Caprice and Rondo

  Here, dressed as befitted her rank, Anna bestowed on the company all that store of wise charm which had smoothed their journey from Thorn, but had excused herself, with wicked modesty, from the cut and thrust of the debate. Nicholas, stranded, had hoped to do likewise: he had no wish to put up a performance for Anna or anyone else, and found the Archbishop’s insistence all the more tiresome since he suspected its source. So far as he remembered, indeed, he kept to platitudes until halfway through the evening, when the wine presumably loosened his tongue. Next day, he seemed to remember a great deal of argument, much of it on his own part and pointed if not impolite; there had also been some lurid gossip and one or two very good jokes.

  Meeting, ruefully, Anna’s benign eye the following morning, he had temperately agreed to remain for a further night in the Archbishop’s company, and because he stayed sober this time, kept a very clear recollection of the discussion and the course it had taken. They had placed in his hands — he had turned the pages of — an exquisite copy of the De Republica; and for the first time in his life, he had desired to be rich in order to own such a thing. But, of course, it was not for sale, and he had nowhere to keep it, even if it had been. They embraced him when he and Anna departed, accompanied by a small escort to take them on the next stage of their journey. He felt a little dazed, a little silent and, had he been honest, even more deeply confused.

  Anna had left him alone until the first rest for the horses, when the party settled under the trees, and she came to spread her skirts at his side and eat melon. Her eyes smiled above her wet chin. ‘So you have theories, but must be drunk to express them.’

  ‘Drunk, mad or stupid,’ Nicholas said. ‘I thought I’d grown out of all that.’

  ‘Of course,’ Anna said, ‘you may be above it. Or perhaps it’s really the opposite: you missed it all when you were young, and didn’t know how good you were. But now you do.’

  ‘That’s fine. So I’m happy,’ said Nicholas. ‘And I don’t need to do it again.’

  Anna completed her pacific munching and wiped her chin. ‘You’re not happy,’ she said. ‘Because you have a picture of yourself and your life that doesn’t fit in with the world of ideas. You’re afraid of religion and music because you think you’d have to give up horseplay and plotting.’

  ‘Well, exactly. No contest,’ said Nicholas reasonably. He stood, and leaned to help her to her feet. ‘So what would you do if I retired to my cave with a begging-bowl? You wouldn’t come to visit me.’

  ‘That would depend,’ Anna said, ‘on how full the begging-bowl was.’ But when he raised his eyebrows, she laughed. ‘You don’t understand? Never mind. I shall explain it all to you one day.’

  She said no more after that, and they resumed riding very soon. Thinking about it, he recognised the truth in much of what she had said. However unregulated he might appear, he was not blind to the inconsistencies of his own character, or the circumstances which had created them. He did not, however, propose to offer himself for dissection, any more than he was anxious to offer his theories. It suited him that they rode in amicable silence from station to station of this journey, although she poured her energy, as he did, into all that was necessary for its success, and sustained without complaint the disappointments and hazards that did not fail to occur.

  They were following in the footsteps of Ludovico da Bologna and his party, but so far had not overtaken them. The organisation of the expedition fell to Nicholas, but it owed much to Anna as well that a demanding company and its servants would arrive in good heart at the end of a stressful day’s journey. It was not surprising, therefore, that she chose to spend the evenings of such days in well-earned seclusion, with only Brygidy her maid to be soothed and encouraged. Intentionally or not, it freed Nicholas to spend those leisure hours as he wished, carousing of course, with his fellow merchants in this tavern or that, but also straying to where his curiosity led him, from the booths of the Armenian artisans in Lemberg to the rocky fortifications of Kamenets.

  He fell into conversation, too, with families taking the air and men playing at board games or arguing over their ale; and he compared what they said with the gossip he absorbed every day from his fellow travellers. Also, he stopped whenever he found someone at work in the mellow sunlight of evening, and sat beside them and talked. Often, weavers set up their looms in the open, as he remembered them in another place, mirrored — white cotton, black arms — in the water. The clack of the shuttle would draw him like rope to a capstan, although the sound appeared thin to his ears, accustomed to the lively retort of brick walls. The weavers, especially, talked.

