The baker was a kindly man, who’d noticed the boy’s gaunt cheeks and sparse frame and the monk standing quietly by. He waddled over, a round girth bulging from his pristine white apron. “Here boy, you look like a lad with something between your ears. Tis a busy morning I’ll have, what with the goodwives gossiping and this fine specimen you see before you and his famous cherry pies earmarked for betrothal. I’d be glad of some help with the loaves.”
Christian looked to Andre, who nodded, his eyes twinkling.
“I’ll pay you a tuppence for the morning and a hot meal at the last. What say you?”
His face lit up, his mouth still full of bread. “Thank you sire, I am very strong. I can work hard.”
The baker laughed, his big white teeth showing. “Well, first sit you both down and break your fast. These lazy goodwives don’t do their shopping until the sun is right up and I have some mutton pies even the angels would fight over.” And he handed them each a warm pie and small beer from his own jug, then left them to eat while he rearranged his wares. Neither could remember having a better meal.
Christian spent the morning shyly selling bread to the women of the town, blushing as they ruffled his fair hair or pinched his cheek, laughing to their daughters, who giggled behind their hands and blushed themselves.
Andre entered the small church and knelt at the altar, giving thanks for their safe journey.
They slept that night warmed by the bakery oven. The baker refused the offer of their free labour, telling them his wenches needed the work and filling them up with stewed meat and cabbage and big slices of cherry pie with dollops of thick yellow cream. Christian couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. It had been a long time since his belly was full and his body warm.
Andre watched the boy fondly as he curled up on the sweet smelling straw. He was indebted to the baker’s good charity. It would be a good memory for Christian to hold on to in the hard times ahead.
In the morning they bid their farewells and made their way through the town loaded up with loaves and eggs and good wishes. Andre was struck by how healthy and happy the people seemed. Everyone returned their greetings with a cheery smile; their round faces rosy and plump. The children skipped along gaily with their mothers, dressed warm and muffled from the cold.
He’d never entered a town where vermin infested middens were not piled high and reeking and no piss and shit ran in the gutters, yet there was no ordure in the streets, or rats gnawing on filth in the alleys. And he could see no signs of pox or disease. Perhaps the shadow of the glorious alpine peaks above protected the townsfolk from harm?
Then he remembered the surly gatekeeper and the thick stone walls surrounding them. Strict burghers and isolation kept them safe, for now. It saddened him that these good people would one day face the creeping evil of the plague. It was as if the very air of the world were rotten with its presence.
As they strolled through the well swept streets, a curly haired girl broke away from her mother and bounded up, holding in her chubby hand a posy of meadow flowers, which she solemnly offered to Christian. He took it with a courtly bow and a smile. “I thank you pretty maiden.” and tucked it into his jerkin.
Andre noticed the attraction he seemed to have for the young ladies, seeing many peeping from beneath their bonnets at the tall, fair haired stranger with the noble bearing and gentle face. The baker said he’d increased his trade tenfold and begged him to stay as his apprentice.
He felt that if Christian wore fine robes instead of lowly homespun garb, he would have been treated like a prince. The sumptuary laws had been enacted all over Europe to keep each to his own station, but they did not apply to him. He had the right to wear velvet and weasel and embroidered lace. But Christian had never lost his serene contemplation of the world and accepted it all with quiet humility.
They walked on, stopping only to make an evening meal of the baker’s fine gifts and reached the southernmost gate before sunset.
Here the shouts and whistles and haggling of commerce rattled through streets crowded with woolly haired moors, turbaned men and women swathed in layers of cloth, many with one red shoe and one black, the mark of a Jewish woman, determined by law.
Trent was a place through which many passed on their way to other lands, a melting pot of cultures and languages. Andre heard snatches of French and Italian as well as their own plain German and the aroma of exotic spices and unfamiliar foods curled around them, making their mouths water.
