georgeleake15

Argent Regina: India 4

2009-06-08T20:17:22Z

At dawn, John sat up from his bed, blinking blankly at the lightening skies outside. Gawlo was awake, looking at the streets below. Ready for breakfast? Splash some water on your face, and we shall start our day. Descending the stairs of the three story building, Gawlo spotted a young boy wearing a blue wool skullcap. He called him over, rapid-fired a series of instructions to the boy in what John surmised was the local tongue. Gawlo made the boy repeat certain instructions, gave him a couple of coins, and sent him running down the street.

They supped on fruit and sweet almond cakes and lingered in the light of the morning. Before we get to talking about your plans, young John, first we should see to getting you some new clothes, and I think a hot bath will go a long way towards washing the road dust from your pores.

Soon, John was all fitted out, and carried a package containing his new shirt, trousers and sundry other items to don once they completed the morning in the relaxed splendor at the public baths. An attendant there scrubbed John thoroughly with a large brush, then massaged him on a table with perfumed oils. The sweet odors of incense filled the air. Finished, John clad himself. Good, said Gawlo, you are a new man. Come, there is one place yet to go.

Up they climbed a forested hill, and then up marble stairs to the entrance of a temple. They left their shoes at the threshold, and there, made oblations to the gods, blessed by the holy men, then Gawlo escorted John to a section of the temple well away from where most of the penitents were gathered.

Through the back chambers, Gawlo led John to a garden, where bubbled a spring, lazily issuing its waters to beds of flowers, roots of trees where wildly colored birds sounded their calls, and monkeys, high up near the top branches, ate ripe fruit. Gawlo pointed to the spring, urging John to go forth.

John walked to the spring, and round a banyan tree stepped Elizabeta. Their eyes locked for a moment, then they rushed in for an embrace. John started to talk, but Elizabeta pressed a finger on his lips. They silently held each other's eyes for a long moment. They drew close, lips touching softly softly letting go feel it wash over you the sweet scent of the purple Crown Flower the white and red Har Singar the luscious cream yellow Champa the White Water Lily the Red Lotus fully broadcasting their deep aromas like a net over still water the banyan branches reaching high to the heavens yes it is me we are found we are golden glowing energy in a boundless sphere of incandescence wallow in the light cherish me now my darling I am yours the sun the stars the moon the earth the rivers ocean fires fog clouds soil all embrace we are one with them and they with us the calling of a deer in the forest the shriek of a peacock on a lawn the trumpet of the elephant the roar of the tiger the flight of doves in the sunshine the green of moss in a pool the many glints of starlight in a gem the limbs that struggle to plow the fields the parents that fret over their children the worm that gnaws dead leaves on the ground waves that rise and fall snow cascading from the mountains magma rising to the caldera winds that blow leaves from trees we walk with them all this moment for we are one with a kiss.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: India 3

2009-06-08T20:16:20Z

Hayward was dimly aware of voices around him in a lull of the storm, and could see the light of lamps some 40-50 feet away. He called out weakly. Soon, three Indians were helping him up, two women and a man, speaking rapidly in a tongue he could not discern. They helped him a ways slightly up hill into the jungle, and brought him to a stone dwelling, and into a bed. One of the women gave him a soothing beverage to drink. It tasted of fruits unfamiliar to the young Englishman's palette. She stroked his forehead and spoke soothing words, and Hayward could feel himself drifting into sleep.

Hours later, it seemed, the rage of the monsoon returned, and Hayward could see his hosts looking outside the open doorway at it, hands on hips, engaging in occasional talk. He lay awake for a while, mesmerized by the storm's cadences, then drifted off again.

When he awoke, morning's light pervaded the stone dwelling, and the two women were making flatbread on a small woodlit stove. The man saw that Hayward was awake, and came over and sat next to him. He spoke generally at first to the women, then directed a series of questions at Hayward in the unknown tongue, finally shaking his head. Hayward realized though the Portuguese conquered key ports in India, their influence was limited, and not many Indians actually understood their language. The man rejoined, pointing at his breast with his right hand, Ganesh. He repeated it. Hayward repeated, pointing at the man, Ganesh? Ganesh smiled, nodded, then pointed at John. John, I am John. Ganesh carefully pronounced his name, John. The two women were named Lakshmi and Parvati.

An hour later, all four had finished breakfast, and Ganesh beckoned John to the door, pointing in the direction of the shore, as if to say, let's survey the beach to look for other survivors. On the shore, other Indians were regarding the scene. John looked around for signs of other Europeans, but none were standing. The bodies of many were found, drowned mostly, brought to a single pile by the locals. Here, John recognized many of the sailors, and Turgov, Prizia, Leone, Cardinal Salvadares, Scipio the curate, Jose Arias Captain of the Falcon, Mouton and Cabral, the nobleman from Lisbon. The wrecks of all three ships were scattered along the shore, each way for at least a mile. John found part of a sea-chart, half-covered in seaweed, under the torn remains of a sail. The tide was going out,so some things had washed to the shore. John spotted something bobbing in the water, some 200 feet away, a little wood box. He fished it out; nice workmanship, sealed with an ornate brass clasp. He opened it, and found everything inside dry: small bottles, little combs, an array of jewelry. Then something made his heart stop. John pulled out a silver necklace with a mother-of-pearl inlay in the shape of the crescent moon. He stood there stunned, limply holding the jewel he had bought for her in Zanzibar. Is she lost? As he tightened the grip on the necklace, the dam burst, his eyes welling up and flowing softly as he looked to the sea forlornly. He sank his knees into the sand, bringing the necklace to his lips. Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Father who art in heaven. Ganesh pushed himself through the crowd of villagers standing mutely around, witnessing the pathos. Ganesh silently dispersed the crowd, and sat near John, listening to the natural rhythm of a deep crying fit. And when it at last subsided, Ganesh started a prayer of lament of his own. John listened to this, and when it was over, the two men regarded each other, and Ganesh motioned for John to return with him to his home. Upon return, Ganesh spoke with Lakshmi and Parvati, who looked on John with great empathy. The rest of the day they sat, reflecting and eating in silence.

In the morning, Ganesh took John once more to the shore and the village to look for survivors once again. More bodies had washed up with the high tide in the night, but all without a pulse. They had found a few items of note: a waterlogged Bible, a Spanish crown-sealed packet of letters, and some number of silver and gold coins on the deceased. Some of the latter John gave to Ganesh for helping, the rest he kept for himself.

That night, Ganesh was asking something of John, gesticulating in all directions. It dawned on John that Ganesh was asking where would John go now. He considered this, not knowing exactly where he was. The next stop was Calcutta, but then it suddenly came to him: Dehli. That's where he should go, Dehli, to find Gawlo, who knows this land and the language. John said Dehli, and Ganesh repeated Dehli? Dehli?! Excited, he leapt to his feet, and started talking rapidly to Lakshmi and Parvati, using the word Dehli frequently, all the while smiling and laughing. Finally, he came over and gestured John, Ganesh, then pointing inland--Dehli!

It didn't take John that long to figure out the puzzle. His host was a minor merchant of usual household goods, and made regular trips to Dehli on his four horse drawn wagon. Apparently, he already had planned to leave, as putting together the overland venture transpired in less than two days. Before John knew it, they were bidding Lakshmi and Parvati farewell, and the two of them were on the road.

