired him, years ago. Well, it seemed to be failing him. ‘No, I have it. In April. There was an invitation to the wedding of a local merchant’s daughter. We do not go to such things. Eudes brought me the letter politely declining the invitation, and I signed it.’
‘Did you read it?’
‘Sir, I did not. That day the king’s chancellor himself was here, asking for a summary of all loans outstanding, and I was very, very busy. But there was no need. Eudes was trustworthy.’
‘Was? Where is this Eudes now?’
‘He left us, about a week later. Left town, in fact. Which was strange, as he was a good lad: very bright, but steady. Not at all the sort to get himself into trouble, but then it is so hard to tell with the young people these days …’
Marc was spared my own thoughts on the matter, for at that moment a clerk stuck his head around the door and coughed loudly.
‘There’s a gentleman to see you, master,’ he said.
‘Not now, Hugo, for pity’s sake,’ moaned the agent.
‘Begging your pardon, but it’s Messer Petrus he wants to see,’ said the clerk.
‘Don’t be stupid. I’ve just arrived. Nobody knows I’m here.’
‘Nevertheless, sir, I think he means to see you. The gentleman is an Englishman, and a knight.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said. The day was getting stranger and more infuriating with every minute that passed. Leaving Marc to fret, I stormed out of the counting house.
‘He’s in the antechamber,’ called Hugo the clerk, behind me. And indeed, there near the door stood a man dressed in the style of the English court. His hair was close-cropped and sandy, and when he turned, hearing my footsteps, I found I was looking at Gervais Bolam.
I had not seen Gerva
is Bolam – Sir Gervais de Bolam, to do him all courtesy – since the battle of Saintes, and that was six years past. He had been a boy then, but the intervening years had thickened him and he held himself with a discreet swagger. There had not been much to do for an English knight these last few years save drinking and brawling, and there was ample evidence of both in his face.
‘Sir Petrus Blakke Dogge! You are here at last!’ he cried, grinning and sticking out his hand. I was so surprised to see him that I took it and let him crush my fingers warmly.
‘At last? Gervais de Bolam, if it really is you, what are you talking about?’
‘We have been waiting this past week.’
‘Sir, I have been dragged, unwillingly, from my home and across the fucking Alps on what turns out to have been a fool’s errand, and I am the fool. Forgive me if I do not feel like indulging you. How did you know I was in Lyon?’
‘Oh, we brought you here!’ he said breezily. ‘It was a bit of a challenge – your people are loyal to you, sir, and tediously hard to corrupt. It took an indecent amount of money before I convinced young Jean to get that letter signed and sealed. A promising boy, by the way: destined for great things, I shouldn’t wager.’
‘We? Who is we? Riddle me no riddles, Gervais. I tell you, by Saint Lawrence’s crackling rind, that I am not in the mood.’
‘Earl Richard, of course,’ said Gervais. ‘Who else? Oh, but of course you would not know: I am the earl’s equerry.’
‘Richard of Cornwall is here in Lyon? But, for Christ’s sake, why didn’t he just send word himself ?’
‘Would you have come, Black Dog? No, you would not. Loyalty is a treasure, or so says the earl, and he did not wish to put yours to the trial. The lesser of two evils? The greater of two goods? I am no philosopher, Black Dog, and Earl Richard is waiting. Shall we go?’
I went back to the counting house to apologise to Marc, who appeared not to have taken a breath since I left him. And then I followed Gervais through the thronging streets to a small nobleman’s palace near the church of Saint Justus. He left me with a bow and a comradely wink, and an old, bald serving man showed me into the solar.
Richard of Cornwall had grown a little plumper since I had seen him last; a little ruddier, too. His reddish-blond beard, with its prettily styled curls, gave him the air of a well-fed dogfox. I greeted him with a bend of the knee and he made a show of waving away any formality.
‘Let us sit,’ he said, and beckoned me over to the table, already laid with a trencher of cold roasted larks, sweetmeats and a silver ewer of wine.
‘I must thank my lord for our magnificent wedding—’ I began, but Richard laughed.
‘A lord must be generous,’ he said. And with that he took the ewer and poured me a cup of dark red wine. He handed it to me, and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly as I took it. You are not free. I grasped his meaning as plainly as if he had bellowed the words into my face. Still, I raised the cup to my lips and took a careful sip. I knew the poison he had offered me, and it was called vassalage. Like an obedient vassal I drank what was given to me.
I decided not to give him the satisfaction of idle conversation about his wife, his brother the king, the travails of the English court. This little resistance was meaningless – I was painfully aware of the fact that, though I was not Richard’s inferior by very much if it came to wealth, I was bound to him by something more powerful even than money. Instead I decided to get the unpleasant moment over with.
‘My lord, how may I serve you?’ I enquired, trying not to grind my teeth as I said it.
The earl looked taken aback for an instant, though he hid it well. Then he beamed. I was behaving myself, doubtless far better than he had expected me to. But then again, a man like the Earl of Cornwall did not expect challenges from vassals.
‘It is not a small thing, Sir Petrus. It is … it is what one might call statecraft. You are a man for whom that should not be onerous work.’ We leaned back in our respective seats and eyed each other. I sipped my wine, waiting for him to go on.
‘Have you met the pope?’ Richard asked. He might be enquiring if I had made the acquaintance of a new cook or major domo. I nodded.
