Stewart Binns - Anarchy

Raphael of Pesaro made the introductions.

‘My Lady, Rufio of Ferrara is my second-in-command.’

Rufio bowed as Lady Livia smiled sweetly at him. Now that I had time to study her more closely, she was even more stunning than before. She had dispensed with her wimple but had covered her head with the hood of a flawless black sable cloak, the most beautiful fur robe I had ever seen. Although it was almost Easter, it was a wise choice for the turbulent weather of the Adriatic.

At the edge of her hood, I could see chestnut ringlets cascading over her cheeks and the satin shimmer of her powdered features. I was close enough to smell her perfume, the beguiling scent of attar of rose, which drifted on the breeze in glaring contrast to the earthy smell of ship’s timbers and flax rope – and the even more spicy odour of its crew.

‘My third-in-command is Harold of Hereford, now a Knight of Venice.’

I smiled and bowed deeply, but I could still see that she noticed the medal around my throat.

‘I see that my brother, the Doge, has awarded you the Order of San Marco in recognition of your courage at Zadar.’

‘Indeed, my Lady. I am honoured.’

‘I hear that English knights follow a strict code of chivalry.’

‘They do, my Lady. I also adhere to the Mos Militum, an old code from ancient Rome, not unlike the Futuwwa of the Knights of Islam.’

‘Do you know much about Islam?’

‘A little, my Lady. As a young man, my father was betrothed to a Muslim girl who died in tragic circumstances. Later, he and my mother went to the Holy Land on the Great Crusade.’

‘I would like to hear more. Perhaps we can talk on the voyage.’

‘It would be a pleasure, my Lady.’

I could sense the eyes of every man on board boring into me in jealous fury. For my part, I could barely contain myself and for the next few days could think of nothing else except her smile. Every time she appeared on deck, my eyes followed her like a hawk spying its prey.

‘Hal, you could go to Hell, for thinking those kinds of thoughts.’

‘Eadmer, you are blunt as always. But how do you know what I’m thinking?’

‘Because I’m thinking exactly the same.’

The fourth evening of the voyage was warm and tranquil; summer was on its way and I was thinking about England and its sweet meadows. Soon, they would be bursting into life with all their lush colours and raucous birdsong. I was also thinking of my mother; I could see her with her dividers and rule, marking up a beam for the carpenters, or drawing a sketch of a huge arch. I missed her: her humour, sometimes crude, sometimes very ingenious; her deep well of knowledge; and her constant thirst for new ideas and information. I prayed she was well. She was now in her fifty-ninth year. Although I did not like to dwell on it, and despite being fit and sprightly, she was an old woman and I had left her to fend for herself.

There had not been a man in her life for many years, and I knew that she was lonely. She had always confided in me and been open about her past. I knew about her liking for men, her honesty and her passions, and of course her tryst in the desert with my father – which produced me – all of which were in denial of her status as an Abbess of the Church. To those close to her, she made no secret of the fact that her nun’s habit was little more than a disguise that allowed her to pursue her burning ambition to build churches. Now she was paying the price: loneliness in old age, and a son far away in a foreign land, who she may never see again. It was her sacrifice, a part of our family’s sacrifice.

Soon we were under way, out beyond Venice’s lagoon into the open sea. Because there was no wind, the oarsmen were straining their sinews to keep up with the pace drum – a less strident drum than the war drum, but after several hours of rowing a demanding beat all the same. Those were the only sounds: the thud of the drum, then the cut, draw and release of the oars.

The cadence of the sounds was making me drowsy and I began to close my eyes as the sun approached the horizon and lit the sea with the rich colours of flame and fire. Then I heard her tender voice again.

‘Are you thinking of home, Harold of Hereford?’

I jumped to my feet and clasped the hilt of my sword in salute.

‘I am, my Lady. But how did you know?’

‘You had that look on your face… you were either thinking of your home or your sweetheart. Please sit. May I join you?’

‘Please.’

I gestured to a space a polite distance from me. I could see her guards and one of her ladies-in-waiting staring at us intently. She was wearing her blue velvet cloak and her chestnut hair was uncovered, but no longer in tight ringlets; it flowed over her shoulders in scrolls like polished walnut. The cords that bound the top of her dress strained against her breasts. I glanced – I couldn’t help myself – to see their form and scale; they seemed ample enough. I thought, if only I could see more of them… By God, Roger of Salerno was a lucky man!

Then, in what I convinced myself was a rather coquettish way, she asked me a question.

‘If you don’t mind me saying so, aren’t you a little dark for an Englishman? I thought all Englishmen were fair.’

‘Well, my Lady, many of us are fair, but not all. There is a lot of Celtic blood on our islands and many Celts are dark. My mother is very dark, as were my father and grandmother. Only my grandfather, Hereward of Bourne, was fair. He had Saxon and Norse blood – northern peoples well known for being blond and fair-skinned.’

‘Magister Raphael has told me about your famous family. You should be very proud. And now you are becoming famous too.’

‘Oh no, ma’am, I am far from famous. I have a long way to go.’

‘I am told that my betrothed, Roger of Salerno, is very fair.’

‘That is not surprising, my Lady. Lord Roger is of Norman stock, descendants of Norse warriors who conquered that part of Old Gaul. Indeed, their name is a derivation of “Norsemen”.

‘You seem to be very knowledgeable.’

‘Not really, ma’am, but my mother is a very learned woman. She taught me many things.’

‘So you do not have a wife or sweetheart?’

‘No, my Lady. I have many things to do before I think about a wife and a family.’

‘I hope you find what you are looking for.’

‘Thank you, my Lady.’

‘I must go now. Dinner, or at least what passes for dinner, will soon be ready. Good night.’

I stood and bowed as she turned and walked to her cabin, her cloak gliding over the deck, leaving me to savour the sweet scent of roses in the air and relish her intoxicating aura.

I was smitten, utterly besotted.

Several days of good progress ensued as we sailed down the Greek coast on our journey to Seleucia Pieria. We anchored off Messene to replenish our water and supplies and allow the ladies to go ashore to bathe in fresh water.

Little of note happened as we passed by the islands of the Cyclades and the Dodecanese, and we made another stop at Rhodes for supplies and female ablutions. There, the local Byzantine Governor, Theseus, a tubby little man from Crete, was very hospitable and insisted that the entire ship’s company disembark to rest for a few days. Clearly captivated by the Lady Livia, he organized a grand feast every night, at the end of which he would invariably whisper some sort of drunken proposal in Livia’s ear that made her recoil in revulsion and me stiffen in anger.

Master Raphael thought it wise to humour Theseus for a while as Byzantium was a very powerful neighbour of Venice. But after Lady Livia discreetly indicated to him that she had had enough of the Governor’s ‘hospitality’, he agreed that we could move on.