The journey would take many weeks as Ganesh had many stops along the way as they neared the uplands of Northern India. The trip was good for John's health, as he began to feel vigor flow in his blood with helping Ganesh unload and load goods along the way. John was now dressed much as a local wearing a white cotton collarless shirt, linen trousers and sandals. He soon surmised that his host was somewhat well-to-do, as most merchants drove teams of oxen, not Arabian horses.

Arriving at some ornately carved stone gates one day, Ganesh stepped from the wagon and gestured--Dehli! with some satisfaction. To this John indicated Gawlo, and gestured that he meant a man of this name. Like a needle in a haystack, thought John, and yet, Ganesh had plenty of business stops to make and plenty of people to ask have they heard of a man named Gawlo? On the fifth day, the spark of recognition registered in one man's eyes, and soon they were led to a tree-lined plaza, where men sat in circles debating and drinking chai. Ganesh's associate gestured: Gawlo.

The reunion was particularly sweet for John when he saw the warm smile of his one friend alive from the Swan. They sat and talked for a while, then Gawlo ordered curries and fruit drinks for all men to enjoy from a little boy standing nearby. Gawlo listened to John and Ganesh in turn, translating. As dusk approached, John was saying goodbye to Ganesh, and Gawlo told John shortly after, I know where Ganesh lives, so perhaps after some time, we can return. He is happy to have helped you reunite with a friend, but would like to conclude his business and return home.

John spoke of the shipwreck, and showed Gawlo the necklace. She is gone. So it seems, young man, that you are the only survivor. For tonight, we should relax. We shall begin to sort all this out together, starting tomorrow.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: India 2

2009-06-08T20:15:12Z

Two mornings hence, they reached the port town of Bombay, and disembarked for a mid-day rest. At the suggestion of the Portuguese, many took their lunch at an open-air bazaar, filled with vendors selling grilled meats, fried fish, an Indian flatbread called Naan, and various dishes spooned over saffron-infused rice. It was here that Hayward and Tybalt first tasted curry, a chicken curry with spices so fresh, bright and intense, the like of which they had never experienced. They wondered aloud why they hadn't tried the local cuisine in Daman.

After five more days sailing south, they reached the Portuguese capitol of operations in India, Goa, near the southern tip of the subcontinent. The crew spent the night ashore as did most of the passengers. They hoped to make the city of Calcutta in a week.

Four days out of Goa, with the ships sailing northwards up India's east coast, the skies all around them began to darken ominously around noon. The captain and the crew began discussing this sudden change of weather, probably just a passing thunderstorm, though monsoons have been known to occur in late November. The Swan rendezvoused with the Falcon and Chimera. Braganca declared that his crew knew of a a town with a relatively safe harbor about an hour to the north, follow our lead. All hands were on deck, unfastening and deploying every sail, adjusting angles to get maximum velocity from the wind, steering northwards. The rains started to pour suddenly and within seconds, all were soaked to the skin. But the sailors took it in stride. The rising winds were only hastening the arrival at a safe shore.

The skies turned darker still, and the rain came heavily down, blinding all sight beyond the area of each caravel. The winds now doubled. They were riding the crests of huge waves, now down into a deep, deep trough. A sudden branch of chain lightning tore open the veil of the rain, and Hayward's heart was in his throat as he could see the topmast of the Falcon struck, that caravel on the crest of a wave high above and behind the Swan. The monsoon relentlessly tightened its grip on the three ships. Sails ripped, and the very foundations of the caravels were creaking, loosening, like a poorly built box in an iron grip. Sailors fell into the ocean, ripped off the ropes by sudden gales.

Out of nowhere, the Swan's hull struck something with a thud, sending Hayward and all else on deck overboard. He could barely discern the voice of Turgov booming, grab for a plank or a piece of wood to float to the shore! Thankfully for Hayward, these were plentiful were he floated, for the Swan was splintering into hundreds of pieces all around. He held onto the plank for dear life as all around him the skies poured forth thundering waterfalls, and the winds frothed the waves into galloping steeds.

He held on until nearly losing consciousness. When at last he felt sand under his feet, he stumbled up the beach, crawled to the safety of the tree line, the monsoon still unleashing its full fury.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: India 1

2009-06-08T20:10:08Z

According to the charts, the three caravels were making good time across the Indian Ocean. A few storms were encountered, though nothing like the one encountered off the coast of South Africa. At one of the symposiums, Gawlo had another story.

Once I dreamed of hunting rabbit with a friend. We were alone on a vast flat plain, burnt tan grasslands rather short, not a cloud in the sky. We could see giraffes in the distance and were awaiting flocks of birds. Unawares, a hare came crawling nearby. My hunting partner and I were at some distance from each other so we tried to catch the rabbit by cutting down the angles. It was fearful of me as I was too bold, but my friend crept slowly up to it, and as he touched its foot it instantly turned into a beautiful young woman with flawless skin and glowing hair. She approached my friend and kissed him full on the lips.

By the 9th of November, they reckoned they were roughly a week away from the first port in the Orient, Daman, India. Upon reflection to most of the Europeans, it seemed most strange that a November would be this warm and balmy. Hayward had quite a packet of ciphered letters, as it had been nearly two months since a Portuguese ship had been encountered. Several times in the Indian Ocean, whales had been sighted. On the 11th, a group of whales could be seen far off to the east, bearing southwards, their plumes just discernible on the horizon from the crow's nest.

At long last, Hayward mustered the courage to do what he wanted to do ever since they left Zanzibar. After the symposium on the night of the 13th, he intercepted Elizabeta before she could retire. Milady, I am so sorry, but if I could have a moment of your time, Hayward stammered, pulling the silver and mother-of-pearl crescent moon necklace from a pocket, but all the excitement and distractions at the bazaars in Zanzibar made me forget that I picked up this trifle for you, if you would accept this rude bauble from a coarse and humble penitent such as I, as a token of my affection.

Elizabeta sharply drew in breath when the necklace was given to her, albeit by Hayward's shaking nervous hand. She stared at the jewel in wonder for a moment, put it on, curtsied and thanked Hayward. Both stood still for a long awkward minute, staring down at the deck. At once, both tried to speak, with nothing really to say, then both bid each other goodnight with the excuse that they needed a full night of sleep.

On the 17th of November, the Chimera, Swan and Falcon arrived at the Portuguese fort in the Indian town of Daman. Resupply commenced, then rest for all, crew and passengers, ashore. They would tarry here overnight. All aboard the Swan said their farewells to Gawlo, who now would travel alone overland to Dehli.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: Africa 10

2009-06-08T20:09:13Z

Hayward walked into the cabin and was further surprised to see Tybalt standing there, lost in thought. Oh, Hayward, good. Did you happen to see Elizabeta leave the cabin? I need to dictate a letter for you to cipher right away.

It turned out that Damiano, Moredano and Elizabeta picked up definite evidence that both the Portuguese and Spanish planned some kind of mischief once the caravels reached the Orient. But exactly what, nobody knew. This seemed in the cards already once both sent such well-armed ships. Damiano sent Elizabeta to communicate this in English to Tybalt, as England was far more neutral in this matter than the other ambassadors, who presumably knew little of the English tongue.

On the 16th day of October, the three caravels reached the vibrant trading port of Zanzibar. Gawlo reached an understanding with the port officials that he would personally escort the ambassadors through the bazaars for trade under a flag of truce. Zanzibar was a major hub in the trade of Spice and Slaves. The array of goods here to purchase astonished the Europeans, which sported an extensive variety of livestock, including wild animals such as tigers and zebras. Thumbing through a book penned in an unknown language, Hayward spotted something at the next table which caught his attention. A silver necklace with a mother-of-pearl inlay in the shape of a crescent moon. With Gawlo's help haggling, he managed to get a fair price for it.