‘The present incumbent?’ I replied. ‘I have. Once, and briefly. My lord the King of France was good enough to recommend me to the Holy See. I had an audience in Lyon, when last I returned from Paris.’
‘How many popes have you met, Black Dog?’ Richard was interested despite the lazy game of indifference he was playing.
‘Two only, my lord. The late Monsieur de Sol introduced me to Pope Gregory.’ I shuddered inwardly, remembering the half-mummified basilisk who, despite the withering of age, had filled the throne of Saint Peter with his malevolent energy. I had been little more than a boy then, but I had never forgotten the sharpness of his gaze, dissecting me like a surgeon-barber in search of a hidden canker. ‘It is a memory I shall carry with me always. Your Lordship knows Pope Innocent, I believe.’
‘Indeed. I enjoyed the friendship of Sinibaldo Fieschi, as he was; and now His Holiness is good enough to keep me in his thoughts. So. You know something of our pope. What do you know of the emperor?’
‘Fortunately I have been able to keep out of the way of all this … this trouble between the parties of Church and Empire,’ I said. ‘I live in Venice, which is staunchly for His Holiness; and my bank has its home in Florence, where there is much squabbling, but the Florentines being what they are, everyone takes care not to disturb business.’
‘And you, Black Dog? What of you?’ Richard had put down his cup and steepled his fingers. We were getting near the matter at hand.
‘My lord, the business … you know I have only one profession now: with my partners I own a bank which by the grace of God is so far flourishing, though as to relics, from time to time …’ I shrugged. Did he want me to find him a relic? It was possible. Well, that would be easy, if dull. ‘In my old business of translating relics I served the Lord. In my present occupation, if I did not serve Him, I would be putting my immortal soul in jeopardy. I am a banker, not a usurer, but there are temptations, and if one is not firm of spirit …’ I tapped on the silver foot of my cup. ‘The Church supports one business and allows the other to proceed. I believe you might divine my loyalties from that.’
‘Good man.’ Richard was far too controlled a man to breathe a sigh of relief, but he had doubted my loyalty. That was interesting. ‘And one further question: have you been to Sicily?’
‘Yes, I have,’ I said, surprised. ‘As a sailor I put into Messina and Palermo many times, and last year I brought a minor relic from Constantinople to Palermo, for the cathedral.’
‘I mean the kingdom – not just the island. Apulia and the rest of it.’
‘Again, yes. Why does my lord ask?’
‘Hmm.’ Richard scratched his beard, then reached for the purse at his belt and brought out three coins: two English silver pennies and a gold ducat, which I saw was stamped with the head of Roger, King of Sicily – an old coin, a century old or more. Richard laid them out in a row, penny, ducat, penny. Then he took his wine cup and placed it next to the ducat.
‘This is His Holiness,’ he said, touching his fingertip to the cup. ‘This is the Emperor Frederick, and this is myself.’ He touched first one penny, then the other. Then he moved the ducat a fraction to one side. ‘And this, as you may have guessed, is Sicily.’
‘Sicily is the heart of the Hohenstaufen empire,’ I said. ‘And Pope Innocent has been trying to cut it out – not very successfully. As I have heard, he has been wooing the churchmen there, but they are loyal to Frederick. I have spent some time with Berardo – he is one of the emperor’s best friends, is he not?’
‘The bishop of Palermo? That’s so,’ said Richard. ‘You know about this – of course you do. That is why we are talking.’
‘And the rebellion three years ago – Frederick had no trouble with that. I spoke to someone who watched Guglielmo di Sanseverino hanged alive over a
slow fire – after they cut off his manhood and some other parts. Frederick brooks no nonsense in his kingdom. You know that, of course, my lord.’ I sat back, watching Richard move the coins tiny steps across the table, nudging them with a manicured fingernail. What did he have in his mind? The pope had been making clumsy efforts to get rid of Frederick von Hohenstaufen from the hour of his coronation, and it had been bad for business. I looked at the coins, and the cup. It was empty. I reached for the ewer and filled it. A few drops of red wine scattered around the silver and gold.
‘Innocent wants you to take Sicily,’ I said, filling my own cup again.
Richard looked up sharply, then grinned.
‘No, he wants me to buy it!’ He threw back his head and laughed. Then he fell silent and picked up the ducat. ‘Should I, Petrus?’
‘What does he want for it … he means the kingdom itself, I presume? You would be King of Sicily.’
‘Innocent is not a fool, and he is … hmm.’ His hand went once more to his beard. ‘The pope has made it his mission, as God’s representative, to sweep Frederick von Hohenstaufen from this world. Since prayer is not working, he must needs accomplish this by temporal means, and that – I can see you are following me – will require a very great deal of money. I am surprised you have not been asked for a … a donation.’
I shrugged. ‘I try to give before I am asked,’ I said, blandly. ‘It really is not my business, of course.’
‘No. Nor mine. But Sicily …’
‘Is tempting, my lord? It is a rich and beautiful land. Not more beautiful than Devon, of course.’ I permitted myself a courtly chuckle. ‘But you are meant to buy the crown. Might one ask for how much?’
‘An insane sum. Ludicrous!’ Richard spun the ducat so that for a moment it became a golden orb. Then it careened off course and struck the cup with a dull ping.
‘But … ?’ I felt myself beginning to wince. Was this my next duty as vassal, to buy Sicily for the man who thought he was my master? But Richard was chasing the ducat across the table and did not notice.
The Fools’ Crusade Page 11