The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [10]
“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