Ships resupplied, and with the ambassadors overstimulated by the bazaars, the Swan, Falcon and Chimera pulled out into the high seas of the Indian Ocean, setting a northeasterly course as the sun slowly sank into the west.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: Africa 9

2009-06-08T20:07:31Z

A few days later, the ships turned their course northwards, following the east coast of Africa to the port town of Zanzibar. One evening, Gawlo told a tale at the nightly symposium.

Once traveling overland from one village to another in the East Central African brush, our party kept careful watch at night, for these thick grasslands were heavily populated with large herds of wilderbeasts, wild bulls, rhinos, elephants, hyenas, wild dogs and lions.

We were particularly alert to the presence of predators when large numbers of gazelles appeared to us off to the north some distance away, heading our way. We quickly moved away south up into a ridge of barren rock where we patiently waited for the herd to pass. Within minutes, the gazelles were passing below, quite near, at a steady pace. Then suddenly rising in speed, they kicked up a dust storm, obscuring the view. After minutes of this amidst screams and grunts, we could make out the scene. One young gazelle was being strangled by the throat by a lioness. After the prey gave up, the lioness dragged the tan hided beast away from the kill spot, away to the west in a tangled mass of heavy brush. She was joined by one more lioness and we could see three cubs feeding on the blood and meat from the cool shade of a small tree. Soon they were joined by a male lion, dragging the remains of a larger gazelle. We moved closer yet still securely away on the ridge and apparently unseen and out of any danger. The well-fed lions soon slumbered. Only the large male made signs of waking, pacing back and forth, sniffing the air.

We stayed watching the scene, awaiting the slumber of the male. Before long, however, we noticed three more males trotting towards the one, and, after a brief standoff, the solitary male fled from the robust trio, virile, young and in their prime.

Once alone, the three proceeded to the bush where the three lion cubs recently fed. Apparently the females had run off or were in hiding, as their offspring were left undefended and cowering from this unexpected threat. The intruders crept closer, their heads close to the ground. We could hear the fearful cries of the cubs and then finally, they leapt away in a vain effort to flee. The male usurpers pounced on them, and despite the cubs' attempts at self-defense, one by one the males grabbed the cubs with fierce eyes, and with what seemed to be smiles on their faces, and snapped the cubs' dainty necks.

A week into October, in the early afternoon, Hayward made his way to his cabin at the aft of the Swan. Approaching the door, it opened, and turning to meet him face to face, and closing the door behind her was a startled Elizabeta. The electricity of her close presence shot tingling waves up Hayward's skin. She looked down, then up at him, smiling. I truly enjoyed reading your poems, John, she stammered in broken English. Both of them blushed in this awkward silence, and then she hurriedly took her leave. Hayward stood there a moment bewildered.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: Africa 8

2009-06-08T20:06:54Z

A week out from Ikot Abasi, the caravels were out of the doldrums, making faster time, heading due south. By now, resupply stops were routine, and a fortnight later, there was another encounter, this time with three Portuguese ships returning to Lisbon with spices. Hayward had a packet of ciphered letters ready.

Gawlo's relatively exotic perspective changed the tenor of the nightly symposiums aboard the Swan. He remarked that the figure of Hermes in the Odyssey resembled deities in other lands: Thoth in Ancient Egypt, Hanuman in India, and Echu-Elegua among the Yoruban people. And, naturally, he told tales of his own, including many about Echu-Elegua, the double-talking monkey god, and how he taunts the Lion who thinks he is the King of the Jungle, when, in fact, the Elephant is the real King.

Hayward continued his efforts to follow Petrarch. By September, he had penned more than a score of sonnets. He didn't know how to surpass the master without resorting to imitation, so he found themes and metaphors within.

A week from the Cape that represents the southern extremity of Africa, Hayward woke in a fevered sweat. He was too faint to rise from bed, and parched. Tybalt sought help. He discussed his condition with Scipio, the ship's curate and astrologer, who began to recommend a course of bleeding. Hearing this, Gawlo interjected, and offered help. I have some facility at healing using herbs, roots, lore and medicines I have gathered on my travels. Tybalt conducted him to their cabin.

Gawlo sat with Hayward for several days, giving him water, feeding him a bitter stew, and wiping sweat from his brow. You love her very much, don't you, young Hayward? whispered Gawlo. Delirious, he perked up, what, how did you guess? Oh, I was a young man once and very much in love. And I have seen this countless times in many other young men. Is this why I am so afflicted? Gawlo laughed, no, my son, though doubtless you suffer the pangs of love judging by your sighs and shortness of breath when you steal looks at her. But, no, Love did not cause this fever. Likely a combination of an insect that bit you and lack of real nourishment. No worry. Tonight, your fever will break, and, god willing, you will take my advice and eat some better food, like this stew. Gawlo, I have a question. Yes, young Hayward? Have you ever heard of Prester John? Indeed, I have heard the legends, but judging by my travels throughout these lands, that's all he is, a legend. One more question--do you think she knows? She knows--usually a woman already knows these things. Now sleep.

By September 14th, they reached The Cape. Here the weather was cooler, winds stronger, waves larger. On the 16th, a sailor on the Falcon shouted "Tiburon!" A great white shark at least 20 feet long was seen, swimming in the wake of the ships. On the night of the 19th, a violent storm came at the ships unawares. Great sheets of lightning lit up the sky, cold rain came down relentlessly, and the winds buffeted both sails and waves, now cresting 35 feet higher than the troughs. Hayward had never been in a storm like this at sea, but noted that the experienced crew took it in stride. By morning next, the reckoning revealed light damage. Only the foremast of the Chimera required serious repair, and this itself was quickly dispatched.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: Africa 7

2009-06-08T20:05:59Z

On the 3rd day of August, the three caravels reached the Niger River Delta. As they sailed east, numerous tributaries issued out of mangrove swamps. By late afternoon, the Chimera signalled the Swan and Falcon to stop and drop anchor as close to a group of mangroves as possible. Here, Braganca, the Portuguese ambassador, ordered the Chimera's small skiff to be lowered. He and a few crew members rowed to a group of fishermen pulling nets from the boggy shore. They engaged in a brief discourse, then the fishermen led the way by boat into a small tributary, with the Portuguese skiff following. Soon, both vessels were gone from sight into the overgrowth. Thirty minutes later, they returned with numerous small vessels following, to ferry all who would meet the Great King. All the ambassadors boarded the crude fishing vessels, while most of the crew tarried aboard the caravels.

All were astonished to find that this kingdom was nothing more than a fishing village, roughly three score of raised huts on stilts on a modest tributary inside the mangroves. The visitors disembarked at the largest of these structures, where they were seated, welcomed with cups of palm wine, strange but festive music, and a stunning array of food laid on large tree leaves before them. A man spoke in a rapid tongue and his words were translated into Portuguese by another African, a very old but lively man, clad quite unlike the river dwellers. Welcome to Ikot Abasi, I am Okasi, the elder. We thank the gods and spirits that you have come in peace and felicity, and now we shall celebrate our meeting, and later we shall trade stories. On the morrow, we shall conduct further business.

