He was standing on the bank of the Arno, looking down on the galley, which was stranded. From the long shining structure, high in the water and laden with arguing men, a mooring rope ran from the stern up the bank to an elm tree, to which it was tied with a good seaman’s lashing. Another rope, thrown ahead from the bows, secured the ship to an oak tree upriver. By reeling in the fore cable, the crew would normally force the ship to move on, against the contrary flow of the river.
The priest stood by the elm. At close quarters, he was seen to be of unusual size, although his broad, large-nosed face with its heavy black brows appeared tranquil. Now his hood was thrust back, the hair stuffed under the rim of his cap showed thick and black as dyed cotton. He had a throat like an elk’s, and there was a new scar on the fist at his hipbone. Behind him his two men stood at ease, holding the horses. He himself contemplated the river where the Florentine galley still reposed in all its elegant length while the thick yellow water rushed past. It was stuck on a sandbank.
If you were in no hurry, the scene was entertaining enough. Below the steep bank, bare-legged men swearing in every dialect from Savona to Naples had been set to work with levers and shovels. The crew were among them. On deck, supervising, paced a broad cleanshaven official in a red pillbox hat and a black gown with gold glinting about it. In the prow, two half-naked men toiled to wind in the capstan: the distant oak tree was shaking. Other trees, scarred of trunk and ankle-deep in the last of their leaves, had already suffered. A thunderhead of crows towered above them. The lord Pagano Doria dismounted, as the trunk beside the priest quivered. A nest sprang into the air, touched water, and bobbed off behind on the current.
The priest looked at the tree, and so did Doria. Dug deep into the bark was (still) the noose of the galley’s belaying cable. As they watched, the noose slowly crawled tighter. There was a smell of heated tow. The link rope, straight as a rule, was sensibly humming. The lord Pagano spoke with some gravity. “They seem to be moored at both ends.”
The priest inclined his head, turning. He said, “I fear they will hardly go far.” He had a melodious voice, and spoke in Latinist’s Italian, learned somewhere in Germany. He said, “Will you apprise them, monsignore, or shall I break the news?”
A fellow spirit. The lord Pagano Doria gave his charming, mischievous smile. “Allow me,” he said. And, drawing his double-edged, gold-hilted sword, stepped in front of the priest to the cable.
“But—” said the chaplain very quickly. Pagano, smiling, paid no attention. Raising both fists, he chopped with his blade at the mooring.
The severed stay leaped like a whip, sending leaves, grass and gouts of sand spinning. On the foredeck of the galley the capstan, suddenly freed, tossed to the ground its two straining seamen. It then began to run backwards, unreeling the rope at the bow. Loosed, the galley swung immediately broadside to the flow of the river and, sliding backwards, remounted the sandbank. The supervisor fell down. The clamour that followed was the kind you might hear at a bull-baiting. Muffled below it was the circumspect laughter of the man with the donkeys and the oil-vendor. The vineyard factor, making intermittent use of a woodstack, was the picture of silent concern, but for other reasons entirely.
The two men by the elm tree faced each other: one, five-sixths of the height of the other. The lord Pagano Doria exclaimed, “Now, the Universal Creator protect me. Who could have foreseen such a thing? They will blame me, and rightly.”
The priest appeared thoughtful. “You perhaps. Or perhaps the person who failed to untie the cable.”
“Ah,” said Pagano Doria. “You chide me, and rightly. It is not seemly that some poor man should take another one’s blame. Even though, of course, it was his fault in the first place. Will you come and witness me making confession?”
The priest smiled. “If you wish. The officer on board may be hurt. You may need special rites if he assaults you.”
“I?” said Pagano Doria. Perhaps because he was short, he knew well how to bring a little chill into his voice, a little coolness into his face, and then banish it, laughing. He said, “But we are not even known to each other. I am Pagano Doria, merchant, seaman and patron of a round ship just sailed in from Genoa. And you?”
