‘Man is but a fleshy doll packed full of sin,’ Fra Andrea said.
Fiore shrugged. ‘Sin is not my business,’ he said. ‘But with William, his misfortune will be his fortune. The men who broke him changed his body. Fra Andrea and I have brought him back from the dead like Lazarus, with better training.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Nerio said. ‘You mean to say Sir William will be without sin?’ He grinned at me.
‘I would like to be stronger than Emile’s daughter, however,’ I said. ‘Right now, I would lose a tug-of-war with a kitten.’
Fiore just looked smug. ‘I am making of you my thesis,’ he said again. ‘And tomorrow we start in earnest.’
By Saint George, the Friulian meant what he said.
Every day except the Sabbath, the nun’s laundry yard rang with the sound of blades. We ran around the island; we fought with sticks and clubs and blades; we fenced with sharp blades. I swung at a pell and boxed with my shadow and sometimes I did this while Fiore lay full length on the wall. Once, I remember that he went to sleep while I was jumping like some antic mime.
I would like to say that he, as the master of the blade, never took his eyes off me, but he was human. And the novices began to congregate in the laundry yard. They would wash their hair and dry it in the new sun; they would wash laundry outside, and they would raise their hands above their heads and stretch to the heavens — I swear there is something in what Nerio said.
I have known many worthy women with a deep passion for the calling, and a real profession. But in Venice, many a penniless younger daughter was forced into the order at Saint Katherine; many a wayward young thing was sent to the island until her scandal was no longer a nine-day wonder among the canals. Or to have her baby.
At any rate, I was not allowed to pause and wonder at the lilies of the field, nor to appreciate the cleanliness of their linen. I was driven until I could not hold myself up. I couldn’t have managed fornication if Aphrodite had risen from the waves at my feet or if Emile had pulled her gown over her head and leapt upon me. I was exercised all day — my hands, my feet, the placement of my feet, my shoulders, my posture. It was endless, like some sort of torment in hell.
And as endlessly corrected — my posture, my feet, the way in which I stepped, the distance I stepped, and angle of my toes. Nay! I am not enlarging! Fiore was insistent on the way in which my feet pointed, and for five long days I wore a rope between my feet to limit my stride to a particular length.
I didn’t argue.
Because I assumed that Emile was watching.
Perhaps she was and perhaps she wasn’t. But I assumed that she was, and I know she did, from time to time. I knew, too, that I was in a struggle for her esteem — at least — with the King of Jerusalem. Rumour had it that he loved his wife, and that she was less than faithful to him and that he, too, was a lovesome man and had lovers in revenge.
He was a king, and not used to being gainsaid. He came at least once a week, and each time he would work to be alone with Emile.
Each time, she would thwart him, usually with me.
And despite this or, by God, because of it, I came to admire him. He was a fine man, and he accepted his lot as commander of the crusade with a humility that I admired. He loved Father Pierre as much as any of us and he admired Emile.
Perhaps you gentlemen would have me hate him as my rival, but is that the way of a knight? We admired the same woman, because she was made to be admired. In beauty and in courage she had no peer and it would have been as unjust to hate the king because he loved Father Pierre.
At any rate, it is because of our unspoken rivalry for the Countess d’Herblay that I began to be included in the king’s private council.
At the end of April, we had word from Genoa that they had agreed to the stipulations signed by Father Pierre in January and that the indemnity, a grotesque payment from Cyprus to Genoa for alleged injuries, had been paid.
The king, in concert with Father Pierre, set a sailing date and a rendezvous off Rhodes, where the Order had its headquarters.
As the Venetians made their final preparations, so I was stronger and stronger, and so I had to face my poverty.
I had neither horse nor arms. In fact, I didn’t even own a sword. The crusade was a month from making sail, and I lacked the tools of my trade.
My first rescuer was my Bohemian armourer. I went to him and he fitted me for another complete harness; not, I am saddened to say, as pretty as the first one, now broken up among thugs. But pretty enough.
I wrote him a bill, promising payment even in the event of my death, but after a few days, I took the note to Nerio, sat him down with wine in his hand, and asked for a loan.
He read my note of hand to Master Jiri and sneered. ‘You are a fool, Sir Knight. How often have I told you that I can loan you money?’ He shrugged.
‘If I die on crusade-’ I said.
‘Pah! I’ve taken worse risks with dice. Here is a note on our house for a thousand ducats — let us hear no more!’ He waved at me airily.
A thousand ducats!
‘Could you purchase us a ship?’ I asked.
Ser Nerio leaned back. His eyes were already on a fetching young woman with carmine lips who wore the red dress of her profession very tight indeed. We were in the wine-arcade by the Grand Canal.
‘Oh, brother in arms, I have done better. The Corner family has built and manned a warship-a new galia grossa. They intend to put her in the pilgrim trade after we take Jerusalem.’ He shrugged. ‘Whether we take Jerusalem or not, I suspect.’ His eyes flashed, and the scarlet girl began to make her way towards us.
Now that he had her, Nerio turned back to me. ‘We will be aboard that ship, and not stacked in the hold, either. The Corners almost worship you. And they are fond of money.’
The scarlet girl came and put her hands on his shoulders. I smiled at him. ‘Have you ever been in love?’ I asked.
Nerio smiled. ‘Every hour, brother.’
I paid Jiri in full. He loaned me a sword and a dagger — good plain work from Germany.
Fra Ricardo — less close-mouthed about the sins of others then Fra Peter — had let me know that it was King Peter who was keeping the Count d’Herblay ten miles from his wife. ‘He has libelled the Count to the Doge,’ Fra Ricardo said with a disapproving frown, ‘so that to the sin of adultery he adds the sin of bearing false witness.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Gossip links your name with hers as well. No good will come of your attachment to such a woman.’
‘I hold the Countess d’Herblay in the highest esteem as a true lady.’ I met his eye. The beating had changed more than just my face. ‘The Count d’Herblay is a coward, a poltroon, and an enemy of Father Pierre and the crusade.’
Fra Ricardo was not a worldly man, but he was no fool and he fair worshipped Father Pierre. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Is he so?’
‘The lady brought us six knights and is eager to go to Jerusalem,’ I said.
‘Going to Jerusalem …’ mused Fra Ricardo. In Venice, the phrase ‘going to Jerusalem’ suggested the accomplishment of an impossible task — or perhaps living in a dream world.
‘The count had me beaten,’ I said.
Fra Ricardo pursed his lips. ‘Very well, William,’ he said. ‘The legate wishes to see you.’
Tired in spirit and injured in body, I went to see the legate. He was sitting in his own scriptorium, at a table covered in scrolls. Sister Marie sat by him on a stool.
He looked up and smiled warmly. ‘My son,’ he said. He rose and I knelt, and he blessed me.
Then he scared me by sending Sister Marie from the room.
‘William,’ he said. ‘For as long as I have known you, your name has been paired with this woman’s. This Emile d’Herblay.’
I looked away.
‘Fra Peter has told me about the count.’ Father Pierre’s eyes were kind. But not deceived. ‘I forbid you to avenge yourself on him.’