The Europeans lingered at the feast nigh close to midnight, then were ferried back to the ships. Late the next morning, they returned to Ikot Abasi to conduct trade for necessary supplies and crafted goods. Towards the end of business, the African translator spoke with Damiano. They call me Gawlo. I have tarried in this village for 3 months, learning their language and customs. For many years in my youth I studied and taught at the University in Timbuktu, and have since traveled widely. If it is your will, I would like to join you on your journey. I know many tongues and customs throughout this continent, as well as those of the Orient. I have old friends dwelling now in India, and it would save me a great deal of time riding aboard your ship. Further, I know how to negotiate with officials in ports hostile towards Christians.

Damiano readily accepted Gawlo aboard the Swan, and introduced him to all on deck. By late afternoon, the three caravels once again took to the high seas southwards.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: Africa 6

2009-06-08T20:05:19Z

The following Thursday, as the nightly symposium was ending, with Moredano, Damiano, Turgov & Elizabeta turned to their private cabins in the forecastle, and the others to quarters aft, Giulio Leone, the Florentine ambassador, took Elizabeta aside to continue the discussion just taken place on the works of Juvenal. They stood near the door to the forecastle for over an hour, talking in private, though a few sailors could see them speaking quietly. At once, Leone leaned into whisper something to Elizabeta, at which she slapped him full on the face, turned and stormed off, slamming doors behind her. By morning, news of this incident had spread throughout the Swan.

Hayward took great pains to put his secrets in his journal with quill and ink in the style of the Sonneteers. At length, he was happy with this as a start to a sonnet:

Waked from slumber like tinder sparked by flint
thy words emblaze, an angel choir's song
a moment's kiss, soul-union mingling long
in your eyes, I rest at ease, full content

The notion of meeting a Great King of the darkest jungles of Africa fired the imagination of John Hayward. He imagined a massive palace of gold stone erected in the jungle overlooking the river delta, with tens of thousands of warriors at his call. He would have well over a 100 warriors mounted on armored elephants, like Hannibal of old. Mounted archers would ride on chariots, horsemen countless armed with bow, spear and sword. He wondered if any hippos, crocodiles or lions were tame enough to ride as mounts. Numerous armed ships would guard the entrance to the delta from the ocean. Great horns would signal from the ramparts at first sight of the enemy. Vast feasts and revels would entertain him and his guests in is great hall, all feasting on great platters of delicacies, sipping on jeweled chalices full of nectar wine, and with silk pillows to sit on while watching exotic women dance to enchanting music. Perhaps he even knows the whereabouts of Prester John.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: Africa 5

2009-06-08T20:04:36Z

The atmosphere on the deck of the Swan most afternoons and evenings resembled a symposium, with Cardinal Damiano hosting discourses with Elizabeta, Moredano, Mouton, Urbano, Prizia, Leone and others. Attendees sat, shared wine and food. Music often preceded discussion.

One late afternoon, the winds were light, and the fully deployed lateen and square-rigged sails were placed at oblique angles to fully take advantage of what little wind there was. Damiano began recounting a familiar theme in mythology, infidelity. In one tale, we know of the affair between Aphrodite and Ares; Hephaestus, Aphrodite's husband, catches them in flagrante, and casts a strong net over them, then hauls the coupled two up to Mt. Olympus, where all the deities have a good laugh at them.

One can also recall the multitude of infidelities committed by Zeus, and the reactions of Hera, who tries to prevent these, and seeks revenge on Zeus, his mistesses, and sometimes the bastard child. So I ask, what is worse? The infidelities themselves, or the acts of revenge?

Mouton jumped at this. Surely the jilted spouse can be forgiven for acts of revenge. Isn't it poetic that Hephaestus plainly casts the sordid affair of Aphrodite and Ares into the light of day? He needs say nothing--the evidence speaks for itself. And who can speak out against the loyal and long-suffering wife of Zeus, Hera? Zeus is a constant dissembler, turning himself into a white bull, a shower of gold, a swan, even into the semblance of another deity because he cannot grasp the notion of happiness and fulfillment in the loving arms of his wife. Surely this is the sky-father's tragic flaw, jovial but insecure. Why this fear that he will end up alone and not loved? It speaks to a lack of maturity and a fascination with the power of transgression.

Giuseppe Urbano, Ambassador of Milan, chimed in, well, yes, though one can say the most charming and ambitious will take advantage every time. Why does Aphrodite let Ares seduce her? I would suggest that Ares is more of a man and more handsome than Hephaestus, reputed to be the ugliest of the Olympian gods, and busy smithing, besides. Zeus is the King of the Gods, the most powerful and rightfully takes what he wants. Many of his affairs are with Goddesses or mortals who have signalled to him they are fascinated by his charms. They have flirted with him, he is only responding naturally, how any healthy, virile man would.

Fie, fie! replied Moredano, the Goddesses have to find power where they can. Zeus' constant affairs undermine Hera's primacy as Queen of Heaven, and she has to do what she can with a husband who can't keep it in his pants. Aphrodite is neglected, and Hephaestus is no charmer; can one really fault the Goddess of Love seducing the God of War? It is a pity this does not happen more often in the present day, for war is an affliction that binds and obstructs the free flow of trade between all lands.

Elizabeta, Damiano interjects, you seem strangely silent on this question. What say you? In sum, Your Eminence, I would say there is plenty of fault and shame to go around on all the Olympian Gods. I would not be the first to say these faults make them seem more human, and, in turn, suggests we mortals may have the capacity or spark to touch the Divine. Further, these tales are at once funny and serious. We can all apprehend the pathos of the jilted Hera or Hephaestus, yet they both take their revenges to ridiculous, even comic, extremes.

Two days later, a northbound Portuguese caravel approached. All manner of things were exchanged between the ships: medicines, spices, wine, gossip, news; and Hayward passed to this ship a packet of ciphered letters bound for London.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: Africa 4

2009-06-08T20:03:47Z

Nine days out of Tangiers, the ships resupplied in the Canary Islands, and thirteen days after, on the 7th of July, the Swan, Falcon and Chimera disembarked in the large port town of Dakar. The Portuguese had long since established a presence here, and relations with the Senegalese people was said to be generally amicable. In material terms, this was a routine resupply and rest stop for the crew. However, for most of the members of the Swan and Falcon, here was something entirely new: a large population of black Sub-Saharan Africans. Otherwise, in most respects, familiar. Their guides took them to a large outdoor tent market where all manner of goods--spices, clothing, silks, jewelry, weapons, street food, shoes--could be had at fair prices. Ambassadors were impressed with the exquisite craftsmanship on display and most returned to the ships with a few finely woven silks, some jewelry, perhaps a ceremonial dagger or sword, even some quantity of spice or exotic tea.

Discipline was now well-established on the Swan. By this point, the crew was given a regular ration of wine each night. Daily life aboard had achieved a kind of equilibrium. The crew was businesslike, and the tone among the passengers was civil, even genteel, set by the Cardinal, who engaged all in discourse on a variety of topics.

Hayward read Petrarch each night, contemplating a new poem each day, turning it this way and that.

Lassare il velo o per sole o per ombra,
donna, non vi vid'io
poi che in me conosceste il gran desio
ch'ogni altra voglia d'entr'al cor mi sgombra

You always wear a veil, sweet lady, whether night or day, perhaps because you are aware of the great desire in me, so great that all other desires shrink to nothing.

Rendering his clumsy translation, Hayward considered whether he could himself write verse of this sort.

