The Long Sword(96)
As if exasperated with herself, she put her babe into my arms, picked up the skirts of her kirtle and ran inside.
We arrived, a party of a dozen pilgrims, at Chioggia in late November. I showed my papal protection and my courier letter at the causeway and we were conducted like royalty along the edge of the lagoon into Venice’s principle out-town.
I remember most the sound of the gulls, the piercing cry, so different from any other bird. And the good, wholesome smell of sea and foreshore and fish. I’m a Londoner, if not born then bred up, and Chioggia and Venice have a great deal of London in them. Of course, my Venetian friends would say that perhaps poor London has a little of Venice in her …
Do you know Venice? Last year, during the great war – of which I’ll speak in time, if we’re stuck her long enough – I was in a position to view the Serenissima’s accounts when she was at her lowest ebb, fighting Genoa to the death. Par dieu, messieurs, there is more gold in Venice than in all England. The merchants of the Rialto and the Lido have more commerce than all England and all France together. The customs intake at Chioggia, one small port, must rival Portsmouth. In England, most men have no idea just how rich Italy is.
At any rate, I rode along the causeway the allows Chioggia and the long, narrow islands of Pellestrina and Malamocco to be connected to the mainland – or almost connected – to the terra firma at Clogia Minore or Sottomarina, as some say. It would all be a major part of my life, one day. But for the first time in three weeks, Emile brought her horse alongside mine.
‘You look happy,’ she said.
I was, too. I had discovered that I didn’t really need to sleep with Emile to enjoy her. That in fact, I loved her, and not that springtime, sap-rising thing that young people call love. I was also discovering the joy of riding, looking, smelling, tasting. It was a beautiful autumn, except for the poor people dying of the plague, God rest them.
‘I love the gulls, Countess,’ I said. ‘They put me in mind of my home.’
She smiled and looked away. ‘This town,’ she asked. ‘Is this such a place as I might buy a doll? My daughter has left hers over the mountains.’
I knew that. Every man in our party knew. The poor little sprite had wailed for fifteen days. She was not inconsolable; in fact, as long as she was happy, she didn’t mention the missing doll, but the moment anything disturbed her, the doll became the focus of her outrage. She was two and a half and spoke well – eerily well, in fact.
I spread my hands. ‘I will hope that we can stay with friends of my lord’s, and of the Acciaioli who I am lucky to call friends.’
She made a face-raised eyebrow and the curl of her lip. ‘The Acciaioli? Who do you call friend?’
‘Lord Niccolò has long been a supporter of our legate and the order,’ I said. ‘Nerio rode to tourny with me in Krakow and even now—’
Emile laughed. I knew her well; it was the laugh that expressed more discomfort than joy. ‘You know Nerio Acciaioli? The world is too small, indeed.’ She frowned. ‘I scarcely know him, only that my mother and his mother were great friends and had a – a falling out.’
This was the longest speech I’d heard from her in three weeks on the road. But we were almost to the gate. ‘Countess, I will endeavour to find Mademoiselle Magdalene a doll.’
Emile favoured me with a smile, her real smile, the smile that struck me like a poleaxe to the head. ‘I would be in your debt, if you would.’
Indeed, I felt a fool for not thinking to find the girl a doll on my own. Magdalene was a delightful child, as long as she got her way. Like most children, really. I was searching for a way to prove myself to my lady and here was one I’d overlooked. I was not good with children – but I was wise enough to see that I had better adapt to them.