The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [124]
The girl Catherine. Godscalc braced himself. Doria, naturally, would have planned to get Nicholas on his own at the Palace. The girl had darted across before her bridegroom could stop her. Avid, of course, to arrange a confrontation between husbands. And to show herself. She was wearing expensive earrings, too heavy for her young face. And the same face, somehow, was sharper than he remembered it. She was saying “Where is he?”
Godscalc followed her gaze. Where Nicholas had been, there was no one. Loppe, too, had evaporated. Out of the side of his eye, he saw Tobie looking smug. Pagano Doria, strolling up, said, “My dear, think of Modon. He’s always running about. You’ll see him later, I’m sure.”
Left to himself, Doria might have got her away. Instead, he had Julius in front of him, already murderous, and made more so by the desertion of Nicholas. Julius lunged and, before Godscalc could stop him, caught Catherine fast by the arm. He said, “Married? I’ll believe that when I see the papers. Until then, this is where you belong.”
He had addressed her in Flemish, but his voice and his action were recklessly explicit. Heads were turning. Protective of their consul, the Genoese were already stepping forward, vermilion swinging. Catherine de Charetty stared at Julius and then, severely, at his hand on her arm. She did not scream, and made no effort to struggle. Instead, she cast a complacent glance at her husband and waited.
Godscalc didn’t give Doria a chance to make matters worse. Godscalc raised a hand like a cleaver and brought it down on the arm holding the girl, which fell limp to the notary’s side. Then, as Julius whirled, exclaiming, the priest seized him by shoulder and elbow. On his other side, Tobie did likewise. Julius, a powerful man, began to struggle painfully.
Pagano Doria watched, and the Genoese now grouped behind him. He turned to his wife. “Caterinetta? At least your priest believes in your marriage, it seems. I am less fond of your notary. Shall we hand him to the church officers, for causing violence in the church precincts, in the Emperor’s presence? Or what?”
From its scabbard under his coat, Doria had drawn a handsome small dagger. It looked familiar. He smiled. “Don’t be afraid, Messer Julius. It is not your name on the blade.” His hand made a small movement. The steel gave a flash, and Julius made a furious movement. A long wrinkle appeared on one leg, above which the broken end of a hosepoint hung down.
“Naked on Easter Monday in the churchyard. What, I wonder, is the penalty for that?” Doria said. Catherine giggled. The dagger flashed again, and Julius jumped. On his other side, Tobie half loosed his grip. Godscalc, keeping his own, said sharply, “Cease at once. You disgrace your republic.” There was blood now on the stocking where Julius, struggling, had caught the knife. It nicked again. Tobie said, “All right. I’m going to—”
Father Godscalc offered, in German, a furious prayer for patience. He braced himself for the move that would heave Julius round and run him out of the crowd. Then he was saved the trouble.
“My lords?” said Violante of Naxos. “The Emperor sends to ask if he can help the man who is sick? Why, Messer Julius!”
The hooded eyes, sedately amused, contradicted the concern and reproach in her voice. She spoke, musically, in her native Greek. She bent, and touched with her handkerchief the blood staining the notary’s calf. “Messer Tobias, he has hurt himself. This should be seen to.” The handkerchief, of transparent silk edged with gold thread, was being folded and neatly tied over the scratch.