Rogue Sword (24 page)

“I heard myself tell her she had to get well because of the child. She turned her face away and said, ‘It isn’t yours. I’ve no way to tell you how much I wish it were.’ Then I said, only it sounded like somebody else talking, I said, ‘It is mine.’

“And the way she looked at me then--!

“She got well pretty quickly. We started learning how to be happy with each other. No easy task, that, but we both wanted to learn and we kept working at it. We were closer than most, I’d say, when time came for the brat to be born.

“It killed them both.”

Lucas looked at his hands. They seemed as alien to him as Gasparo’s voice had been to its throat. He sat in the skin of a murderer.

“God was good to me and sent the war with Genoa,” Gasparo said. “You can forget a lot in time of war. I even married again. A sound marriage to bring in a big dowry. A fat woman who’s quite happy I’m not often in Venice. But sometimes at night Moreta comes back.”

“I never knew,” Lucas said to hollowness.

Gasparo snorted a laugh. “I’m expected to forgive you! Now will you tell me what harm I did?”

Lucas made no reply. “Good saints,” said Gasparo peevishly, “are you about to fall dead? You look it.”

Lucas shook himself. A wave of cold went through him. He hugged his ribs and said, “I’ve long been in search of a just ruler.”

“The least you can do is answer my question. Where’ve I hurt you? Because I sought your life? Nothing came of that. In fact, you’ve ended up with better prospects than you ever had before.”

“But I can’t use justice,” said Lucas wildly. “Only forgiveness.”

Gasparo controlled his eagerness enough to say, “Maybe I can, too. If we’re to be friends, let’s be honest with each other. What claim do you have on me?”

Lucas slumped. “You separated me from the one I care for,” he said. “A fitting revenge, isn’t it?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Do you remember the Circassian slave girl?”

“Yes, if that’s the one you stole from me.”

“I rescued her!” The flare died down; Moreta. “I’ll repay your monetary loss. But we escaped together to the Catalan Company. She became dear to me. If she lives, she’ll be the mother of my child next year. But I had to leave her behind when I fled, outlawed from the Company on a false charge. Now, at best, months must pass and great difficulties be overcome before I get her back. Perhaps I never will.”

Gasparo raised a crook-fingered hand. “What’s this you say?” he breathed. “You’re in love with that heathen slave?”

Lucas had never readily shown his feelings to anyone. Even to himself. Surely, of all strange happenings on this strangest of days, he had least expected to tell Gasparo Reni what was in him. But the need to be understood and pardoned--an absolution beyond anything a priest could give--opened him up. “She’s all I care about in the world,” he said.

“What have the Catalans done with her by now? Sold her to the Turks or put her in a brothel of their own?”

Lucas could not acknowledge to himself how spiteful a grin Gasparo wore. He said frankly, “I’m more fortunate than I deserve. I left her in the care of a nobleman I know, who’ll keep her as his ward until I can claim her again. I suppose the best thing is to send a letter to him, with a trusty messenger, by some ship in spring. ... But so much could happen before then. And I not there!”

“I see.” Gasparo stroked his chins. “Yes.” He pondered awhile, his muscles tensing under the robe. Offhandedly: “Who is this noble? I’ve dealt with many Catalans. Perhaps I know him too, and could tell you somewhat of him.” “I doubt that. He’s no merchant, but a
rich hom
and a knight. En Jaime de Caza.”

“No, I haven’t met him. Is he very important in the Company?”

“Yes, he’s on their governing council. Though they’re so riddled with factions that I know not how much that weighs. Indeed, he finds the most careful course to be safeguarding his own treasures and his personal followers’, rather than trusting the official vaults.”

“If he should be killed by his rivals, then, or in battle--”

“I beg you, do not voice my own worst terrors. But I think that’s unlikely. At present, the Catalans have no serious opposition. I think they’ll spend a quiet winter, for them. En Jaime isn’t even prone to go on raids; he dislikes preying on helpless country folk. He has a villa outside Gallipoli, where he lives in peace.”

Gasparo nodded. “And the girl is with child by you, eh?” He sat still for a while. Then he rose. “You may go,” he said. “I’ve work to do.”

Lucas stood up also. He could no longer evade seeing how Gasparo shivered with excitement, breathing hard, lips drawn wide. Unease pierced all desperate remorse, and he compelled himself to speak:

“Are you willing to make peace?”