  It was not, however, because of what he learned that he changed his plans at Bielogrod, where the power of their safe conducts ended. Here, on the estuary of the Dniester, was the furthermost frontier of Greater Poland, which ran from gale-beaten Danzig to this, the balmy west shore of the Black Sea. And here they would receive the protection at last of the Papal and Imperial Legate, whose privileged company they would join, to wait for a ship to the land of the Crim Tartars.

  Except that they arrived in Bielogrod to discover that the Papal and Imperial Legate was not there, and had not been there for a week. Directed by God to the harbour, Ludovico da Bologna had found an empty grain ship bound for Caffa, and left.

  Setting aside the consequence to themselves, it was a bold move, as Anna remarked. The south coast of the Black Sea was wholly Turkish these days, and so of course was the Sultan’s city of Constantinople at its south-western corner, a position it shared with the entire Turkish fleet. If the notorious Pontic storms didn’t sink it, the Patriarch’s ship would have to run the gamut of Turks and of pirates before it found a safe harbour in the Crimean Peninsula. The rashness of the voyage, indeed, was of a piece with the lunacy of the whole expedition, which, to Ludovico da Bologna, was no more than routine. He had been in Caffa before. Nicholas had not.

  ‘So?’ had said Anna, inviting suggestions.

  ‘So,’ had said Nicholas, ‘we shan’t get a ship, so we may as well set off round the coast. You can learn to charm Tartars. We’ll hire a guard, or attach ourselves to a party of Genoese.’

  ‘We won’t,’ she said. ‘Or not until you have acquired a new history and a new name. Do you think I haven’t heard what you’ve heard? I wish I had never let you come.’

  ‘You couldn’t have stopped me,’ said Nicholas. He spoke gently enough, for he wanted to reassure her. It had always been obvious that, while he could expect to proceed unmolested to Tabriz, he could not pass through a Genoese colony as Nicholas de Fleury, former banker of Venice. Venice, it was now clear to everyone, was showering weapons, money and envoys at the feet of Uzum Hasan, the Turk’s wiliest enemy. To favour a Venetian in these parts was tantamount to inviting the wrath of Sultan Mehmet of Turkey himself, and neither the Tartars nor the Genoese wanted that. Then, of course, there was the other complication which she might not know about, and which he had not hurried to tell her.

  Hence Nicholas de Fleury was completing the journey to Caffa in the person of Nicomack ibn Abdallah of Cairo, downtrodden steward and secretary to the lady Anna, here to trade for her husband. He had made the transformation before. It was simple to dye his hair black, including the nascent beard he had left unshaven since Thorn. With his red cap and high-buttoned galabiyya over linen trousers and shirt he was the envy of Anna for coolness, as well as an object of curiosity and astonishment. But for him it was a familiar disguise: he had used it in Egypt and Africa, where the Arab tongue had become as familiar to him as his own. Black-haired Circassian slaves reared as Mamelukes had his height and build; he had met them. Some of them, trained as scholars, had Greek and Latin as he did, and were conversant with Italian tongues. In Caffa, Anna would need an interpreter.

  For the Turkish-Mongol languages they had hired a guide, Petru, to attend them. Of the servants who had come with them from Thorn they had retained none but Anna’s maid Brygidy, who would have gone to considerable lengths, including her
own, rather than betray any friend of her Lady. Nicholas, having left the inquisitive Jelita in Thorn, had only a hireling to shed: as a servant himself he could not replace him. Finally, they acquired local men for the packmules and wagon and purchased food and tents. Then they set off.

  The experience this time was different. The difficult, swampy terrain and the lack of villages meant that seclusion was no longer possible. They shared their evening meal; their tents were close, for security. And during the day, instead of the voluble company they were used to, there was none but their grumbling, half-Tartar escort and the silent figures of Petru and Brygidy, one sullen, one grim.

  That at least, could be repaired. Without being told, Anna invited the two to sit with her in the evening, and chatted to them both through the day. Nicholas made the escort his business, employing a ragbag of languages, but principally his talent for coarse visual jokes eked out with mime. They always ended by gambling, and he always lost. It reminded him of his first ship, the San Niccolò, but he dismissed the African trip from his mind. He did not propose to resurrect his first months with Gelis. He had a feeling that Anna was one day going to mention her.