A week south of Dakar, the ships anchored off the coast of a tiny fishing village known to the Portuguese as a reliable source of drinking water, livestock, and other sundry basic supplies. There was a conference ashore between the ship captains, crew, and all else interested, facillitated by the Portuguese captain, to discuss conditions of wind and current to come. In these waters there is a phenomenom known as the "doldrums." Hardly any wind or current to speak of. By hard-won experience they have learned to take on extra supplies entering this zone, and found that more wind was available to harness the closer the ships sailed to the coast. The captains of the Swan and Falcon were bid to follow the lead of the Chimera in every respect for the next few months, as her crew knew the best ways to traverse this passage.

In all likelihood, with possible short respites along the way, like this tiny village, they hoped to reach the Niger River Delta, where dwells a Great King, in twenty days.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: Africa 3

2009-06-08T20:03:03Z

Elizabeta was sound asleep when the thud reverberated loudly on the wall above her bed. She could hear the drunken oaf clumsily try to wriggle his way through the port window. Always ready, she grasped the cold dagger under her pillow and waited. No man is ever going to take anything away from me again by force if I can help it. She was taught the art of knives and fencing as a young girl in Palermo. Some men are sweet and courteous like Damiano, others think they can take what they want. Lay still, breathe deep, wait until he's close...ahhh...the dagger slips in like a hot knife through butter. Too bad about all the blood ruining a perfectly good silk nightshirt, however.

After his fall, she calmly unlocked her cabin, then knocked on Damiano's door across the hall. Two minutes later, she, Damiano, Moredano and Turgov were regarding the scene in her cabin, and the rope secured by the window. Turgov summoned Navagero, his First Mate, to ring the all hands on deck bell.

Ten minutes later, the entire crew was lined up, and all other passengers standing aside on deck. Some of the crew were so inebriated they needed a good splashing of rainwater to the face. Men! We need discipline on this ship! Where was nightwatch tonight when this heinous act took place? Giovanni, Giorgio--dead drunk! Navagero, Mendez, seize them, strip off their shirts and tie them to the mast. Ten lashes each! Lorenzo. This mangy cur, now chum for sharks, this Jacopo is well-known to be your drinking buddy--how is it that he snuck away, lowered himself to a window from the fore-mast without you stopping him or sounding the bell? Speak! Answer me! Well sir...I cannot say...last I heard before I passed out he said he wanted a chance to buy the favors from the whore...At this, there was an audible gasp. Lorenzo was too lashed soundly at the mast. No more talk of this sort on this ship. This lady is the guest of His Eminence, Cardinal Damiano, who represents the Vicar of Our Lord's Most Holy Catholic Church here in the lands of the heathen infidels. You all are a disgrace. For this offense, I shall spare you what my wrath naturally impels, and instead--no more wine or ale or spirits of any sort for a week! The Captain was fuming and red-faced, and the countenance of Nicolo Moredano, the Venetian nobleman who owned the Swan, and everyone else, was serious and grave.

Three days later, Lorenzo referred once again to Elizabeta as a whore, and worse, within earshot of a few sailors and the lady herself.

That evening, Lorenzo felt himself tired early, and crept off by the cannon balls to nap early. But soon woke up to find himself blind and paralyzed. He felt himself constricting from inside--all his sinews and blood vessels were tying into knots. All his flesh tingled as if crawling with tiny spiders, but he could not scream or cry out. He expired quickly.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: Africa 2

2009-06-08T20:02:27Z

Before leaving Cadiz, Afonso Cabral made it known to Damiano and the other ambassadors that the Nereid needed to rendezvous in Tangiers for resupply and to forward Portuguese correspondence. So, several days later, the caravels pulled into the busy port of Tangiers. Waiting at the dock was a magnificent new caravel, armed with many guns, and fortified with many well-armed soldiers. Cabral announced that they Portuguese delegation would complete the voyage to the Orient in this, their new ship, the Chimera. Sulphur was palpable in the air at this news. Emile Mouton, having knowledge of this ahead of time, moved quarters to the Swan. This left none but Portuguese on the Chimera. The stop in Tangiers was brief; the Swan and Falcon looked on from the harbor. The Portuguese must have an understanding with the Moroccans, most surmised. No reason to stir the waters.

With an hour, the three ships were southbound in the shallow Atlantic, following the coastline. Tybalt took Hayward to their cabin for a conference. The courier in Cadiz we can trust. Further missives to Westminster must now be written in cipher, for these will likely be forwarded aboard ships laden with spices returning from the Orient under Lisbon's colors. Those receiving our letters in His Majesty's court already know further dispatches will be ciphered using the Arundel protocol, with which I know you are most familiar. Hayward was comfortable with this. Time to carefully code letters was needed, and this they had in abundance. November, at the earliest, would be when they touch shore in the land of spice.

Elizabeta was quite another matter. Now, Hayward saw her daily, playing her viola, or deeply immersed in some discourse on Latin poetry with Damiano near their private cabins in the forecastle. He'd steal furtive glances at her flawless alabaster skin from the other side of the ship. Such radiance, such self-assuredness, the like of which he'd never seen in a lady. He blanched when he overheard crew members referring to her as that Sicilian wanton strumpet or worse. He could not think of her as any sort of prostitute. She seemed more like a learned scholar, musician and Queen.

He found himself repeatedly reading verses by Petrarch. Two lines particularly resonated with him:
Trovommi Amor del tutto disarmato
et aperta la via per gli occhi al core
Disarmed, Love found the path clear to my heart through my eyes.

The third night out from Tangiers, the sailors broke out bottles of sweetened Spanish wine that tasted like honey on their lips. Lorenzo and Jacopo were still discussing, as was the entire crew, the recent, and highly irregular arrival of a Lady on the Swan. And a courtesan at that. Much more refined, elegant, beautiful and well-dressed than the painted common tarts they'd buy in brothels on shore for a few pieces of silver. Isn't it some sort of bad luck to have a whore aboard a ship not plying her trade? And can anyone imagine that His Eminence is buying her services, he seems so old, and doesn't seem to have the lust of a real man. You aren't thinking, Jacopo, of seeing if she'd render her services to you? I'm just not sure of her price, that's all. I have three gold doubloons I need to spend in my purse, but how to get access? The entry to the forecastle is locked, as is, surely, her own door, from within.

What about her port window? Aye, you've hit on it, Lorenzo, perfect. I can swing down there on a rope secured to the fore-mast. But, Jacopo, in these turbulent seas and winds, after sharing these three bottles of wine with me? Lorenzo, you forget that I've been climbing ropes on ships like a monkey since I was a boy. Now is perfect, everyone on deck is dead drunk, all below fast asleep. And without a doubt, the Lady secretly relishes the touch of a real man. Wait here for the unfolding of the tale, and uncork another bottle for my return.

Jacopo seized a coil of hempen rope from the deck and made his way up the foremast, securing one end of the line at a joining. He cast the line down, with the rope under his haunch and over a shoulder, carefully letting out the slack as he descended. He pushed his weight out, returning to the side of the ship above the port window he sought with a thud. Carefully, he positioned himself just before the window, wiggled his way in feet first, secured the rope outside the window in order to make his escape afterwards.

