‘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.’