  About his own relations with Anna, he had made up his mind from his departure from Thorn, in a way that would have staggered some of his friends — his former friends — and aroused the derision of others. She was sympathetic, intelligent, beautiful, and he had half killed her husband. To a contrite man, despite the absence of the Patriarch, she would clearly be sacrosanct. To Nicholas, the happy predator, the juvenile libertine, she would obviously fall prey within hours.

  All that and more, Nicholas recognised. Inescapably, she was desirable. By the edicts of a greater compulsion, however hungry, however desolate, he had vowed this time to deny himself.

  It was a matter of management. Everything was. During this long, awkward journey he had seen displayed, without ostentation, all her grace, all her skills, all that had first drawn him to her, and more. He dealt with it. He dealt with her effect upon others. He had long known that she was also an excellent horsewoman and an accurate shot: the men of the escort ate better because of it, and had begun to admire her. It was to keep the admiration in its place that he suggested, when the third night approached, that he should sleep, as her servant, in the forepart of the small pavilion that Anna shared with her maid. After a moment’s thought, Anna agreed. There would be a curtain between them. In any case, she had never been coy; her attitude to himself, or to Julius for that matter, was one of mild, faintly mocking affection: she was one of the most self-possessed women he had ever known.

  He had not probed beneath the control. He had seen it slip, once, when she thought Julius dead and had screamed at him. She had taken time, after the shock, to soften what she had said, and now did him the courtesy of speaking freely of Julius; she had done so, with a touch of rueful tenderness, only today. Nicholas wondered again why they had no children, and this led his thoughts to Kathi’s coming child and prompted him, in unwise and contrary mood, to speculate on where and how Robin sired it. In a gentlemanly way, he was sure. Not like his. Not like his with Gelis in Africa.

  It was, perhaps, because he had let his guard down that he made his mistake, entering his tent in a hurry; sore with himself, dismayed by his lack of control. It was the time — he had forgotten — when Brygidy brought in the buckets for Anna’s primitive shower. Water was scarce and he kept none for himself, being able to splash with the men in some stream where their nakedness would not offend. It was by accident therefore that he came in before the curtain was drawn, and saw Anna facing him as once he had dreamed. Or more divine than his dream: her dark-centred breasts and belly and thighs glistening in hazy sunlight; her wet black hair clinging like leaves. The badge between her thighs was night-black as well.

  He looked there first, and then the shock hit him physically. It seized her as well: with shame and alarm that caused her to drop where she stood, kneeling in the wet tub, her head bowed, the cloak of hair screening her body. Then the maid came up, shouting, and ripped the screen closed.

  He had been offered women — children — in some of the yurts they had passed, but had so far refused. There were no women where they were now. It was as well.

  That evening, having absented himself from the meal, he asked Brygidy if her Lady would join him outside. The broad, middle-aged face, half-German, half-Polish, showed neither fright nor distaste: she had come with Straube’s highest recommendation and had proved solidly loyal. Although far from frivolous, Brygidy had many good qualities: her fortitude in the face of men’s stupidity reminded Nicholas of some aspects of Bel. Bel from Scotland, another forbidden subject. Then Anna came out.

  The men, distant silhouettes round the fire, paid no attention: they had heard the scream, but believed it due to a snake. Petru had joined them. Brygidy seated herself some distance away. The air was heavy and feathered with insects; the soil coughed and creaked and breathed out the heat of the day.

  Anna stood by his side. He got up and stood looking penitential. It was an attitude the other men were accustomed to, and they could not hear what was said. She remarked, ‘What do you usually say when that happens?’ Her light cloak and gown were the serviceable ones she kept for the evenings, but she had turned back her hood. Her expression, dimly revealed, was not so much resolute as resigned.

  ‘It depends on what happens next,’ Nicholas said, his voice tentative. He could not quite gauge her mood.

  ‘But you rather assumed that I wouldn’t put your eyes out,’ Anna said. She sat down, pointing to the blanket before her. He knelt, then sat carefully back. She said, ‘But it was careless, wasn’t it? Or was it deliberate?’

  He could feel his lips twitch. ‘I got a bigger shock than you did, I think. No, it wasn’t deliberate, but these things happen when travelling, Anna. I could go on apologising, or even rhapsodising if you like, except that it’s best to forget it. I saw nothing. It didn’t happen.’