Down in the cabin of the courtesan, he could just make out her sweet peaceful face by the low light of a lamp next to her bed. He approached, then reached out his right hand to rip off her nightshirt secured by a bow between and above her luscious breasts. Just as he touched the silk garment a flash of steel struck him instantly like a snake, just to the right of his heart. Jacopo could see his blood gushing out like a torrent and the cold eyes of the courtesan regarding his as he sank into a black pool.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: Africa 1

2009-06-08T20:01:50Z

On the 13th day of June, the year of Our Lord 1525, 29 days after setting out from Venice, the Nereid, Falcon and Swan sailed into the docks of the fortified town of Cadiz. The southern Spanish port had a shipyard rivalling the size and might of Venice's Arsenal, with large guns strategically mounted on towers overlooking approaches to the docks from several vantage points. The streets of the town constantly echoed with the hard leather slap of soldiers' boots on cobblestones. Everywhere one could see pistols, swords and polearms.

The three ships would anchor here overnight, while the crews, after loading some fresh supplies (including ample quantity of Spanish wine), were free to engage in some well-needed leisure in Cadiz. All were warned to beware the French pox in the brothels. This warning did not sit well with Emile Mouton, the French ambassador.

Besides taking the packet of letters to their courier, Tybalt and Hayward had other serious business that day. They saw to a tailor to purchase a quantity of warm-weather garb for the sweltering weeks in warmer climes to come.

Overnight, there were significant changes in arrangements aboard the Falcon. A detachment of armed soldiers was installed there in addition to six cannons more. Gunther, the thick-necked German nobleman, said farewell to the crew and ambassadors aboard the other two ships. Elizabeta Abondanza was welcomed aboard the Swan as Cardinal Damiano's guest. I trust you have brought your books and viola for the journey, milady? The Cardinal kissed her hand with an elegant flourish, and she slightly curtsied and bowed her head in return. Aye, your eminence, and perhaps we can continue our discourse on Ovid so abruptly interrupted one month ago in Venezia?

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: Venice 8

2009-06-08T20:01:18Z

It would be well into June and close to the full moon by the time they reached the next major port, Cadiz. The charm of the sea had limits for Hayward, and once the letters Tybalt dictated were scribed and sealed, Hayward had plenty of free time. He wrote in a journal about all manner of things. Could the Straits of Messina, which he'd seen twice now, really be where the sea monsters Scylla and Charybdis from the Odyssey once lived? Did Odysseus live in Italy? What creatures would they encounter sailing the Atlantic? What is this fascination, wonder, confusion, this pull?

As always, the Italian ambassadors were on deck, arguing with each other, gesticulating wildly. Too much Aristotle. Bored with the arguments, Hayward walked over to where Turgov, the Captain, was working with an astrolabe. They conversed on navigation: new tools, the compass, dead reckoning, wind direction, naval charts, following stars, flights of birds possibly indicating coastal areas nearby, and things living in the sea itself.

Thirteen days out of Palermo, they could see Gibraltar to the northwest and the coast of Africa to the south.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: Venice 7

2009-06-08T20:00:20Z

In the mid-May early afternoon sun, great crowds had assembled south of the Piazza San Marco to see off the ships bound for the Orient. Fanfares of trumpet rang, flowered ribbons adorned balconies, and street vendors hawked grilled fish and pastries throughout the assembled throng. Scores of oarsmen propelled the Doge's great galley; the Doge himself was visible in his ceremonial gold and scarlet garb, despite attendants holding great umbrellas to protect him from the sun's onslaught. Doge Andrea Gritti stepped from the galley, and up the steps of the platform erected before the three caravels. He gave a rousing speech wishing the voyagers godspeed. Various clergy echoed these sentiments with obscure references to Ezekiel and Romans, ample incense, and a few sacred hymns sung by a choir. An hour later, the caravels steered their way south through the Lagoon, and into the Adriatic.

The weather was clear setting out, but scattered showers through the third day, near the town of Pescara, washed the ships down. In 6 days, the caravels stopped in Bari for a brief afternoon's respite. By the 11th day, Sicily was sighted, and soon the ships were passing the town of Messina.

On the 13th night since setting out from Venice, a glint of light woke Hayward in the small hours of the night. He sat up, listening to the steady rhythmic snoring of Tybalt in his own bed. Hayward quietly dressed, and made his way out and up to the main deck to take in the cool air and rainwater from a barrel.

The night was relatively windless, and the sails were down. All around on the main deck, the snores of sailors. The three ships were anchored off the coast of some large town. Splashing his face with fresh water once again, then shaking his wet hair, Hayward noted the bright crescent moon low in the east. All was quiet in the harbor, only a few fishing vessels about. He abstractly followed the course of one heading east, towards the profile of The Falcon, and as it slipped behind this caravel, a figure in white appeared on deck. Dark tresses unbound, this was the very lady depicting the Moon in the Masque at the Palazzo Giuffino. She was looking towards the town, with an expression of profound sorrow and longing on her face. What town is this, Hayward asked himself, and why is this lady aboard The Falcon? He stood frozen, watching her. After some time, she turned away and entered The Falcon's forecastle. Hayward returned to his bed shortly after.

The morning rose clear and sunny, and the caravels pulled into the port of Palermo, for resupply and a day's tarrying on dry land. Hayward told Tybalt the story of the lady on the ship in the night. Why hath you not told me this tale about the lady in the Masque? These pageants bore me, yet I do recall seeing the figures of the Moon, Sun and other Stars. While ashore, I shall inquire discretely as to her person.

The port of Palermo bustled with fishermen and minor pedlars of all sorts hawking their goods. Many of the ambassadors attended mid-day Mass with the Papal legate, followed by a lazy afternoon feast in the gardens of a local Archbishop. The crew loaded the ships with oranges, lemons, figs and apricots. Some quantity of local wine was summarily purchased and neatly stowed.

That evening, the three caravels pulled anchor, and set out for the West, following the setting sun. Tybalt had news: most importantly I need to dictate some dispatches to you which we will hand off to our couriers in Cadiz. Today I gathered a great deal of information relevant not only to our present mission, but elsewhere through the continent. One example: reports of a Peasant's Revolt in Germany. The Privy Council needs this intelligence. As to your lady in white, she is one Elizabeta Abondanza, native of Palermo, currently in the company of one Gunther, a thick-necked German nobleman of minor importance, and she is a hetaera.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

Argent Regina: Venice 6

2009-05-20T20:53:01Z

The Armory on the Grand Canal was well-appointed with weapons of every sort. Varied polearms were proudly displayed: halberds, ranseurs, fauchard forks, guisarmes, spetums, bec de corbins, & long spears. Blades were sharp and gleaming, the wood shafts hard and polished. Swords, rapiers, flails, maces, axes & morningstars of every size were to be had in abundance, as were ranged weapons from bows & crossbows, to pistols and arquebuses. The Armory also sold armor from plate to leather, and cannons suitable for ships and forts. Every item seemed a perfect specimen, immaculately clean. Blades lay in scabbards on beds of red velvet. Bows sat in racks of highly polished oak. Armor sat on dummies sewn of dark velvet and silk. The entire shop smelt of lemon and gunpowder. Prices were high, but these were the best weapons, from the best craftsmen in all of Christendom.

Porters had been loading the three caravels bound for the Orient for two days, so when the morning of departure arrived, all that needed loading was the personal effects of ambassadors and their staff. Hayward attended Tybalt's farewell to the crew of the Argent Regina and Merchant Company staff the night before. The Argent Regina would tarry a fortnight before her return to London, awaiting 3 further shipments of goods.

