The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [56]
And he laughed, in a way that wasn’t quite right because he was so surprised, and said, “But you do know, my precious. All except the last and sweetest iota. Blow the light out, my little princess, and let me give you your crown.”
It was something of a shock, but rather less than she had feared. The second time, she recognised that this was fulfilment, and no artifice could ever compare with it. She also knew, a discovery she would not forget, that for the duration of her hospitality the lord Pagano Doria lost his sovereignty: art and artifice vanished in stress. As often as she chose to become queen, she caused him to become less than princely.
Next day she walked on deck, to and fro, calm and smiling and silent. She hardly spoke, all that voyage to Modon. But every dusk she made her way to their cabin, and he joined her. What was common practice, she had no way of telling. He was as witty as ever; as considerate and as charming. She made deductions, from what he appeared to think proper. Marriage, it seemed, resembled a tournament, where some submitted to organised bouts, and some fought at will, expending senses and strength in their vehemence. Catherine, held in high pleasure, had no reservations, while recognising at once which was natural to him. She pleased herself, fostering it. And made herself his most adoring audience, when he spoke of plans for hampering Nicholas.
By the time the Florentine galley arrived at Modon, the Doria had been there several days, and (for a Genoese) its commander had become quite an acceptable visitor at the Venetian Bailie’s house.
These days, Modon was crammed. Always a well-used maritime junction, serving Venetian ships coming in from Constantinople, Cyprus, Syria; storing raisins, ashes, cotton and silk for the next fleet; offering repairs and provisions and hospitality to the travellers who poured through its gates, it was now one of the few Venetian colonies in the Turkish-occupied peninsula, and full of refugees. It was also a fortress. Over all ruled the lord Giovanni Bembo the Bailie, a patrician and capable: a man who could entertain kings on their way to Jerusalem and spies who had news of the Turks. For him, Pagano Doria represented light relief. And besides, it was the quiet season for shipping, for more reasons than one. Pagano Doria told him everything he wanted to know: some of it almost true. He unloaded and loaded his cargo; exchanged visits; entertained and was entertained. At no point was he accompanied by a woman.
When, with a swirl of trumpets and a couple of bangs from her cannon, the Ciaretti swept into the bay of Sapienza, the Bailie had already heard a good deal of the galley. She looked better than he expected, slipping past under oar to her berth. She and the round ship saluted each other impeccably. As soon as they were settled, he received their messenger, with the formal letters endorsed by the Medici. In return, he sent his chamberlain on board with a gift of strong rumney wine and an invitation to sup at his house the next evening. Unavoidable, naturally. He thought he might get the man Doria to help with the honours. One wondered what had come over the Medici, to give a peasant a consulate, even if he had a shrewd eye for a bargain. Battle fodder, poor lad. Intent on making his name and his fortune.
On board the Ciaretti, the sharp eyes of Julius had scanned the round ship as they passed. The little devil Doria was there. He saw the fronds of his feathered cap above a cloak thick with gold, and glimpsed his face, glowing with pleasure. Doria bowed, but Nicholas didn’t. Nicholas said, “I hope the bastard blows himself up.”
“Well, we’ve caught him,” Julius said. “We’ve caught him, and le Grant says we could pass him, if we get out quickly. I don’t know. I’d rather like to meet him on shore and have a little talk about those stores at Messina.” One of his grievances in Florence had been the cowardly attitude of his fellows. Because Doria was Genoese consul, it would be undiplomatic to knock him down in the street. Julius