  She had unexpectedly flushed. But she did nothing but remark, ‘Then it didn’t happen. You are right.’ She paused. ‘Nicholas?’

  Her cloak, sliding a little, had bared the neck of her gown. The flush still coloured her throat. He said, ‘Tell me.’

  The large eyes studied him. ‘I think I shall tell you,’ she said. ‘With your sins fresh upon you, perhaps you will be kind enough to forgive mine. I brought you here with a lie.’

  The men’s voices murmured. Remotely, a horse neighed, and the croaking of frogs filled the distance like a flotilla of ducks, like the frogs in the wetlands below Mewe. Her body breathed under its cloak. Nicholas said, ‘How was that?’

  ‘Julius made up the story,’ she said, ‘that a client was dying, and his business needed our help. It wasn’t true. The business in need of help is ours, Nicholas. I had to make this journey, or it would fail.’

  He let her talk, bemused by her beauty, roused by her hardihood as Julius must have been from the day that he met her. The story was not unexpected. Establishing a separate business had not been easy for Julius. The company at Cologne did not possess the resources of Venice or Bruges, and all Anna’s own money was sunk in investments. They had no liquid resources. They were living on loans: she had borrowed the gold to pay for her share of the Fleury. Julius had considered it safe; they had successfully extended their business, and had laid out money in ermines and sables which were to be brought south to Sinbaldo, their agent in Caffa, to be resold at dazzling profit. But Kazaks, outlaws, had waylaid and stolen the furs, and the consul at Caffa could only attempt to demand reparation if she or Julius appeared there in person.

  ‘Reparation?’ Nicholas had queried, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Don’t you remember the practice from Bruges? If one merchant fails to deliver, then the goods of his fellow nationals are impounded until the loss is made good.’

  ‘So all the fur traders in Caffa are in prison?’ Nicholas said. ‘You are going to be popular. Or no, I see. I am.’


  ‘You needn’t concern yourself with it,’ she said. ‘Or you might think you owe it to Julius. If Julius had been here, he would have forced them to repay.’

  There were circles under her eyes. He said, ‘How did this happen, Anna? He is a lawyer. He should be able to run a business without incurring this sort of debt.’

  ‘But he always had you to advise him,’ she said. Her voice sounded tired. She said, ‘We are even in your debt for your ship.’

  He said, ‘It isn’t my ship, it’s the Bank’s. So why not tell me before? Because you thought I wouldn’t come?’

  ‘Because I didn’t know if I could trust you,’ she said. There was a gleam in her eye. He saw it.

  ‘And now you can?’ He sent his voice up just a trifle. ‘And now you can, because I didn’t leap over and ravish you?’

  ‘Because of your expression,’ she said. ‘You looked petrified.’

  ‘Surely not,’ Nicholas said. He was prepared to say more — he expected to be required to say more — but she rose calmly then and excused herself, saying that he must be tired and that he should have time to decide what he wanted to do.

  He knew what he wanted to do.

  HIS HAIR DRIPPING, his mighty cassock soaked from the climb, Ludovico da Bologna stood in the heat outside the Genoese citadel gazing north: surveying the white, hazy curve of the great bay of Caffa, and the city which spread itself on its near slopes.

  He was not interested in the view. He knew all about it. The first Bishop of Caffa had been a Franciscan monk. He himself had been here three times in nine years, and it was a week since he sailed into that harbour, wide and sound enough to shelter two hundred ships, lying calm in the lee of the mountains. What he was looking at, what he had come to look at, was a situation.

  He had explained the situation now to five Heirs of St Peter and countless thickheaded rulers. Popes and merchants generally knew their geography: you couldn’t rule a world business without it, and the Middle Sea (to date) was the hub of the world. You had to explain to some princes that the Middle Sea was joined by the Straits of Constantinople to the Black Sea, and that within the Black Sea, the Crimean Peninsula jutted south like a misshapen diamond, with the bight of Caffa below its east point. The Genoese had held Caffa and most of the Crimean seaports for centuries, hanging on to their fabulous trade and paying tribute to the heirs of Ghengis Khan, whose massed Mongol tribes claimed the steppes.