AROUND US THE WATER YAPPED AND PAWED OUR BOAT.
“It’s a good thing the cardinal’s not here,” Marquis Boniface said. “This would have finished him off.”
“Why didn’t he come, sir?” I asked.
“A bad mussel, or an oyster,” replied the marquis. “He’s so sick, he wishes he’d never been born.”
The boat lurched and I looked anxiously at our two oarsmen, but they were laughing, and didn’t notice me.
“We’ll make do without him,” said the marquis. “So! Sir William and Sir Arthur. Father and son! Most surprising.”
“Nothing surprises me,” my father said. “Not any longer.”
“Don’t say that!” said the marquis, and he smiled at me. “I’m sure your son will. And what could be better? Our children’s achievements warm our blood.”
My father said nothing. He sniffed and looked into the distance. And then, as our boat lurched again, he grabbed at the gunwale, missed it, and fell over backwards.
The marquis and I each took one of my father’s hands and pulled him up onto the crossbench again.
“Leg!” gasped my father. “Bloody leg! Massage it, boy! Go on!”
So I rubbed my father’s right leg, and as I did I looked at his right hand. The back of it is covered with brown spots. The half-moons on his nails have almost completely disappeared, so maybe he won’t live much longer.
“That’s enough!” my father said. “I can do it better myself.”
“Cramp?” asked the marquis.
My father fished into an inside pocket of his surcoat, pulled out two small furry feet, and glared at them. “No good at all,” he said. “Mole!”
“You need eelskin,” said the marquis.
“Useless!” exclaimed my father. And he tossed them over the gunwale.
“Eelskin,” the marquis said again.
“Lady Alice,” I began, “she says…”
“Your mother?” the marquis inquired.
“My second wife,” Sir William explained.
“Yes, she says hare’s foot is the best, sir,” I said.
“For stiff joints, not for cramp,” my father said curtly. “That’s enough from you, Arthur.”
“Ah!” said the marquis. His gaze flicked between us. “Well, my family swears by eelskin garters,” he said. “I’ll have my squire ride over a pair for you.”
My father grunted. Then he turned and glittered at me. “Surprises!” he muttered. “I’ll surprise you.”
Just before we reached the quay where the Doge’s servants were waiting to greet us, the marquis glanced round at us and rubbed his moustache. “Now to work!” he said.
Up one flight of echoing steps. Down another. Through half a dozen staterooms. Stopping to listen to a fanfare. I could climb to the top of Tumber Hill and down again in the time it takes before you actually meet the Doge.
Then in trips a little old man, with a servant at his elbow to guide him and catch him if he stumbles.
The Doge’s joints are not at all stiff. He gestures all the time, and his voice is light and quick. And his blind eyes are so bright, you’d suppose he had just seen paradise—not like my father’s eye, which has turned the color of congealed blood.
The Doge and Marquis Boniface greeted one another very warmly, first embracing and then talking for a while. Then the marquis told the Doge about us.
“I’ve brought with me two men,” he said, “the oldest and the youngest of all the knights, just two representatives of my huge army encamped on Saint Nicholas. One is sixty-seven, the other sixteen. More than fifty years divide them.”
“You are both welcome,” said the Doge.
“But they are united in their purpose,” the marquis continued, “as are we all. Not only that. They’re father and son!”
“Padre e figlio!” the Doge repeated, and he waved his arms.
“Most extraordinary!” said the marquis. “We searched the whole island and found them side by side in the little English camp. Sir William de Gortanore. Sir Arthur de Gortanore.”
“One family, yes,” my father blared. “And what is more important than family?”
Is that what my father said? What is more important than family?
“We’re here to represent all Christian families,” my father went on. “All the families in Christendom. Indeed, sir, we represent the Holy Family, suffering now because of the Saracens.”
The Doge listened patiently, then gave my father a faint smile.
“Bravo!” he said.
When I took the Doge’s hand, it was crumpled and brittle. Dry as a dead beech leaf.
“England,” he said. “Coeur-de-Lion.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I fought with him,” my father boomed. “At Acre. Now there’s a leader for you!”
“King John?” the Doge inquired mildly.
“Lesser metal,” my father replied.
“One thousand marks,” Marquis Boniface added. “That’s his entire contribution to this crusade.”
“Poco,” said the Doge, and he pursed his lips.
We were shown to a bench while the marquis and the Doge sat down in chairs, and they soon began a serious discussion about the treaty. Even after everyone has made a contribution, we can’t raise anything like as much as eighty-five thousand marks. But the Doge says the Venetians can’t accept less. On the other hand, it would be unthinkable to tear up the contract and send everyone home, because the Venetians would be left with two hundred ships they do not need, and everyone in Christendom would spit at their name for allowing the crusade to fail.
“The price for each man and horse is too high,” the marquis complained.
“It’s the right price and you know it,” replied the Doge. “What’s wrong was your envoys’ estimate of how many men would take the Cross.”
Although the marquis and the Doge kept disagreeing, they both kept smiling.
“Words, words, words,” my father grumbled. He got up and headed for the door. “I need a piss,” he announced in a loud voice, and a servant led him out.
I felt blood rush to my cheeks. Can’t my father tell the difference between a camp and a palace?
The Doge snapped his fingers—at least, he tried to—and before long a servant brought a platter of black olives and little squares of hard, pungent cheese, and a pitcher of red wine.
“What are we to do?” he asked, as much to himself as to Marquis Boniface. “Christendom is watching us. Our children’s children will judge us. What would be most wise?”
The Doge tilted back his head and lifted his hands, beseeching God; then he gazed blindly at the marquis, and frowned as if he were trying to find the right words. But I had the feeling he knew exactly what he was going to say.
“I have one idea…one proposal. For twenty years the city of Zara has rebelled against the Republic of Venice. The people there have broken their oaths; they rebel against us; they dishonor their debts to us. It was all we could do to find enough oak to build your ships without supplies from their forests.” The Doge gritted his teeth—the few teeth he has left—and shook his head angrily.
At this moment, Sir William blundered back into the room. “The needs of nature!” he announced. “No compromise!”
“If you agree…,” the Doge began, “if you agree to help us recover Zara…”
The marquis didn’t move a muscle.
“…as is our right,” the Doge added. “We have every right to reclaim our own territory before joining this crusade. Didn’t Coeur-de-Lion do the same? If you agree,” the Doge repeated, “my councillors might agree to postpone payment.”
“I see,” the marquis said quietly.
“We will divide the spoils,” said the Doge, “and you can pay us out of your share. Then we’ll set sail for Egypt.”
Egypt! Bertie was right.
“But,” said the marquis, “the people of Zara: They’re Christians.”
Christians! My head felt as if it were bursting. We’re meant to be fighting Saracens, not fighting ourselves. If Cardinal Capuano were here, surely he would be angry at the Doge’s suggestion.
“True!” said the Doge in a matter-of-fact way.
There was a long silence.
“Well!” said Marquis Boniface. “I see I must consider it. I will discuss it with my envoys.”
“And I with my Grand Council,” the Doge said. “I think we see…eye to eye.” He laughed gently. “In a matter of speaking,” he added.
Then the Doge stood up. When he took my hand, he smiled slightly.
“Signor Artù“ he said.
“Sir?”
“Compromise!”