Caprice and Rondo (21 page)

‘Start another feud,’ Nicholas said. He picked up the bowl that Benecke was eating from and threw it and its contents into the water. ‘What would I do if I did come with you? Piddle about the Baltic in convoy like a shopkeeper? The war’s over.’

Benecke breathed through his nose. Beneath the week-old black beard he was yellow. He said, ‘Learn who your friends are. You need money.’

‘Not all that much,’ Nicholas said. ‘What do you think I’d do if I did come into money? Buy a fine
dwór
in Cracow and sit in it? I didn’t go to Cairo or Scotland or Iceland because I needed money. Your trouble is that you’ve got access to a bloody great ship and nothing interesting to do with it.’

Benecke’s colour had returned. He said, ‘So what would you do if you had money?’

‘Tempt me,’ said Nicholas. ‘What could you devise that needs capital no one else would offer you?’

There was a pause. ‘I could go to Iceland again,’ Benecke said. ‘Paid protection as well as cod-fishing. Or I could move further south. You can do things without letters of marque. There are rich men always willing to pay.’ He stopped. His eyes, which were black, were glittering. He said, ‘I was right. You want fighting.’

‘Yes, but not on a diet of whale blubber. Why don’t you put together a programme? You’re the professional pirate. I don’t mind providing the brains.’

Benecke picked up Nicholas’s bowl and threw it outside. They were both on their feet in enjoyable anticipation when the raft hit a new eddy and tilted; someone roared, and the discussion came to a halt for the moment.

They arrived at the crowded jetties of Thorn, built like all the busiest ports on a bend of the river. Benecke didn’t try to penetrate the massive line of red walls, but stayed and transacted his business among the cabins, the warehouses, the cranes, the baths, the stews of the foreshore, with the ruins of the Knights’ castle at one end and the monastery and church of the Holy Ghost sterilising the worst of the carnal excesses, Nicholas observed, at the other.

On the slopes of the opposite bank stood a castle, to which the Court was shortly shifting, they said, from Lancisia. Anselm Adorne might already be here, with his letters of credence, which was why the captain had lodged on the foreshore. The captain wished to spare Colà speech with Adorne, and Nicholas did not mind being spared. Benecke had not yet put into words his own plans for the summer, but was preparing the ground by making sure that Colà never went thirsty. Nicholas, who understood his dilemma, fully appreciated his sudden good fortune, but still got drunk only at night.

So that his movements would be known to someone, he had sent his usual letter, which Mistress Clémence would receive in three weeks or perhaps longer. He had also sent a note to the Patriarch. It was amusing, in its way, that the only two people who were not in the slightest degree repelled by his treachery were his priest and his notary. Although he couldn’t even say that, strictly speaking. The Patriarch, although unremittingly predatory, was not in fact his personal priest and Julius, although still serving the Bank, could not now be viewed as his lawyer. He had no staff. He had no one. He was free.

Nicholas wondered if it were true that Anna had confirmed her part-ownership of the
Fleury
. If it was, she was welcome. He could hardly claim it. His share belonged to the Bank. He dreamed that night of Anna, as he often did; and lay awake for a time after that, wondering where she
was, and whether she was tired of being married to Julius. But however disappointing Julius in action might be, he was rewarding to look at. They made a magnificent pair, as once he and Gelis had done. But nothing lasted for ever. He reached for the flask, always there, and emptied it thoughtfully.

I
T
WAS
R
OBIN
who pointed out that Adorne ought to be told, when Benecke’s daughter arrived with the news they were waiting for. Kathi admired her new husband’s character, but sometimes regretted his lack of low cunning.

Now they knew where Paúel Benecke was, they could have slipped off without telling anyone. The house was frequently empty. The Patriarch shuttled between Royal Prussia and Royal Poland at will, and might stay with bishops, courtiers or his fellow Franciscans for several days at a time, if they happened to keep a good table. Periodically, too, her uncle found himself carried off to endure an unwanted few days of hunting, fishing, and feasting in the country homes of the Danzig élite, while negotiations ground to a halt. Everything that a Danziger did for his King was rewarded with land: villages and lakes, fishing pools and forests and ferries were showered upon him. A good German merchant in Danzig might own whole streets of houses and gardens, granaries and baths, lucrative facilities on the wharves. They were rich, and enjoyed being hospitable. With Adorne away, pale with frustration, there would have been plenty of time to escape from the city and make for this mysterious spot towards which (Elzbiete would have them believe) her father and his unsuspecting friend Colà were solemnly engaged in propelling a raft.

