The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [11]
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