All three ships would fly the Papal banner foremost, but the second banner would represent the ship's owner, and allied flags below. The Nereid, with a sea nymph painted blue and green on it's bow, was the Portuguese caravel, a sleek fast ship, carrying ambassadors Cabral and Manuel Colviha Braganca, it's captain Giambattista Valeriani, from Genoa. Emile Mouton, the French ambassador, boarded this vessel.

The Falcon, painted black, red and gold, was a medium sized caravel bristling with guns, and flew the banners of the Holy Roman Empire, the Spanish Crown and allied states. Cardinal Jaime Salvadares and Don Rodrigo stood aboard with it's captain, Jose Arias de Andalucia.

The Swan, painted white and silver, was the largest of the three caravels bound for the East, and it was this vessel Tybalt and Hayward boarded. This was Nicolo Moredano's prize ship, thus the Lion of St. Mark fluttered below the banner of the Vatican. Other notables aboard included Papal legate Cardinal Bernardo Damiano and ambassadors from Florence, Milan and Genoa. The Swan's captain was a very experienced Russian, Victor Turgov, said to be versed in over a dozen languages.

Argent Regina: Venice 5

2009-05-20T20:51:50Z

After the business at the Doge's Palace was wrapped up, Nicolo Moredano invited Tybalt and the English delegation to a feast the next evening at the Palazzo Giuffino. There were still 5 more days to attend to business in Venice before sailing to the Orient, so Tybalt gladly thanked the Venetian patrician.

Damasked in rose hues, the Palazzo Guiffino resembles a five-story fortress, bordered on three sides by tributaries feeding into the Grand Canal. Her bounteous halls a veritable cornucopia of tapestries, Persian rugs, paintings, sculptures, crystal goblets, and hides of beasts from Lappland to the Ethiopic plain. An array of sumptuous victuals was proffered withall in every room. One beheld swelling platters of game, shellfish, mutton, hogs stuffed with hens, geese stuffed with truffles on a glorious bed of saffron rice speckled thereat with currants and almonds, enormous melons swimming with fruit of all sorts and cloves, and cider judiciously flavored with nutmeg and cinnamon.

Senses already ensorcelled, Hayward entered the courtyard, fountains playing amidst trees and flora. Gentle music, pipes and viols, ushered through the warm night's air from terraces above, heralding the entry of a candlelit procession. A young lad with ruddy cheeks, a bow and quiver of arrows, and wings, brought forth a number of prisoners in chains. As each stepped into the flickering light, a murmur of recognition went up through the crowd. A pope, two kings, one being Giuffino himself, their queens, and other figures vanquished by Eros. They paraded around the courtyard in a sort of solemn dance.

The Masque unfolded in an elaborate sequence. Hayward could easily follow the narrative thread in the songs. But there was so much to read, including tacit communication between the observers. Milan and Genoa continued to ignore each other, while the principal powers looked on with an air of disinterested interest. Tybalt stood near the back by a fountain making small talk with a Venetian nobleman. An Abbess figure entered, enslaving young Eros, her procession including monks and nuns; Hades, clad in black, accompanied by skeletons, followed by an angel, followed by Father Time with his hourglass and rude cudgel. At last the vision of the New Jerusalem on a chariot, anchored by an eagle, bull, man and the lion of St. Mark.

A figure in the Masque caught Hayward's eye, a lady in white, long black tresses intricately bound, representing the Moon. She swung around, facing Hayward, and during a three second pause in the dance, her eye caught his directly. Time slowed to a stop. Hayward was drawn forth to a manifested sanctuary of recognition. His breathing ceased and his entire being rose within him and seemed to flow out to a plane of exalted and blessed existence. Slowly her eyes came to realization at what was transpiring, and a sweet gentle smile with blushing cheeks darted back in his direction, then she shyly looked away, and returned to the dance.

The Argent Regina: Venice 4

2009-03-06T19:29:00Z

At the Doge’s Palace near sundown, trumpets and sackbuts herald the entrance of the Doge Andrea Gritti, stately proceeding through the assembly in the grand hall, clad in silken robes and hat of scarlet and gold. On either side of the Doge is seated the patricians of all the important merchant families of Venice. To the Doge’s left are seated representatives of the Spanish Crown, the Holy Roman Empire, and a few ambassadors of allied states. To the Doge’s right, ambassadors from the Court of Portugal sit with an air of disinterested interest. Before the Doge, there is a long table at the center of which is the Papal Legate, Cardinal Bernardo Damiano, and ambassadors from all the other states of Christendom.

GRITTI

Lords and clergy from every noble court

Honored beyond hope we are to host you

Here in our most humble and poor quarters

Such graceful countenances rarely greet

These meager halls. Lo! A new firmament

Hath spangled across a dark swath of night!

Men of great cunning, breeding and courage

Allied thus, can we not thwart the designs

And machinations of the dark, wily Turk?

With thatched purpose, we can accomplish

All we desire, and more to an end—

Spices by our ships, no more gold to fill

The Sultan’s coffers; all direct profit.

DAMIANO

Most gracious Doge, and kind Lords of Venice,

We thank thee. Thy opulent palazzi

And splendorous Basilica exceeds

In beauty and grace all seven wonders.

On which day did the Lord God craft Venice?

Our sailors stared in awe at your city

Behold! It is the New Jerusalem!

Now, to our most pressing purpose at hand.

Long hath His Holiness heard dire news

Of nestling oppugnancy in our midst

A conflux of strife twixt Lisbon and Spain

Over rights of trade in the Orient

Past treaties produce such bias and thwart

That most men of the Law find them fracted

Thus we hereby propose a new treaty

Signed and witnessed by all of Christendom

Shortly after return from assayance,

Fair mediation and adjudication

Of ports, islands and the sources of Spice.

GIUSEPPE URBANO, Ambassador from Milan

(aside)

Fie! How these wind-bags puff their chests and strut like peacocks!

GIANNI PRIZIA, Ambassador from Genoa

(aside)

Such pride in their false self-abasement!

GRITTI

So well hast thou measured forth the skein;

And your grace, Cardinal Salvadares,

What say you to these proposals?

CARDINAL JAIME SALVADARES

We halt

Like cripples before a steep precipice

After such rich eloquent rhetoric.

Rather than puff the sails of stranded ships

With so much moist unsettling verbiage

I defer to Don Rodrigo, envoy

From the Spanish court.

GIUSEPPE

(aside)

Puff the sails? Halt like a cripple indeed, the old man can barely manage a whisper.

GIANNI

(aside)

But still puts on airs as if he is a strong ripe stallion!

DON RODRIGO, SPANISH NOBLEMAN

Humbly I beseech

All attendees present to lend an ear

To what must seem rude and unpolished words

From such a wretch as me. The King sends word

Through me that Spain fully agrees to sign

All agreements settled in this assembly.

Bounteous treasures shall fill our purses

If we work in harmonious accord.

GIUSEPPE

(aside)

Another dissembler! At least he keeps his speech short.

GIANNI

(aside)

With a forked tongue and devil’s tail tucked into his breeches.

GRITTI

Good my lord of Portugal, what say you?

AFONSO CABRAL, AMBASSADOR OF PORTUGAL

Our most gracious monarch Joao III hath sent me
To support and ratify any treaty
Or endeavor that would solve this impasse
Peacefully and amicably under
The eyes of God and Holy Mother Church.

