The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [157]
He and Adorne had emptied the Syrian wine-vessel between them. It was true what they said about the man’s capacity. Towards the end, his own tongue had begun to baulk at long words. To punish it, he had asked about the Arabic lettering. Lasting glory, increasing prosperity, and fortuitous destiny, it said on the jug. He had expressed, with lucidity, the hope that it would long apply to the line of Adorne.
“As long, I suppose, as the ewer will last,” Adorne had answered him mildly.
And yet it was in daily use. On his shaky legs, Gregorio made his way thoughtfully home.
Chapter 23
ST OMER LOOKED LIKE a battlefield. Gregorio arrived on Friday, the day of the Order’s first vespers, hoping the roads would be clearer. The knights ought to be already installed with their squires and pages and servants and all the horses and gear for Tuesday’s tournament. The ducal court, preceded by seventy wagons of furnishings each drawn by five or six horses, had moved in a fortnight before with its heralds and trumpets, its hounds and its birds, the ducal wine, books and spices, the Duke’s jewels (five carts), and his bath. The wine, the oats, the meat to serve a thousand men and their servants, would be already in store.
But St Omer needed daily supplies to feed the other thousands pouring into its gates: the simple spectators; the petitioners; the merchants and women, the brokers and artists, the smiths and tailors and artisans who followed the court. Ancient town of the counts of Flanders and Artois, it had seen it all before in Duke Philip’s time: a royal wedding; an early meeting of the new-founded Fleece. It had made little difference to the problem. Stationary on a road jammed with carts and wheelbarrows, horses and basket-crowned peasants, Gregorio gazed at the unencumbered blue sky, and envied the windmills.
Inside the walls, it was worse. They were preparing for a procession, and the road from the cathedral to St Bertin’s was closed off, so that the streets round about were all but impassable. Struggling through, he could see an unbroken line of scarlet cloth apparently lining the main street. Ribboned garlands and shields showed above it. At every intersection there was a platform of sorts, garnished with heraldic devices and crowded with people, most of them shouting and some of them practising fanfares. Above the immediate noise, he could hardly hear them. He could barely keep contact with the groom and boy he had brought with him.
Had it not been for a man who owed him money and had an aunt in St Omer, he would have had no hope of finding a bed. As it was, he suspected that he would find himself sleeping in a communal room on a floor-mattress, and in due course was to find himself proved right. The boy and groom shared a stable and did rather better.
It was then, on his way to his lodging, that he was hailed by Prosper de Camulio, the Milanese agent Adorne had spoken of. The cry came from a balcony. Looking up, Gregorio recognised the confident face, the clothing a fraction too stylish, of the man he had met, once, before Nicholas left. The encounter, of course, must be accidental. But the balcony, itself crowded, overlooked the one route that led to Gregorio’s destination. And a man who owed money in one quarter, he supposed, might just as easily owe it elsewhere. So here was Prosper Schiaffino de Camulio de’ Medici, secretary and accredited envoy of the Duke of Milan, calling, “Messer Gregorio! But my friend of the company Charetty! What do you here, and where do you lodge?”
He made a point of answering readily, while trying to keep his horse still. He told the same story. The delegation from Eastern princes had arrived, and he sought the envoy from Trebizond. Messer de Camulio listened with interest, remarked, in a shout, that he hoped to give himself