“A famous name,” said the priest. “As for me, I was born in Cologne, but serve in Italy as chaplain-notary to a small private army belonging to a dyer in Flanders. My name is Godscalc.”
“And that, too, is not a name drawn from obscurity,” said the lord Pagano with generosity. “We are well met, and I shall tell you a secret. The man on board has not recognised me yet, but his name is Antonio di Niccolò Martelli, and I knew him long before he was appointed sea consul. He will forgive me. I shall entertain him with news and with gossip, and he will relent. You will help me. Indeed, I shall tell him that you tried to prevent my small, stupid action. Come. Come and meet him. If you are going to Pisa, you cannot have too many friends.”
“Friends?” said the priest with his slow smile. But when Doria sprang down through the grass to the water’s edge, the black-haired priest followed quite readily.
Their reception was precisely what the lord Pagano had expected. There was an awkward ten minutes, but the Doria name and some evoked early friendship restored the sea consul slowly, first to acceptance and then to a show of resigned hospitality. It was sesto, time for the crew to stop working and eat. Perhaps Father Godscalc and Messer Pagano would remain and share his midday collation?
By then, they were aboard, Father Godscalc wading stoically out of the shallows, his skirts kilted up to his knees; and Messer Pagano more elegantly on the back of his horse, whose reins he gave to his servant. Then, in the warmth of his cabin, the Florentine sea consul Martelli handed out a good Rhenish wine while his serving-man unpacked a basket.
It held cold tortellini, a fowl, some eggs boiled in the shell and a pasty. There was plenty for three. The lord Doria talked, as he promised, and paid for his food with as much well-spiced news as the consul could have wished for. The priest, who had just come from Rome, was not too forward in comment, but supplied a few substantial anecdotes of his own which surprised the sea consul as much as Doria himself. Indeed, after the meal, Messer Martelli offered to show the priest himself through the galley, since Godscalc appeared to admire it.
Godscalc’s worthy concern, Doria thought, was less to explore the galley itself than to see if his exploit had caused any damage. The sea consul, questioned directly, did not fail to chide Messer Pagano again, although in more lenient terms. There might have been a fatality. But no, there was no serious damage. A few strained timbers perhaps; a little rubbing. “She’ll be checked. But it isn’t of moment. She’s an old lady, this one: served her term with the state, and coming up to be hired and refitted. Caveat hirer, eh, eh? He should know what he’s in for, someone who wishes to rent a twelve-year-old ship at the end of the trading season. And the extra repair work is always good news for somebody.”
A whistle blew. The mealtime was over. Together the priest and the sea prince walked with Martelli to the side of the galley, and prepared to go on their way. It was then that Messer Pagano Doria, calling his servant on shore, had unpacked and presented to the sea consul the lavish gift of six fine linen towels for his hatstand, and a piece of lace for his sweet lady wife, the Madonna. To make amends. To show his contrition. For the sake of old friendship.
He knew he was being generous. He was not surprised when the sea consul, deeply impressed, invited him (why had he not thought of it before!) to his house for supper that evening. Where was he staying in Pisa?
Swiftly forestalling an invitation he did not require, Messer Pagano mentioned that accommodation was already engaged in a tavern. He would ride there directly. The galley with Messer Martelli would, of course, take very much longer. When should he call at the sea consul’s home?
“But go there directly!” said Messer Martelli. “Wait there! Repose yourself! My wife, my housekeeper, will attend to you. Take her your presents yourse
lf. With—Do I understand Father Godscalc is of your party?”
Father Godscalc’s disclaimer was unheard below the voice of Pagano Doria. Yes, said the delightful man, smiling. Of course Father Godscalc must continue to Pisa in his company. And might he also have the pleasure, the honour, of meeting the Madonna the sea consul’s wife, of supping with Messer Martelli in his beautiful house? Magnificent! He was speechless with joy. He could not wait until they renewed their delightful friendship that evening.
They were on shore before the lord Pagano turned to his priestly companion and said, with mischief, “But perhaps I erred? I gave you no chance to decline. But indeed, the sea consul’s wife keeps a good table, and he is an excellent man. Am I forgiven?”
