Like many young men entering unequal combats, I had not prepared my attack when I entered his distance. But at least I knew the manner of my own defence, and had my first feint, as it were, prepared.
I bowed, touching my knee to the deck. ‘My lord summoned me?’ I said.
Lord Contarini inclined his head. I knew he liked me. ‘I need to talk to you on a serious matter,’ he said, a little too portentously.
In a fight, you can read an opponent in a hundred little things. A man may lean back slightly when you present your blade at his eyes — that little flinch reveals everything. Lord Contarini’s voice and his first words told me that he was not happy in his own mind with the choice he had made. And that was an opening.
‘I see we are loading for Venice,’ I said bluntly. I neither smiled nor frowned — my voice was steady.
He broke his eyes away from mine. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is necessary.’
I neither nodded nor frowned. ‘It is my duty, my lord, to tell you that your action will force the cancellation of the crusade.’
His head snapped around. Had it been a fight, I had just landed a blow.
I admired him, and one of his most admirable qualities was that his age rendered him immune from the petty ambitions that ruled the rest of us. But I had him. Having won a great victory, he was chained to the good opinion of the world.
He glared at me. ‘Venice must be informed immediately if this victory is to be followed up. And perhaps this sea fight is as great a victory as the crusade was ever expected to win.’
‘The crusade is intended to take Jerusalem,’ I said.
‘With six thousand men?’ asked the admiral. ‘Spare me your pious crap, Sir Knight.’
I bowed and clamped down on my temper. ‘My lord, I gave my solemn word to the legate that I would return to him at Rhodes — and I believe you did the same.’
‘My duty to Venice outweighs my word to the Patriarch, however worthy that gentleman.’ He said it, and yet I could see that it rankled.
‘Can we not send a galley or two, or even an overland messenger?’ I asked. But my mind was running on, and I thought I had it. I was too young to fully appreciate the impact of a great victory won in old age, but I understood that Lord Contarini wanted to live to enjoy his fame. It was something in his face when I said the word messenger. He wanted to be his own messenger, to enjoy the worship of the crowd, the Te Deum at Saint Mark’s.
It was an uncomfortable wisdom, because I fully comprehended his desire. I, too, want to live to tell my stories. There is little value to fame after you are dead, whatever the ancients may say.
He shook his head. ‘I need …’ he began. He paused.
‘My lord, if you support the crusade to the end, your fame will be greater, I said quietly. ‘If you return now, some will smear your victory with terms like desertion.’
He stood suddenly, overturning his seat. ‘You dare?’ he spat.
This is a form of confrontation I dislike. I dislike enduring the anger of a man I admire. But I had given my word, and my sudden wisdom flowered in a hundred ways as I saw — better — how to command myself and other men.
I bowed. ‘I must dare,’ I said. ‘My lord, I am only doing my duty to my lord the legate. And, my lord, to you.’
‘Betake yourself out of my sight,’ he said. ‘It is too late. We have a cargo engaged, as do most of the ships in the fleet.’
I bowed again. ‘A set of cargoes that can be unloaded in as many hours as they were loaded — and warehoused until we return.’
‘Now you will advise me on merchanting, Sir William?’ he asked.
I bowed and left him, but I was shaking inwardly. And yet I thought the balance had shifted. I had caused him some doubt.
I limped down the gangway and turned my halting steps for the Hospitaller galleys. I did not dread the summons of the senior knight — or perhaps I didn’t dread it enough. I had come under the orders of different knights at Avignon, but I had little notion of my own subordinate position.
Fra Daniele del Caretto soon enlightened me.
‘I am surprised that you did not repair aboard immediately,’ he said, ‘To pay your respects to your senior officer. I have waited in surprise for some days, and now I find you wanting utterly in either respect or humility. And where is your surcoat? Are you too proud of your earthly riches to wear the Order’s cross? The cross of Christ?’
This from a man whose own surcoat was so thickly embroidered in gold and silk thread as to constitute another layer of armour. He wore his over a short gown of linen and silk. His hose were silk — he wore a small fortune on his back.
He continued, ‘I was utterly against the inclusion of your kind in our great empris. I expect that you were shocked to find that there was nothing to loot aboard the Turkish vessels.’
Righteous indignation is a useful tool, to be sure. But sometimes, if one is lucky, a conversational adversary makes a claim so ludicrous that it allows you to smile. Remember, too, that I had just had my road to Damascus about temper; not, as you’ll hear, that my conversion was perfect or durable. But in that hour I was a different man.
He leaned forward. ‘Speak, man. Have you nothing to say for yourself?’
I looked at him straight and again, neither smiled nor frowned. ‘Lord Contarini intends to sail for Venice and leave the crusade in the lurch,’ I said. ‘I was just with him.’ I bowed my head. ‘I am very sorry if I have seemed wanting in respect, Fra Daniele.’
‘The admiral spoke of you commanding the volunteers when in fact such a thing is impossible — no volunteer can command anything.’ He looked at me down his long patrician nose.
I might have shrugged, two hours before, and earned his ire. But I did not. ‘Fra Daniele, might I move you to address Lord Contarini?’ I asked.
He sat back. ‘Lord Contarini is a merchant adventurer of Venice and is in no way under my authority. You are. I find you insubordinate.’
He seemed very satisfied with his little sphere of power. I have known such men all my life, and the church attracts its fair share. Yet this man had fought his ship with spirit — even with skill — during the battle.
‘Fra Daniele …’ I considered my words. I was a knight. I was his equal in every way, except within the insular world of the order. Yet the order had given me much, not least my life.
His eyes narrowed. ‘You may address me as “my lord”,’ he said.
I met his eye. ‘No, sir. You are not my lord. The papal legate is my lord. I am here on his express authority — I have his orders to command the other volunteers for the greater glory of Christ, and to return them, and the Venetians, to their duty at Rhodes.’ It was a mistake. His face hardened as I spoke. But I enjoyed it.
He shook his head. He was honestly baffled. ‘You may not speak to me that way, sir. I am the Lord Preceptor of Cyprus, a Cross of Grace, a veteran knight of your Order. I am your lord in every way. If you will not submit …’
I was finally learning how to do something other than fight.
I bowed. ‘My lord, I spoke in haste.’
We regarded each other across his stern cabin table. I let my eyes inform him that my surrender was pro forma.
‘Well-’ he began.
‘My lord, the Venetians are proposing to desert the crusade and sail for home. I believe that you have it in your power to convince Lord Contarini to stay true to his vows.’ I put a hand on the table.
‘You speak well, for a mercenary,’ he said.
‘My lord, I was a routier, a brigand. I was saved from that life — and from death itself — by the legate. I owe him everything, and I will do anything in my power to see his orders obeyed and his wishes complied with.’ I held his eyes.
He looked away. ‘What a strange, insistent fellow you are, to be sure,’ he said with irritation. ‘Very well, I’ll go chivvy Lord Contarini. But these Venetians are not gentlemen — mere merchants.’