Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [18]
Gregorio, not a vain man, recognised that it was a common experience to imagine one understood Nicholas vander Poele; and to harbour an impulse to help and protect him. He reminded himself that the subject of such a humane interest did not always remain innocent, or worthy of it. One must not be beguiled.
Gregorio sat, his face remote; and his fingers of their own volition caressed the place on his shoulder where once, for upholding Nicholas, he had received a sword-thrust from the lord Simon of St Pol who had written that chilling letter. The letter with the accusation which Nicholas had not repeated in full. Killer of women and gentlefolk, it had said. And despoiler of boys, it had added. Gregorio felt cold, and then amazingly hot.
‘It’s getting hotter,’ Tilde de Charetty said. She sat up. The holy island, the one nearest to Venice, had fallen behind. Ahead in the distance lay the sunlit snows of the blue mainland mountains. By contrast, the land which now seemed so close to their bows was green and populous, scattered with red and cream buildings and the towers of churches. By some trick of the sun, the composition appeared to be sparkling, like the effect of dew on a garden. ‘Why is it getting warmer?’ she said.
‘Because this is Murano,’ said Gregorio, emerging from his thoughts and wiping his brow. ‘It’s hot because of the glasshouses. This is where all the glass of Venice is made.’
The island’s sultriness eddied about them, carrying odours of baked clay and charred wood and metal. ‘Glass!’ said Tilde. ‘You didn’t tell me!’
She was looking at Julius who was far too interested in gazing elsewhere. Nicholas, in laconic Italian, was directing the oarsmen towards the entrance to the nearest and narrowest of the canals that wound through the island. As it began to open to view, you could see the mooring posts with their boats on either side, and the piles of boxes and barrels and sacks on the working-space between the water and the irregular line of crooked brick buildings. It was the Rio di Santo Stefano, where all the workshops were. Gregorio hoped to God Nicholas knew what he was doing.
Julius said to the girl, ‘I thought you’d enjoy the surprise.’ He chopped Nicholas on the arm. ‘I knew it. You’ve bought your way into glass, haven’t you?’
‘It would be hard to deny it,’ said Nicholas. For Tilde’s sake, he had switched back to Flemish. ‘It’s a pretty place, Murano, I’m told, away from the furnaces. Gardens, vineyards, hospices where you would be welcome. You and Tilde may want to walk, or the boat will take you wherever you fancy. We shall meet you back here in two hours.’
Tilde said, ‘I should like to see inside a glass workshop.’
‘I thought you might,’ Nicholas said. ‘Gregorio says this is one of the best, and they will make you welcome. You will excuse us?’
Gregorio had made no such pronouncement, but Nicholas, it was clear, had received advice from someone: the berth to which he directed the boat belonged to a luminary of the Glassmakers’ Guild who was already emerging to greet them. Tilde disembarked, aided by Julius and Lopez. Nicholas and Gregorio landed, made the necessary introductions, and stood aside as Julius and the girl entered the building.
Nicholas called after them, ‘In two hours’ time, then, at this place!’ and, taking Gregorio’s elbow, began to walk smartly along the canal path. Lopez followed, and behind him the two soldiers came running. Turning, Gregorio saw Julius step out of the glassworker’s house and look after them with a displeased expression. Then the Magistrate emerged and led him in again. ‘Good,’ said Nicholas. ‘So where is the Barovier workshop?’
‘He’ll try to find you,’ Gregorio said. ‘Julius. As soon as he’s free.’
‘No, he won’t,’ Nicholas said. ‘He had a good look at the barge. It’s full of glassmaking stuff: alum and cullet and cobalt. He’s found out I’ve been acquiring an island. He’ll pay the boatmen to take