The Jewish merchants, Judenhuts perched on their heads and yellow patches sewn on their wide black robes sat together in earnest conversation, watching the crowd as they hurried by. Here was a world away from the rosy cheeked townsfolk of the northern part of the town.
With his wages of the morning Christian bought Andre a cup of steaming sweet tea from a laughing man with a bright polished samovar strapped to his back. For himself, milk taken fresh from a bellowing cow tethered to a post, the fine hairs from its udder floating in the thick warm cream. The doe eyed milkmaid blushed scarlet as she handed him the brimming tankard and smiled shyly when he handed it back, the white milk froth still standing on his upper lip.
Christian had no need to use his astrolabe to calculate their route.
The fat turbaned gateman informed them through a cloud of smoke from his hashish pipe that a fine road led from his gate to the great city of Venice, a city where anything could be had if a man had gold enough, even a pretty virgin boy. He winked lecherously at Christian and stretched out his sweating sausage fingers to touch his face.
Andre’s hand went to the hilt of his hidden falchion but Christian stepped back warily and the gateman waved them away, coughing thickly and spitting brown gobs into a bowl in his lap.
*
That night they slept against the damp stone wall of the Southern gate, Andre staying alert and watching as dark shadows loomed over them, paused for a moment and then hurried on… perhaps seeing the glint of steel amid a monk’s grey robes.
They rose before dawn, hearing the grumbling snores of the gateman as they passed through to the green plains beyond.
Before they had gone very far, Andre stopped by a brook to pray, leaving Christian to search amongst the low shrubs against the wall. Finding food had become the most difficult part of their journey and he lost no opportunity in its pursuit. He hoped to find rabbit warrens or nesting birds.
He found an open charnel house instead.
Bones, some weathered and bleached white, others still with flesh clinging, grinning skulls and matted hair, ragged scraps of cloth covering skeleton ribs, the smell of decay and the insistent, busy drone of flies. Small frames of children huddled against the wall, or scattered, pulled apart by scavengers. Some lay clutched together as if the closeness of the other could save them from their awful fate.
Christian wandered among the dead, the gentle sighing of the wind across the plain strange in his ears after the noisy bustle of the town. He wondered if this was why there seemed to be no disease among the people. Had the sick and infirm been forced outside to die alone against the walls? Or were they travellers denied entry and with it, hope?
He shook his head sadly, his stomach churning. He had much to learn about human nature.
*
They continued south along the wide, dusty road, meeting pilgrims and merchants and whole families coming back from the city or going onward to the Holy land. The nobles and rich merchants rode in fine litters, or on sturdy palfreys, veiled in muslins and silks to keep out the dust, complaining all the while, while the others walked, pulling carts laden with pots or cloth to sell in the markets and some, believing themselves sinners, prostrating themselves in the dirt with every round of their beads.
They passed a group of flagellants, white robed and dour faced, chanting and whipping their flesh as they walked on in a slow, mournful file. Since the pestilence had come upon them, hundreds of these penitents had taken to the streets, flaying themselves with iron tipped whips, praying to G
od that they could be spared by their blood and their sacrifice.
And a mother, struggling along behind her husband, carrying an idiot child on her back, a wide cross shaved into the hair on the back of its head in the hope of the Lord’s blessing.
Many showed the scars of smallpox or the ravages of leprosy. It seemed as if the whole of travelling humanity were marred and weakened by disease.
And they made camp one evening with a ragged, smiling minstrel, who’d walked with them for miles, playing sweet tunes on a battered lute and singing pretty love songs, laughing all the while. His eyes were the sparkling blue of an alpine lake, his quiet, courtly manner belying his shabby appearance. Christian sat mesmerised as he spoke, in the gentle, lilting accents of the Languedoc, of the mysterious black Madonna adorning his church and the massacre in a time gone by, of many of his kinfolk, for the sin of holding to the faith of the Cathari.