“For arranging two lavish meals for a poor priest from Germany? My dear son,” said Father Godscalc. “Even the crows would forgive you.”
And so it fell out. Priest and sea prince completed their journey to Pisa, the latter conversing with grace, the former replying with modesty. Arriving within the stout walls, the priest, embarrassed no doubt by his fortune, sent his small suite and smaller luggage to the modest inn he had chosen. The Doria retinue—servants, hackneys, mules and African page—made their way, not unnoticed, to a larger one.
Pagano Doria, vivid, supple, amusing, led the way past the mills of the river to the docks where the Republic’s galleys idled afloat, or stood stark on their blocks, being scraped and mended from their last trading voyage, the old citadel looming beside them. The sea consul’s house, rented for his six months of duty, stood just beside it: a low, two-storeyed building with cellars below and a stair leading up from the courtyard.
A pretty woman stood at the top of the stair smiling at Pagano Doria, who kissed her lips in the city fashion and then laid his gifts, with care, in her arms. Then, with courtesy he drew back to present Father Godscalc to his hostess. This, of course, was the sea consul’s lady.
Learning of her absent husband’s enjoinder, the lady expressed herself delighted, and hurried to settle both guests in her parlour with a warming cupful of wine. For, as she said with a smile, it would take the galley three hours to drag through the river to Pisa, and they would sup all the more heartily when Messer Martelli her lord was safely come home.
Very soon after that, she began to talk of the carpet my lord Pagano had brought home for them from his last voyage to Chios, and volunteered to show him where it had been hung. The priest, half risen, was pressed back in his seat, with a fine missal from Mantua to engage his attention.
Certainly, it seemed to engross him, although he looked up and smiled every time the assiduous manservant came to replenish his wine and sometimes, it could be observed, he studied one page for longer than seemed strictly necessary. When at the end of half an hour he was still alone, he rose, perhaps feeling stiff, and made his way to an unshuttered window overlooking the quays. From there, without obvious haste, he made his way back through the parlour and down the stairs to the courtyard where he stood, book in hand, under an orange tree and turned a page with attention.
“Ah!” said the sea consul, walking in through the gates with his servant, two hours too early. “You found the house, Father Godscalc. And where is my lord Pagano?”
The large priest in the felt cap closed the missal and cradled it. He looked down. “I excused myself from the parlour in the hope of this very interview. I have something to tell you.” Behind him, a shutter opened high in the house.
“Ah, yes?” said the sea consul neutrally. He led the way to a stone bench and they sat down together.
“It concerns the galley,” the priest said surprisingly. “You noted, perhaps, my interest in the galley?”
“You have a lively mind, Father Godscalc,” said the sea consul. For some reason, his face in the dim light looked younger.
“But I should have told you the source of my interest,” the priest said. “The company which employs me belongs to Bruges. From a modest beginning, they have encompassed not only dyeing and broking, but the hiring of fighting soldiers. Such men need clerking, and spiritual comfort, and I have supplied both. I have this moment come from the company in its winter quarters near Rome. I am on my way to Florence where the seniors of my company are exploring a new opportunity to extend themselves. To proceed, they would require a great galley—this very ship, it may be; since she is free, and they are not easily come by. Hence, you understand, my anxiety over its condition.”
The sea consul’s interest was engaged. He said, “You spoke of a small company. But one which can raise capital to man and run a galley and can count on enough clients to fill it must be a large one. Who is its owner?”
“A widow, newly remarried,” said the priest. “She is in Bruges. Her husband is there in Florence ahead of me. He is to do business, I understand, with the Republic. With the Republic’s senior citizen, Cosimo de’ Medici.”
“Indeed,” said the sea consul. His gaze had become sharper. He said, “You know my name, Martelli? You know that we are galley conductors; that the Medici and the Martelli work together? Who is this man, the second husband of your employer, who proposes to requisition a galley?”