“Oh, yes. Yes.” Gasparo made an impatient gesture. “Go where you wish. That was already settled, anyhow. Hugh de Tourneville made clear to me--more important, to my partners--what I must do to keep the good will of his Order. The necessary steps toward obtaining your pardon have been commenced before the Bailo of Famagusta. Your visit here was only an informal gesture. Go, I say.”

“If you would give me your own pardon, as a man--”

The little eyes smoldered. “Isn’t it enough that I renounce the vendetta?”

“I can offer monetary compensation--”

“I don’t want any. I’d rather leave my claims wholly unencumbered before the law. Get out, now I I’ve much to do. It won’t be easy, getting a ship to sail this time of year. I’ll have to bully the captain and pay the crew double, no doubt.”

Lucas shook his head in a stunned fashion. He had taken too many blows in this hour. He could not make sense of the words. “What’s your plan?” he asked stupidly.

“To claim my rights. Nothing else. A quick voyage up to Gallipoli, to recover my property. I always keep papers, so I still have the bill of sale from Azov. I’m sure the Catalans will honor my claim. I shouldn’t even have to bribe them. I know they’re anxious to promote trade, and I’m a great merchant, and you’re a wretch with a price on his head. If your En Jaime resists me, he’ll be overruled. Don’t you think so?”

Lucas took one step forward. Gasparo picked a bell off the escritoire and rang it. “As for what I’ll do with my slave when I’ve reclaimed her,” he said relishingly, “I don’t yet know. Have you any suggestions, Lucco? She’ll have to be kept alive till the baby’s born, at least. Mustn’t lose another little piece of merchandise, eh? But after that--”

The door opened. Two footmen bowed. “Show this man out,” said Gasparo. “Then send for Captain Tommaso at the Sign of the Pied Dolphin.”

Outside, the day was heartlessly bright, a breeze gusted from Limasol toward the watchtowers of St. John. Even the walls of this room, with its masonry designed to withstand battering rams, seemed to have become insubstantial. Brother Hugh sat on a bench in the middle like an old raven. He crossed himself. “We’re helpless,” he said.

“In God’s name!” exploded Lucas. “There must be a way!”

“We can go to the chapel and ask for a miracle.”

Lucas struck the white wall with his fist, repeatedly. “If you could force him to withdraw his charges regarding me,” he groaned, “when you knew they had substance, then why can’t you protect a girl who never . . . never harmed, never gave pain ... to anyone? What’s the use of your damned Order?”

Pain twisted Hugh’s mouth and he closed both hands around his walking stick. “You know how those concessions were gotten from Reni,” he said. “I used many influences. The strongest, perhaps, was the promise to give his firm a larger share of the agency for the wine raised on our lands, versus the threat to withdraw the share they already have. Also, a contract to supply woolen goods to a large Commandery we have in Dalmatia. Even so, my task wasn’t easy. Many brothers, the Grand Master himself, objected to such preferential offers. It smacked of bribery. I had to plead with them to agree, arguing that blessed are the peacemakers. Reni was practically forced by his partners to yield.

“Now we’ve shot our bolt. I have nothing more available to me, as punishment or reward. If Reni chooses to sail out on a lawful errand, how can the brotherhood, which exists to maintain Christian law, hinder him?”

“Do you call it law, or Christian, to take a woman and an unborn child for--” Lucas could not finish.

Hugh hung his grizzled head. “I myself can’t believe God ever intended humans should be property. But the law is as it is, and the restrictions laid by Holy Church on the slave trade do not cover this instance. They are violated so often anyhow, especially in this kingdom. If you had been more zealous in seeing to her baptism. . . . No, forgive me, I didn’t mean to play torturer. In all events, conversion doesn’t mean automatic manumission. And you could not legally have freed her yourself, not having clear title.”

“The child?”

“Aye, it has more rights, especially if christened and if proven to be fathered by a free man. Gasparo would do best not to bring the child here.” Bleakly: “As for the mother, if he mistreats her within this jurisdiction, somewhat may perhaps be done.”

“Yes,” cried Lucas, “he may be given a fine and a few Aves to say. After Djansha is dead.”

“I’ll send an urgent letter to the Catholic bishop of Famagusta and ask him to remind Gasparo of the obligation of charity.”

“Suppose Gasparo doesn’t listen?”

“Then the Church is powerless. The woman is his chattel, after all. But I’ll make the attempt.”

“Ha! Save your paper!”

Lucas laid his arm along the wall and leaned his forehead against it. The hand was bruised from striking the bricks. His shoulders trembled. Hugh rose with a muttered exclamation--his leg was troublesome today--and crossed the floor toward him.