Andre remembered the brothers speaking of the great purge at Beziers on the turning of the century, praising their sainted abbot Anaud-Amaury for putting twenty thousand to the sword… and ridding the city of the stain of heresy. They’d laughed as they recounted his famous words ‘Kill them all, for the Lord knoweth them that are his.’ Yet he had heard that their faith was one of compassion to all creatures and absolute devotion to God.
The troubadour left them in the morning, suddenly deciding to return to his home in Toulouse. Before his departure, he took from his pouch a small parcel wrapped in parchment and placed it smiling, in Christian’s hand. And as his wide sleeve fell away in the offering, a small tattoo showed at his wrist, the same triangle and rose cross as the seal on his father’s letter.
Christian gasped in surprise but the minstrel laughed and skipped away, his eyes flashing. He begged a ride with a wagon driver returning to Trent and waved gaily as they disappeared over the crest of a hill.
Christian walked along full of wonder at this chance meeting “We met only yesterday but it feels as if I have known him all my life.”
Andre nodded. “Yes. He was someone of greater significance than he appeared, I feel. And to have a mark the same as your father’s is a mystery indeed. It may be a dangerous thing to bear in these dark times.”
Christian’s eyes widened. “Do you think that’s what father’s seal was, a symbol of the Cathars?”
Andre shook his head “No, they had a simple philosophy I believe, one that denied the importance of this world. It would have been anathema to them to carry anything that looks like a crucifix.” He’d heard that they’d held a belief in the innate evilness of all earthly things, that mans’ body had been a creation of Satan and that even marriage was a vice.
Christian looked down at the parcel in his hand then suddenly thrust it toward Andre as a large hare darted across their path. In a flash, he’d whipped out his sling, grabbed a pebble from his bag and whirled it around to let it fly in a smooth arc toward the still leaping animal. It caught the animal full on and it dropped to the ground, unmoving. His skill with the small weapon was impressive indeed. In a trice it was gutted and skinned and roasting over a small fire, a fine breakfast for the journey ahead.
Andre suddenly remembered the minstrel’s gift and sat watching as Christian fumbled with the twine that held it tight. It was a square cut prism of glass. With boyish delight, Christian tilted it to and fro, capturing its beautiful rainbow colours in the light. He handed the heavy glass to Andre and smoothed out the stiff yellow parchment, noticing a script written in dark sooty ink. A frown creased his smooth features as he read:
‘ Nothing is as it seems…’
And Christian saw truly, by the wondrous light flashing and winking through the glass, by the soft pink and yellow and bright, clear green and violet that would put a flower to shame, that even the very air he breathed and the plain light of day, was something more magical than he could ever have imagined.
*
They reached the walled city of Venice at midday on the fifteenth day of their departure from Trent, and stood watching in awe as the rays of the bright sun lit up the domes and parapets and fine civic buildings, bathing the city in a soft golden glow.
Other pilgrims had told them that the laws of Venice prohibited entry until forty days had passed to ensure that disease did not enter also, but there were no questioning gatekeepers here. The city gates stood open and a steady throng of travellers were passing across the bridge to disappear into its dark interior.
All were admitted. The leprous, the lame and those, who Andre could see even in the crush of a crowd, were stricken with fever and shaking with ague.
The overhanging roofs and balconies of buildings halted the sun’s warm radiance and they felt the chill of stone and shadowed alleys as they made their way through narrow streets stinking of open sewers. They crossed endless stone bridges congested with donkey carts laden to overflowing with vegetables and freshly butchered meat and shouting, angry people, their eyes dark slits of suspicion as Andre’s greetings went unanswered. The city had long been mired in wars with their neighbours and the people had become guarded and unfriendly.
Canals ran grey and stagnant between the crumbling buildings and small boats bobbed like corks on the oily water. And shabby, painted women, staring cold eyed from haggard faces displayed their wares, lifting their skirts to show scrawny calves and bony feet, calling out in ribald, wheedling voices. Christian’s face was rigid with horror.