At first, of course, Adorne had forbidden them sharply to go. Kathi had allowed Robin to plead his own case, and had been taken aback at how well he did it. Her uncle himself could not move; the merchants here had him at their mercy until he obtained some agreement. But Kathi had made friends with Paúel Benecke’s daughter. And Paúel Benecke, in a way, held the key to the dispute over the
San Matteo
. To see him might be advantageous.

‘I don’t understand,’ Adorne had said. ‘You expect Benecke to admit to acting outside the law?’

‘Not in public,’ Robin had said. ‘But he might just drop us a hint, if the Danzigers’ case is less than perfect.’

‘Why should he?’ Adorne had said.

‘He’s reasonably safe. He was an employee of the syndicate, and they’ll protect him. His daughter says he wants rid of us all so that he can go into business with Nicholas.’

‘And his daughter is helping him?’

Robin had cleared his throat. ‘We aren’t sure what part his daughter is playing. Or his wife, for that matter. But it seems worth the risk, sir.’

She would never have expected Adorne to agree, but he did. She thought he did it for Robin. It did not occur to her that he might have done it for her. She hadn’t supported this scheme to find Nicholas.

Soon after that, she found herself riding south, with Robin and Elzbiete Benecke and a very small escort, some of them drunk. Kathi turned up her eyes, and Robin grinned, for he was happy as well.

T
HE
T
EUTONIC
K
NIGHTS
’
CASTLE
of Mewe was one of their chain of forts perched on the Vistula, each within signal-fire range of two others. In Mewe, as elsewhere, the domination of the Order had recently come to a gratifying end but, unlike elsewhere, the square, red-brick castle had not been razed or much tampered with. The private privy cubicles with their neat
toleta
planks had all crumbled, but the stables and internal courtyard were useful for horses and wagons, and the tower and two of the wings were used to store grain. The best chambers had been commandeered by the officers of the castle’s small, perpendicular township, who were also petty landowners and members, some of them, of the Confrérie of St George.

Elzbiete had avoided such properties on the way south, which was why they had bypassed Rudolf Veldstete’s fine farm and made the forty-mile ride in one day. Although strenuous, it was not a penance in May. For once, the weather was dry. To begin with, they had the pleasant company of the Mottlau and the Radunia, so cleverly engineered by the Knights, who had been good for one or two things, Kathi sometimes thought, especially when she considered latrines. It was not until after their circumvention of Dirschau that Kathi saw the mother river itself: the mighty Vistula, broad as a lake, with a dim line of trees and white sand on the far bank. Then she noticed the swaying flats and glossy swirls of its currents, dredging their own fickle channels. Hence the need to sail in the spring, when the river was brimming and swift from the Carpathian rains, and before the low waters of June and July. Hence you sailed, even though last autumn the rains had not come, and seagulls stalked on the water, and men sat and fished from the sandbanks, which rose all around them like opening graves.

For all the fortune of Poland flowed north on the river: the slithering grain and the unwieldy timber; the long tulip-barrels with their wax and their dull lumps of ore; the glittering hunks of sheared pitch; the faggots of gnarled iron bars and the bundles of stinking blond cable. A challenge, to vigorous men. A challenge to headstrong, irresponsible men like Paúel and Nicholas.

The travellers from Danzig arrived at the high ridge of Mewe just before dusk, when the rafts were already coming in on the broad shining curve of the river, small in the distance as woodlice, lumbering the water below like great turtles. Elzbiete was impatient to move, but Robin and Kathi stopped in silence to watch as the sun sank and the lights began to prick and ripple below, and the water brought them the thin, fluctuating clamour of voices: greetings, laughter, curses, the barking of excited dogs and even the screaming of children, for half the populace of Mewe was making its way down to the strand. The other half was up at the castle, preparing the wagons of grain or setting up the trestles within for the paperwork. Obeying Elzbiete at last, Adorne’s niece and her husband rode downhill past the church and the market to the handsome house where she had promised them a night’s lodging.

