Caprice and Rondo

  ‘And you of Paúel Benecke,’ said Buonaccorsi. ‘But few of us are free to act as we would wish. The King, valuing Burgundy, would not refuse reasonable reparation for this cargo, but the merchants of Danzig feel differently.’ He paused. ‘My wish is that you had come directly to Thorn or to Cracow, and had won the King’s trust. An informed mediator is honoured by both sides. It could have been your role for the future. Among others.’

  ‘Living in Cracow?’ Nicholas said. He tasted his wine, and reluctantly set it aside.

  ‘Living wherever the Court is, or at any other centre of excellence. I do not need to recite names to you. You know who is here; we have exchanged letters about them. I believed at one time that you wished to meet them.’

  ‘And now they would like to meet me?’ Nicholas said.

  Buonaccorsi looked at him thoughtfully, through long-lashed, myopic eyes. ‘I suspect I am receiving a refusal. No, I cannot flatter you with the names of those who would have wished to meet you: they do not know you well enough as yet. Yes, this approach on their behalf is chiefly for national and commercial ends, although not only for those. I have not referred to pleasures other than those of the mind, but they are there to be had. Not that I have anything against the customs of Danzig.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Nicholas said. ‘I find they suit me well enough. You may be reassured: I am not interested in the Mission, and it is unlikely to be interested in me. I find my imagination has been fired by the classical pleasures of seafaring. Theseus. Ulysses. Paúel Benecke. I thought I might go to sea with Paúel Benecke.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Buonaccorsi, without haste. He displayed no disapproval, other than sedately returning, in his next words, to the vernacular. ‘I heard your departure was sudden, but I thought we might still find …’

  ‘Common ground,’ Nicholas said.

  The other man laughed. ‘Quite. But if your difficulty was a simple one, then perhaps I might still help. Was it over a woman, for example? According to my little Nerio, your lawyer Julius has an exceptional wife.’

  ‘Anna? No. That is, she is exceptional, but not my reason for leaving.’

  ‘So something more novel. You planned to murder the Pope?’ said Filippo Buonaccorsi.

  Nicholas smiled. ‘Nothing so ambitious or so bold. I chose to end a family feud, and then leave.’

  ‘I see. Was it mortal? The family feud?’

  ‘Am I an assassin? Of course not: how crude. How can the quick satisfaction of murder compare with the effects of a well-designed war?’

  ‘And this, do I take it, is why you are estranged from the Mission? The Patriarch of Antioch will feel bound to denounce you?’

  ‘He might, if he knew anything of it. My activities are not public hearsay. I left because I didn’t wish them to become so. And, although I thank you, I am not in any difficulty.’

  ‘So you do not expect to see Anselm Adorne, or the Patriarch?’

  ‘I have no plans to meet them. On the other hand, if they enquire, it might be difficult to deny I am in Poland.’

  ‘Where men know you as Colà?’

  ‘And also as Nicholas de Fleury of Bruges. I left a note under that name with the Council to say that I am here, at your invitation, in Oliva.’

  ‘I see,’ said the other. He replaced the spectacles on his nose and looked mildly through them. ‘And I understand, I suppose. You are inviting King, traders and pirate to compete for your services. And also Burgundy and the Emperor?’

  ‘I have removed myself from both,’ Nicholas said. ‘And I am spying for neither. As for the rest, my preference is, as I mentioned, for Benecke, but I should also like to have freedom of movement. Nicknames outlive their uses.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Buonaccorsi agreed. His hands, freed, were reflectively tented. ‘A life at sea. A surprising choice. Of course, you have your mathematics. Navigation and the stars: you may explore some new realms of the mind. They say diviners can discover drowned men.’

  ‘They discover the coins in their purses,’ Nicholas said. ‘And, speaking of salvage … hoped I might be allowed, before I went, to look at the altar-piece.’

  ‘The altar-piece?’

  ‘Henne Memling’s “Last Judgement”. It came with the last of Paúel Benecke’s — appropriated — cargo. The Abbot won’t admit that it is here. You might persuade him.’

  ‘I haven’t been shown it myself,’ Buonaccorsi said. ‘Didn’t you see it being painted in Bruges?’

  ‘Everyone saw it,’ Nicholas said. ‘Everyone was in it, just about. The Saved and the Damned. Henne got all his drink free on the strength of it. I just wanted to check something for myself.’

