The Long Sword(152)

            ‘What of the pilgrims? And the soldiers?’ I asked. In fact, I cared little for the mercenaries in the holds of the great Venetian round ships, packed like armoured cordwood. But I was worried about Emile, who was aboard one of the two ships that carried non-combatants, most of whom were wives of the crusaders.

            King Peter nodded. ‘They should go the shortest route to Rhodes, my lords.’ He glanced at me. ‘The Venetians don’t want to pay the routiers. So they won’t take them to relieve Negroponte.’

            Ah, Christendom. We had an army of excellent professional soldiers under our hatches, but Venice didn’t want to pay. Venice wanted the Pope to pay.

            I bowed to Fra Peter. Very softly, I said, ‘I can’t see how this involves me, Sir Peter.’

            He scratched under his chin, thought the better of it in such august company, and looked at Father Pierre. And tapped his teeth with his thumb.

            The legate nodded his head to Lord Contarini.

            The elderly Venetian sighed. ‘Misericordia! You gentilhommes would like the Serenissima to pay your mercenaries, and I, too, would like such an army, but I have not been given a ducat. I am commanding the largest fleet that Venice has one the seas, and if you gentlemen,’ he nodded to me, ‘would volunteer, I believe that I could run the Turks out of the Ionian. At least for long enough to cover the rendezvous of the allied fleet at Rhodes.’ He shrugged. ‘If they are left uncontested, surely it is to the disadvantage of all of us?’

            ‘There is the Roman fleet at Constantinople,’ the legate put in.

            ‘Six galia sottil,’ Contarini said with something like contempt. ‘In bad repair. They will cower inside the Golden Horn until their brothers, the Genoese, come to rescue them.’

            Father Pierre showed some of the strain he was feeling by shrugging. He rarely indulged in displays of temper or even impatience, but the near-defection of the Genoese contingent, sailing its own route to the rendezvous with an unknown number of French and Imperial men-at-arms, and now the possible desertion of the Venetian military fleet, was sapping even his boundless good humour.

            I bowed to Lord Contarini. ‘May I have leave to consult with my friends?’ I asked. I looked pointedly at Fra Peter, who followed me out of the meeting. To my surprise, so did the king.

            I found Fiore, Miles, and Juan at a fire, cooking bacon on sticks. Nerio’s squire was doing it for him – Nerio was watching a woman bathe.

            There was some consternation when my friends discovered that they had the king and Philip de Mézzières in attendance. We provided wine as well we could. In the background, our galia grossa was repacking her stores at a great rate, surrounded by a fleet of small craft who were loading bulk cargo over the side. The oarsmen were assembled on the beach in neat rows, every man with his javelins and his sword and coat of mail. Venetian oarsmen are excellent soldiers as well as providing the motive force for their fleet.

            ‘The Venetians are mounting a subordinate expedition to chastise the Turks who are attacking Christian shipping,’ I said.

            ‘Where?’ asked Nerio, suddenly interested.

            I probably showed the depth of my ignorance on my face, having little idea where Negroponte was. But the king came to my aid.

            We recreated the wine-shop map with sand and pebbles. ‘East of Attica is an island that is rich and well-castled,’ he said. ‘It is allied to Venice.’

            Nerio whistled. ‘My father has manors there,’ he said. ‘By the devil, gentlemen, I have a manor there, on the coast of Thebes facing Euboea.’

            ‘Kindly do not swear by the devil while you wear the cross of Saint John,’ Fra Peter said.