“That may not be his intention,” said the priest. “It may not be within his capabilities. I am not sure. His name is Niccolò. He is nineteen.”
“Nineteen!” said the sea consul, and smiled. “It sounds to me as if it will be of little moment whether the galley you mention will be seaworthy or not. You have not, I take it, been with the company long? The young man married the owner and no doubt her notary, her lawyer, her chaplain, her physician all found reasons to leave, and had to be replaced?”
The priest’s eyes, of unblinking brown, remained fixed on him. The priest said, “No, they chose to stay. I was appointed because under young master Niccolò the business has expanded. He has a flair, I am told. Time will tell.”
“You surprise me,” said the consul. “I trust that whatever time tells, it will make pleasant hearing. But, you understand, I cannot help your company with the House of Medici. No one but Messer Cosimo and his sons arrange offers or decide on new dealings.”
“Of course,” said Godscalc, rising. “I merely wished to excuse my earlier reticence. I would not have you think later that I had deceived you. But one does not talk overmuch about a young master who has yet to prove himself. Ah…There is your lady, coming to scold me for detaining you.”
The supper was good; the wine generous. Leaving late and together, the priest and the sea prince stood where their ways parted, in the yard of the sea prince’s tavern. The priest expressed his thanks, as was due, to the author of his convivial evening. Only then did Pagano Doria look up into the calm, massive face and allow his smile to broaden to mischief. He said, “You owe me nothing. On the contrary. Madonna our hostess has passed me a gift for you, but as it is scented and silken I hesitate in case I offend. Unless you have a sister, a mother?”
“How else,” said Godscalc, “could I properly interpret a kiss when I see it? I accept the kerchief, of course. I might advise you, as well, not to visit there often. Galleys are not, I notice, reliable time-keepers; nor are their officers.”
“What, no homilies?” said Pagano Doria. “What a good fellow you are, and what a fright you gave me just now. What were you talking of, there in the courtyard? God or Mammon?”
“Of my two masters,” said Godscalc. “We were discussing the merchant called Niccolò in the Italian tongue. Nicholas vander Poele, of the Charetty company, Bruges, now staying in Florence.”
“Never heard of him,” said Pagano Doria.
Upstairs, in his room, he found Catherine de Charetty.
The lord Pagano Doria had had a long, if entertaining, day. It had reached a formidable, if exhausting, conclusion. He felt a little worn, but pleasantly gratified. And now here was this dear Flemish creature, who ought to be nine safe miles away on board the Doria and instead was in the same room as himself, in her wrinkled boy’s tunic, in the very town where t
he Charetty chaplain was staying. Indeed, occupying the very room below which…
“Nicholas,” said Catherine de Charetty. Her voice squealed like a saw. Her face was dirty. The bitch of a nurse wasn’t here, then. “Nicholas is in Florence. That man said Nicholas was in Florence.”
She had overheard. Pagano Doria closed the door and pulling his feathered cap off, crossed to the settle, and sat down beside the child. He hung his hat on her head, and then put one hand round the back of the settle and collected both of hers with the other. Her palms were dirty too. “I know,” he said. “Or at least, I know now. But you’re not worried, are you?”
She looked at him as if he had gone mad. Nicholas, aged nineteen, had lately married Catherine’s mother. Nicholas was now the head of the Charetty business. Nicholas, made aware of this charming elopement, would stop it quicker than even her mother might. In his own interests, of course. Whoring apprentices who married ladies twenty years older than themselves had no time for young maidens’ longings. Pagano Doria knew all about Nicholas. The girl was trembling.
It was tempting to gather her into his arms, but that was not the best way. He returned her look with affection and even the faintest amusement and said, “My darling, he’ll never dream that you can be here. Father Godscalc has no notion either. I met him on the towpath, and made friends with him just to be sure. He’s going to Florence. You’ll stay in Pisa until they’ve both gone.”
He realised his mistake, watching her face suffuse with red. She said, “You said we’d spend Christmas in Florence. You said I’d wear earrings. You said I’d meet princes. You said…”