  ‘What?’ said the Italian presently. The painting, on the Abbot’s wall, was gigantic; the gold glowed; the throng of nude figures gleamed.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Tommaso Portinari. I’ve found him. I can die happy now. I wonder if these are for me?’

  He had turned his head to the window, from beyond which could be heard the minor tumult of horsemen arriving. He was probably right. These would be the emissaries of the eminent councillors, merchants, shipmasters and members of the Confrérie of St George: the bluff Bischoff and Bock for example, and Sidinghusen and Valandt and Niederhof of the syndicate that owned Benecke’s ship. All men who would prefer the former Colà z Brugge to merge his interests with those of Danzig, rather than those of Casimir its nominal lord. If de Fleury were returning to Danzig, he would now be able to do as he wished. He had been approached by the King, and had not accepted.

  Filippo Buonaccorsi did not escort his guest to the door, nor attempt to view those who came to remove him. It was not his purpose, or the King’s, to challenge the merchants of Danzig. He presumed that they knew that Nicholas de Fleury was not attracted to them, but intended to partner the privateer Benecke. It would still be, on the whole, to their benefit. He thought of his own chequered past in Rome and Florence and Venice: the passionate militancy, the flaunted follies, the dangerous plot (de Fleury had smiled) from which he had barely escaped with his life. His habit of learning had saved him.

  This man, of whom he had expected much, had refused such a path. Buonaccorsi wondered what had produced, in reality, so drastic a change. But then, the cause hardly mattered. Men either dealt with adversity, or did not.

  Chapter 3

  IN APRIL THAT YEAR, the winds which had sealed off the mouth of the Vistula backed at last to the west and, overtaking the Three Princes’ Mission, the fleets of the Baltic united at Danzig, there to jostle and bob, awaiting their clients the grain rafts: the winners of the annual race down the Vistula with the fruits of the broad Polish cornfields.

  Because the Mission travelled by road and arrived, by intent, on the Sabbath, its ears and eyes were spared the immediate impact. It heard, in the clear, biting air, only the battling clangour of church bells and the crackling tread of the welcoming cortège, followed, as they entered the city, by the dutiful salutes of the citizens. Only when riding down the wide street to their lodging did Kathi glimpse through the portals ahead the wharves of the little Mottlau, Danzig’s river, and the second, watery city that dwelled there.

  Not all the inhabitants of Danzig lined the streets, or gazed in curiosity or annoyance through their expensive glass windows. Some had climbed the tower of St Mary’s, the better to follow the foreigners’ progress. Two, especially at home on the wharves, had joined the freighter-men in the holy of holies, and were standing on the towering, topmost floor of the Crane, where the timbers creaked in the wind, and the cable, even when bound, muttered and snored as if at any moment the mighty hook would come thundering down to ganch all the men on the jetty and raze the mast from the ship lying beneath it. Paúel Benecke said, full of anticipation, ‘Here they come.’

  The man he now thought of as Colà did not immediately answer. You could see little as yet: a line of plumes, the glint of cuirasses; a quantity of large velvet hats and cloaked shoulders. Benecke said, ‘They’re putting them into the r
oyal apartments. Windy as hell, and first thing tomorrow, all the noise of a seaport. I see the Franciscan. Is that Adorne, with the chequer? And another chequer of sorts — it must be his nephew.’

  ‘It isn’t his nephew,’ said Colà.

  Benecke pursed his lips and shaded his eyes. ‘You’re right. It isn’t. It’s the little lad who came with us, Robin something. But with Adorne’s chequer? How odd!’

  ‘He’s married to Adorne’s niece,’ Colà said.

  Benecke shot him a sparkling glance. Then he returned to surveying the riders. He said, astonished, ‘It’s the girl-brother Kathi! The maid in the fur hood is Kathi! She married that infant?’

  Colà got up. ‘Why, does it make you ache in the joints? His voice has broken, so far as I know. I have to tell you that old women prize youths: they are indefatigable.’

  ‘You should know?’

  ‘I should know.’ The cavalcade had disappeared; the show was over. Men moved and joked, and began to clatter down the steps of the Crane, Colà among them. He said, over his shoulder, ‘So why have the two of them come?’