They stopped and bought bread with the last of his wages and found a tree beside the canal to rest. A drowned, bloated cow floated past, half rotted and covered with flies. Andre felt his stomach turn. He hoped they could make their way to the harbour and a swift galley. For all its brilliance from afar, there was something deeply unpleasant about this bustling, noisy place.
Yet there was beauty here also. The shining domes and spires of churches towered above the buildings and gardens filled with flowers made bright islands of colour among the seething waterways. And white regal swans lent a serene grace to the filthy canals.
Christian reached into his pouch to take out his glass, seeing the play of light on the water, but Andre stayed his hand. “Keep your treasures hidden, my son. The townsfolk here seem wary and over interested in two poor travellers. Indeed, I have felt their eyes like knives in my back since we crossed the bridge and the closer we get to that church, the more I feel them watching. See there, hidden by the pillar?”
He pointed to the beautiful mosaic covered building in front of them. As Christian turned to look, a large, roughly dressed man pulled his hood over his eyes and slunk away into the darkness of the doorway.
Andre’s spine tingled. He pushed his travelling bag behind him to shield his back and free his arms. Christian reached for his small dagger and then thought better of it. They were entering God’s house. What harm could befall them here? But Andre knew otherwise. Sanctuary was no protection from men bent on evil. The crusades had taught him that.
They entered through the magnificent arch of San Marco, into the narthex and through to a dazzling gold covered wonder filled with jewelled mosaics, gilded frescos and bright painted cupolas, all gleaming in the soft candlelight. Hushed, reverent voices echoed across the cavernous space as they walked slowly toward the altar; Christian’s head swivelling in every direction, his mouth open in awe. They fell to their knees in front of the glorious altarpiece and bowed their heads in prayer, for gazing serenely down upon them, and glittering with a thousand jewels, were Christ the Saviour and all the saints.
A moment later Andre touched Christian’s shoulder “Come, we should find the harbour before nightfall and secure our passage.”
The boy’s bright eyes shone gold in the reflected light “Just a little longer, I beg you. My heart aches to see such beauty. ”
Andre smiled. Youth could be forgiven for being seduced by gold and pretty pictures. A prayer by a meadow pond was just as holy.
He caught a movement from the corner of his eye and looked round to see a priest lighting
candles in the chapel beside them. He raised his hand and Andre rose to greet him, leaving Christian to contemplate the altarpiece, his hands folded, his face a picture of ecstasy.
The priest, wearing the black robes of St. Dominic was soft of features and gentle of speech. They talked of the beauty of the mosaics and the Pala d Oreo… the golden altarpiece taken as booty from Constantinople on the fourth crusade. He asked if they would like to see the relics of their blessed Saint Mark, kept in an ossuary behind the altar. It seemed as though he had turned his back for only a moment but when he looked back to Christian, he was gone.
He called out, his voice bouncing against the walls and echoing back, unanswered. He searched through the chapels; saw nothing in the vast expanse of the cathedral. He strode to the open door of the vestry and peered inside. He ran to the entrance and searched the piazza. Then he looked back to the priest who stood, pale and speechless in the aisle. His frightened eyes told Andre what he already knew; Christian was not the first comely youth to disappear from the golden sanctity of St Marks.
Then he turned a corner into a darkened recess and saw a box of remedies strewn on the floor and blood staining the tiles.
He felt his own blood turn to ice. He pushed aside his habit and pulled the falchion from his sword-belt, bringing it shining into the light. He followed the blood to a carved wooden door, out into a dark passageway choked with refuse from the morning markets and began to make his way slowly along the narrow, stinking alley, his sword held loose and ready. He could see light and hear merchants touting their wares at the end of the passage, but all else was shadowed in gloom.
Suddenly he heard moaning and the sharp, brutal bark of a man’s voice, and although his conscious mind would scarcely recognise it, as he gripped the pommel of his sword, he’d promised himself that if any harm had befallen the boy, there would be death to pay for the price.
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