“Do not be afraid to weep,” he said.

Lucas shook his head, a violent motion. “I caused this,” he answered, so harshly that it was difficult to understand him. “The punishment is for my own heedlessness. Which killed a woman. But why must Djansha suffer for it?”

“God’s ways--”

“I told Gasparo we could go off alone and he could do anything to me he wished, if he’d let Djansha go free. He laughed and ordered his men to throw me out of the house.”

Hugh made the sign of the cross again. “He’s not right in his mind. God have pity on him.”

“Let God first have pity on Djansha!”

“Watch yourself,” said Hugh, growing stern. “According to your own account of what he told you, you woke that madness yourself.”

Lucas turned about as if to meet an enemy. “And what must I do to make amends?” he shouted. “Walk barefoot to Jerusalem? Or fight for her?”

Hugh regarded him closely before saying, “How could you fight? The man has guards of his own, as well as being under the king’s peace. You’d only get yourself arrested and imprisoned.”

“You and I together--”

“No! I may not! I’m not my own man any longer. I’m bound to the Hospital. Be still!”

Lucas turned back to the wall. Hugh mastered himself and said more quietly, “You must not feel too deep a guilt. You were only a boy. No one could have foreseen what would happen.”

“I knew a philosopher in Cathay,” Lucas whispered, “who told me that because the future is hidden from us, the way of virtue is to do as little as possible--live alone and raise no more ripples on the pool of time than we can avoid. . . . Would I had been born a Cathayan!”

“You speak ill. Even those holy hermits who’re called to withdraw from the world, are not freed of responsibility. As for the rest of us, it behooves us to act honorably and mercifully, and trust that the ultimate consequences of our deeds will be for better rather than worse. If you think you can, or must, do more, Lucas, you’re guilty of spiritual pride.”

“But what can I do now? Swim after his galley?”

“I fear you can only pray.”

Hugh laid a hand on the other man’s arm, and then released it as he felt the muscles go rigid under his palm.

“What’s happened?” he asked, a little alarmed.

Lucas raised his head and stared into emptiness. The hair stirred on his scalp.

“Dear Mother Maryl” said Hugh. “What are you seeing?”

Lucas drew a slow breath. His eyes focused on the knight, as if he were awakening from dreams.

“But I can fight,” he said.

“What do you mean? Are you possessed? There’s no help for you on all this island.”

“I think there is.”

“Lucas, be yourself! Reni has armed retainers, I tell you. And the king’s men--You could end on the scaffold! To no purpose!”

“The king’s writ does not run beyond these shores.”

“What devil is in you?”

“Only a recollection.” Lucas felt his way, word by word. “Vignolo’s captains. And the Catalan hoard.”

Hugh smote the floor with his staff.

“Will you let me go?” asked Lucas.

The knight said something in English, half-challenge and half-despair. “Would God I could help,” he answered. “There was a time--Aye. Go. I give you leave of absence. What you do beyond the jurisdiction of the Hospital and the Cyprian crown does not concern either of them. I shall make it my business to see that neither takes any notice. And I’ll pray for your success.”

He lifted the staff. It looked like the truncated shaft of a spear, gripped in his hand. “Pray,” he repeated bitterly.

The Sea Horse lay dingy near the warehouses, in sight of Famagusta harbor. Despite a bad reputation, it was much used by oarsmen and deckhands from Western countries, for it was cheap, and a rendezvous known over the entire Mediterranean. A man could always be sure to find someone there whom he knew, a friend to carouse with or an enemy to settle scores. The landlord looked the other way when a body was hustled out and thrown in the water. As for the rest of it, if the food was bad and the wine sour and the straw full of bedbugs, that was only what a common sailor man expected.

Lucas accompanied Earless Orio across the taproom to a corner where they could speak privately. Night had fallen. A dull hearthfire and a few lamps did little to relieve the darknesses. The ceiling was so low that Lucas, who was not unduly tall, had to bend his head. The rushes on the floor should have been changed weeks ago. Dimly, through a haze of smoke and shifting shadows, a score or so of men could be seen at two long tables, drinking, dicing, yarning, squabbling. They were a rough lot, clad in dirty blouses and loose trousers, their hair pigtailed and their faces bearded: Genoese, Sclavonians, a few Frenchmen and Iberians, a stray Swede, the scourings of many ports. The landlord and a dispirited Greek boy were gathering up the trenchers off which supper had been eaten. A blowsy harlot sat in the inglenook, waiting for the men to get drunk before she approached them.