  ‘For you,’ said the captain immediately. He frowned. Colà had turned off from the steps, and had vaulted down to the pair of wheels, fifteen feet from top to bottom, that worked the machinery. When Paúel reached him, he had stepped into one and was seated, clasping his knees, between the rungs where men usually paddled. The wheel, which was made fast, rocked a little. Benecke stepped up-wheel and sat himself facing him.

  Colà said, ‘They don’t know I’m here. I think they want to call in some favours from you. That pair saved your carcass in Ireland.’

  ‘After you’d half killed me,’ said Benecke, frowning more deeply. The wheels occupied the vaulted roof of a passage through to the wharf. People walking below heard his voice and peered upwards.

  ‘But you’ve forgiven me that, and your wife wants me to marry your daughter. So what do we do?’

  Benecke thought. He knew when to pay no attention to Colà. He also suspected that his duplicity had been discovered. He had known that the little Kathi was coming. Below, six familiar caps walked through to the plankway and someone blew for a boat. He waited till they had gone. Ice was forming again at the edge of the water, and the opposite granary quay was quite white. The wheel trembled beneath him. Colà, his expression in shadow, was gently rocking the wood with his spine. Benecke said, ‘If you break the shackles, the whole drum will run. Ever seen that happen?’

  ‘Yes, in Bruges. Do you think you’ve got the only God-damned crane in the world? But that time, I was jiggling it harder. You were saying?’

  ‘I was going to mention the Council. They wouldn’t want you to upset Adorne. And they wouldn’t want me to interfere with the law. To me, there’s only one thing to do. So let’s do it.’

  ‘Break the shackles?’ said Nicholas de Fleury. He helped himself up, balanced, swung, and launched himself down to the slush of the passageway. Then he stood, grinning, while Benecke, with resignation, did the same. He changed direction on landing, and so escaped the vicious swipe that was meant to spin him over and into the water. Colà had guessed, all right, that something had been kept from him.

  A COMPANIONABLE FELLOW, the Lübecker had said, who now spends his time raising hell with Paúel Benecke. That was all Kathi knew, but it was sufficient.

  The day after the mission’s Grand Entry to Danzig, Katelijne Sersanders, lady of Berecrofts, left the splendid lodging they had been given at the Green Bridge and made her way to the great florid home of Filip Bischoff, there to eat marzipan and drink Malvasian wine with his second wife and two of his daughters, together with a selection of the women of Danzig.

  For a century and a half, the Teutonic Knights had ruled Danzig, and it was not long since they left. The merchant families who had taken their place were, many of them, the same as those who had served the Knights as factors and agents, and their customs and tongue were still German. The husbands of these women knew every town of the Hanse, had lived in Veere and in Bruges, were familiar with London and Leith, Perth and Aberdeen, the Bay of Biscay and Brittany. Despite the hearty, disarming chatter, Kathi had to remember that they knew as much of her family as she did; and would wonder why she had married whom she had married, and what she was doing here. She would be regarded, of course, as her uncle’s spy.

  Nevertheless, she was also a source of information and entertainment and they were not, she found, malicious in their enquiries as a Venetian, for example, would have been. They talked of her home town of Bruges, and their husbands, and invited her to trust them with any gossip attached to the members of the Kontor, the council of Hanseatic merchants living in Bruges. How could it be healthy, to demand that honest men live as monks, without their wives to console them? And such wine, such fabrics, such jewels, they said, could be bought for nothing in Bruges! Katelijne’s betrothal ring was passed round, then her earrings, then one of her shoes and a sleeve. They spoke admiringly of her handsome young husband — and Scottish, not Flemish: how important his father must be! They sought to compare German and Flemish wedding-bed customs, and exchanged reminiscences about the performances of their own husbands under the eyes of the statutory witnesses:

  Did he pretend to do something, then?

  Oh, the rogue, no: he pretended to pretend, but all the time …! The thumb-marks next day!

  It was all comfortable, coarse and not unfriendly: the feminine equivalent of the Bergenfahrers. A little flushed, Kathi collected her wits and replied as cheerfully and uninformatively as she could. Fortunately, there was no one else to be embarrassed: Robin was at the Town Hall, where the Council and Jury were receiving my lord Anselm Adorne and the Patriarch on the first full day of official meetings. The morning was wearing away before she managed to enquire where Paúel Benecke lived.

  She had asked Barbara Bischoff, one of the daughters, but a different girl remarked, ‘Why? Have you met him?’ The speaker was built like a bison, and was eight inches taller than Kathi. Barbara giggled.

