The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [78]
He waited, with confidence, his boarding by the Sultan’s officials; and hoped the pretty child, his creation, his creature tutored for nothing but love and able for nothing but love (apart from stirring up trouble) would sleep late, and wake in good looks, as was necessary.
At Gallipoli, Father Godscalc and Nicholas had a difference of opinion. Naturally, this had happened before, and not only with Godscalc, since more and more Nicholas had become inclined to speak his mind about what they should do. Up till recently, he had employed a deprecating manner in council accompanied, Godscalc had noticed, by a persistent use of hard reasoning. He usually got his own way.
He got his own way now, but had dropped the humility. That was since his trimming at Modon: the Bailie’s table, the girl, and lastly the nicely judged exercise of the fire. For one of the things I fancy least, is having Pagano Doria board my ship, and kill my men and burn my cargo, and sail into Constantinople ahead of me. He had meant it at the time, although events had caused him to reverse his plan. It had been the view of Tobie, and Julius, that his distress about Catherine had been genuine. He hadn’t stinted in fighting the fire; and had shown himself able to organise. His crew, hitherto cautious, had been captivated by those rousing speeches. Nicholas could get them to laugh when he wanted to; and he could get them to work.
To his colleagues he had displayed his rage over his abducted stepdaughter; and his determination. So, too, they had accepted the harder edge he now used in his dealings with them. Perhaps it would have come anyway, as a result of his failures at Modon. Adversity, in Godscalc’s experience, made a very good teacher. The greatest problem Nicholas had was his youth. Two problems. Nicholas was now in his twenty-first year: an age at which other men not only led armies but could satisfy a harem. Were the functions interdependent? As a man vowed to celibacy, Father Godscalc sometimes wondered.
By Gallipoli, the tension on board the Ciaretti could be felt. They had lost a day in the Aegean because the Doria’s sailspread was bigger and open seas suited her better. It would be offset in the Hellespont and the other narrows ahead, where the Florentine’s oars would pull her close to the wind, and tease out the north-running currents. Le Grant reckoned they would make up two days, but they would still arrive in the Sublime Porte four days after Doria. Unless she waited, they were going to miss her.
There was no need to underline the irony of it all. With what he now knew, Doria could have them stopped at Constantinople. And yet, against their own interests, they were striving to catch him, because Catherine de Charetty was thought to be on his ship. Thinking about it, Father Godscalc reached a conclusion. At Gallipoli, he put it to Nicholas. “Let me disembark and try to get to the Sublime Porte ahead of you. I might just catch Doria. Or, better still, get the girl on her own. If I brought her back, you needn’t—”
“Call at Constantinople? Of course I should. At best, I’ve got business there. At worst, they’d put a ball through my hull if I didn’t. And how could you bring her aboard? Doria would simply have the Turks search us.”
Godscalc kept his voice even. “All right. Perhaps I couldn’t bring her away.