The woman who was called by her servant to greet them was handsome, too, and extremely hospitable, as could be judged from the laughter within, and the smell of ale, and the clinking of tankards. She and Elzbiete kissed. Robin said, ‘Excuse me, but this is …?’

‘A tavern,’ said the woman in German, smiling at Elzbiete and then returning the smile, with appreciation, to Robin himself. The German was accented with Polish. ‘You don’t object? Of course, I do not offer bed-space, except when Paúeli’s friends want to set down their mattresses. Have you seen him? Is he here yet? And Colà?’

‘Ah! You have had your eye on Colà. I heard,’ said Elzbiete prosaically. ‘And was Colà fortunate, Gerta?’

‘Not with me, although your father was most generous, I believe, all through the winter. He likes to share with his friends.’ She turned, and laid her arm round Kathi’s thin shoulders. ‘But you are new-married, I’m told, and are not interested in such talk, with this young Adonis to sweeten your pillow. Shall I show you your chamber? Take off those cumbersome clothes. I shall send you a tub. Rest a while. And when you are ready, you will join us at table. We had a pig killed just last week.’

Upstairs, they were shown to their chamber. An elderly woman, winking broadly, dragged in an immense splashing tub, and left after lighting their candles. There were no visible towels. Kathi sank in a chair, her arms dangling. Robin, his head in his hands, gave way to a pent-up explosion of laughter. ‘She must be Benecke’s mistress! Does his daughter know all of them?’

‘It depends how many there are. I don’t know about conjugating but he certainly didn’t learn how to decline. Oh,
Nicholas
!’ she said to the air.

Robin also had sobered. ‘I know. Kathi … I can’t imagine how it will be, but I think I’d like to see him before you do.’ He looked at her in the fond, earnest way that so disarmed her. ‘You bathe, if you want to, and rest. I’d like to go down to the rafts now, before anything.’

‘Before
anything
? No, it was a joke. Despite Gerta’s opinion, forty
miles on a horse doesn’t sweeten your pillow.’ She paused, frowning at the comatose tub. ‘You think Nicholas is coming to this house? He may not.’

‘Yes, he will,’ Robin said. ‘Not because of the woman, but because he would think this is the last place Adorne’s party might come. And Benecke will bring him here, anyway. He wants us to meet.’

‘He wants us to collide,’ Kathi said. ‘He wants us to behave so repellently that Nicholas will never go home. Robin? Don’t go.’

‘Why not?’ said Robin, approaching. He added, helpfully, ‘I’ll undo your laces.’

‘
No! Don’t touch me!
’ said Kathi.

She saw him jump, fear and concern darkening his eyes. Then he drew a sighing breath, as he heard what had caused her to say it. First Gerta’s voice approaching the door, with its half-German accent. Then two men’s voices in true staccato Polish, fierce as the rattle of kettledrums.

One of them belonged to Paúel Benecke. ‘So there’s your damned room, but you have to pay for it,
towarzysz
. If you can’t, it’s the raft-house, or Gerta. And Gerta is softer.’ The door opened.

A man walked in whistling, and stopped. It was Nicholas.

He was six months older, that was all. He had fled in November, with a physical wound which must have hampered his travelling, and had since spent a violent winter, in which everything had been neglected but sport. His hair, thick as copra, was uncut, and his fingernails black. Like Benecke, he was unshaven, half his face furzed with dull yellow. One could understand all of that, on a raft. He had not, certainly, pined: anyone interested in anatomy could admire, if they wished, the structurally perfect interleaved muscles of his bare arms, his chest and his abdomen within the sleeveless waistcoat, the
delia
, that was all he wore with his leggings. And all the lines on his face were still laughter-lines: below and outside his large, winsome eyes; between nostril and nose; the ineffable dents in his cheeks. Even the lines on his brow were the marks of vivacity. The face of a man devoted to entertaining the world, and himself. The face of a retired clown, who had chosen one face now to live by, and who had cut himself off from his past. There were no scars on his hands.

He spoke at once, in hilarious German. ‘My dears! Shall I go out and come in again when you’re naked?’ Paúel Benecke, also bearded, ducked past him and pranced towards Kathi.

‘… the wrong room?’ Gerta’s voice could be heard saying, without much conviction.