  Kathi said, ‘I met him in Iceland with Nicholas de Fleury, Lord Beltrees. Or Colà, he calls himself now.’

  ‘Did they share you?’ enquired the young woman.

  ‘Elzbiete!’ the girl Barbara said.

  ‘No, my brother and Robin were there, and Lord Beltrees, of course, was still married. You know Lord Beltrees?’ Kathi said with exquisite nonchalance. ‘Under both names?’ The conversation about her was dwindling.

  ‘Colà z Brugge the madman, of course. Everyone knew who he was: they all kept quiet, for they thought he was spying. You say, was still married?’ said the girl.

  ‘To a lady called Gelis van Borselen. They have separated since, and await an annulment. I hope he is in no danger,’ said Kathi solicitously. ‘I know that Captain Benecke owes him his life.’

  ‘I should not thank Colà for that,’ the young woman said. ‘Paúel Benecke is a black whoring rat.’

  Through a chorus of screams, Barbara patted the girl’s brawny arm while explaining to Kathi: ‘Paúel Benecke is her father. What she says is quite true. Did you want to meet Colà? Nikolás of Fleury, as you say?’

  Kathi swallowed. She said, ‘I should like to surprise him.’

  ‘That can be arranged,’ said the thoughtful bass of Elzbiete. ‘So, tell us what you know of Nikolás, Colà. Does he keep extravagant mistresses, or does he make do with inexpensive bought favours, as here? Was his wife, Gelis, frigid? Is he a vigorous man, and well made, as they say? Is he depicted in the great painting at Oliva?’

  ‘None of his wives was what you’d call frigid. What great painting?’ said Kathi, slow for once.

  Someone coughed. Bischoff’s lady wife said, ‘A picture of men, unsuitable for unmarried girls. You do not need to reply. Give me a few hours to arrange it, and you and Elzbiete may surprise our wicked Colà z Brugge before supper.’

  ‘Wicked?’ said Kathi.

  ‘In charm,’ said Barbara’s stepmother. ‘In the extent of his charm, an
d his escapades. Look how Elzbiete is bewitched. And now, of course, our girls can command a good dowry.’

  Someone else coughed. ‘That’s nice,’ Kathi said, and smiled at Elzbiete.

  WHEN HER UNCLE and Robin returned, Kathi was sitting alone, half undressed, in her room. With dusk, the din outside her windows had reduced itself to the constant tramping of feet, and the roar of men’s voices in song or obscenity. Danzig was well provided with ale. Then a door banged from inside the house, and she heard her husband’s light voice, and the velvet timbre of her uncle’s polished German. The Patriarch, it seemed, was not there.

  In a moment, Robin would leap upstairs to find her. She did not want that. Her gown lay by her bed. The opulent ladies of Danzig had already examined, in silence, its meagre proportions: she had always been small, with the slight, wiry build of a child. Her eyes were hazel, not blue, and her hair plainly brown, against the flaxen bounty of Elzbiete’s, for example. She smiled, thinking of Elzbiete, and then did not smile. The drunken voices had risen outside. Does he make do with inexpensive bought favours, as here? She dressed and walked down.

  Anselm Adorne was angry. Even now, alone with his niece and her husband, he would not burst into speech, but the grooves in his cheeks were bitten deep, and the brows above his eyes, normally amused, or detached, or quizzical, were heavy and straight. Since his wife died he had not touched a lute, or written verse, or laughed aloud. The mourning ought to be over, and Kathi knew that it might have been, but for something else he could not forget. Also, Margriet’s family had traded in Danzig — not that the Danzigers would allow that to affect them. Kathi said, ‘What happened?’

  It was the usual problem: the Danzigers’ unshakeable determination to preserve their trade at all costs: even against the interests of their fellow Hanse cities. And against the Danzigers’ single voice, the divided one with which Anselm Adorne had to speak. On behalf of the Duke of Burgundy, a threat to clear the Hanseatic Kontor out of Bruges, unless he obtained the trading concessions and the redress for the ship that he demanded. And in private, from Adorne’s well-liked and respected fellow burghers and office-holders in Bruges, the brief to promise anything, do anything, so long as the Baltic trade came to Bruges uninterrupted. And all, of course, had come to focus upon this stupid case of Paúel Benecke and the San Matteo.