GRITTI

Then all are agreed, ships will set sail on--

HANS PETER PESCHKE, SWISS AMBASSADOR

Vile snakes! To invoke God and the Church
To ratify a treaty meant to fill
The coffers of all the courts of Europe
Filthy lucre! Greed is a sin cardinal
And you smile as wolves, gathered to kill
All for sybaritic pleasures as well
Such as silks and spices so frivolous!
--storms out--

PRIZIA

He frets because only the Swiss here lack a navy to profit.

URBANO

So do we, until the Sforza conquer Genoa again!

The Argent Regina: Venice 3

2009-03-05T23:33:09Z

Niccolo Moredano rose early and walked to the window facing east. He could make out a dozen fishing vessels slipping through the canal below. The faint whiff of sandalwood mixed with brine hewed the air at the open window. Light was burgeoning on the horizon. Hope had presented itself when all was dust or mud and now it seemed a fool’s hope might indeed come to pass. The far clouds burned yellow, orange and blood red. Time has a way of preserving itself in hopes one holds for months and years and suddenly revealing itself in a momentary swoosh of a curtain. The sun was up gushing forth in splendor and its rays already warmly bathing the marble, brick and stone of the city. Niccolo, the head of one of Venice’s most important and influential families, had several meetings planned for the day which would irrevocably set all his dreams into motion.

Cardinal Jaime Ignacio Salvadares rode the rough waves up high then down, and not just on the trek from Cadiz. His fervent hope for a quiet settlement of matters rode upon tacit signals. Reading the body language at court, guarded reports mostly speculative, and direct communications so couched in honeyed generalizations, he realized he knew nothing at all where the matter stood. Now only time would tell how the grains would fall, like the teasing out of nigh invisible strands of silk, or making out a language from the wind as it whipped around the bluffs of a rocky seashore. He sat in his study motionless for a while, ignoring cut slices of orange on his plate and the pleading entreaties of the cat. He feigned interest in his secretary’s report, distant. He gathered up his pens, ink and other tools into his writing table and closed the lid tightly shut.

The Papal Legate rose late into the morning as was his habit. He could still smell the sweet perfume of the courtesan pervading his bed sheets. Stretching languidly, he slowly lifted himself and stumbled to the chamber pot and the large pitcher of water. He poured forth some water into the bowl and splashed his hands, face and torso. Make haste slowly, better to address the day with a relaxed demeanor.

Breaking fast on fresh bread, cheese, sardines and olives, he read the latest dispatches. Early in the afternoon, he received credible reports that the Spanish had tried to make a settlement with the Portuguese. No luck there, if the bemused tone of Cabral’s account through the Legate’s source was to be believed. Plus there was this missive: “To his Eminence, Cardinal Bernardo Damiano, most faithful servant of His Holiness, we send thee greetings and salutations. Most excellently and nimbly did you dance last evening with the most beautiful lady we have seen here in Venice. We eagerly await tonight’s festivities after the most important business that will transpire in the Doge’s Palace this evening. Yours, etc. G. Cabral.”

The Argent Regina: Venice 2

2009-02-27T19:18:54Z

Don Rodrigo Torres de Castile sat in his chambers through the morning reading documents, eating melon slices, and receiving reports from two agents. The Papal Legate was adamant. No matter which way the pressure was applied, the Pope intended to reach an amicable solution, an equitable one at that. The Holy Father had most of Italy, France, England, Sweden, the Low Countries and independent Middle Europe with him in this endeavor. The wise course was to watch as things played out, a radiant smile and honeyed words at the ready. Portugal had no strong allies at least. The real danger, as Torres saw it, was to Spain and Portugal themselves. Ambassadors from the whole of Europe would gain firsthand knowledge into the spice markets in the Orient. Perhaps a last minute treaty with Lisbon can be achieved? The hour is at hand.

Goncalvo Cabral, nobleman and merchant hailing from Lisbon, began his morning with a bracing walk along the canal near his lodgings. He was stunned to receive a missive the night before from the Spanish suggesting a deal. In fact, at first he doubted its veracity, but his chief court agent confirmed that the seal was legitimate.

The Spanish he felt were highly paranoid about the intentions of the other European powers in the Orient. It hardly mattered to the Portuguese; they had guns and secure ports from India to the East. The King of Portugal only wanted to see Spanish aggression stopped once and for all, and a line of demarcation and treaty personally witnessed, and confirmed by all the courts of the civilized world.

Cabral spent the latter half of the morning at the tailor’s workshop for the final fitting into his new apparel designed for this week’s ceremonies.

At the Palazzo of a wealthy and influential family, a dinner is served to guests of honor, silk merchants of late from Florence. No one who eats the fish served in the sumptuously appointed chamber knows the man who caught the fish and brought it to the kitchen. He wakes early every morning, hours before dawn, slips into work clothes, walks down to the docks of Burano, hoists the small sail, and lights out for the best fishing spots. It is repetitive work; muscle memory can tell him immediately if the nets he casts are taut enough, he can tell where the threads are loosening too much. On a bad day, when the catches are poor, the weather grim, or the market slow, he wonders what good is a life of hard work without love, or what good is love without health, what good is art without food in the belly or money in the pocket. Where have I been beyond ten leagues? When will I have silver enough for new shoes? What power has regret if there truly is hope?

Hayward spent most of the first four days in Venice copying accounts, drafting correspondence, recording inventories and translating Italian and Latin for Tybalt. He spent most of his time at his portable writing table with a lamp to aid in the early morning and evening hours. Paper was far cheaper in Venice, and much more variety was on hand, and printed material of all formats: octavo and quarto books, essays, pamphlets, and in tongues never seen in London. One could find a lexicon of nearly any language west of the Levant here. Hayward purchased a few works for further perusal, including a volume, Il Millione, by Marco Polo, a most fantastical set
of tales by a Venetian merchant who had traveled to the lands of Cathay in the 13^thcentury, worked as an ambassador for Kublai Khan, and returned some 20 years later only to be imprisoned by the Genoese. All Venetians Hayward met were conversant on the topic of Marco Polo, but few entirely believed him.

Waiting at the pier for a boat or messenger on foot to arrive. The morning light bursts in cascades from the unseen horizon around the carefully arranged and sited palazzo, towers and warehouses of the city. A bit of debris floats by, some flower stems and a feather. Darker under a bridge, two youths sort out and recoil some lengths of rope. Fish are cut and scaled. Baskets of fruit are unloaded. Three women, scarved and clad in earth tone linens, carry their burdens to the shoreline to wash. A boy is reciting something to himself as he walks windingly to the East. A dog yawns, scratches himself, then wanders about the square, nose to the ground. An indiscernible flock of birds are flying in circles, and then landing on a tall building, then flying to the next. An old man pushes a barrel of wine on a wooden hand cart, up and down stone bridges, stairs and walkways. Porters prepare to unload the cargo from a small craft rowing its way down the Canal.

Time can elude. The fourteen dancers face each other in two lines of seven as the music begins. The Moon extends a hand towards the Sun then faces away from him, turning this way and that. Love seems to embrace Death, while Balance and Strength pair off with perfect grace, no need to watch the steps or think of the music so well-timed they are in the dance.

Death seems timid now to take Love in his arms. She is all too bold, uncaring, fully committed to the pavane. The Moon, she seems intent on looking directly into the face of the Sun. He is shy now, careful not to meet her gaze. Balance throws Strength high into the air and Strength lands with aplomb in Balance’s arms, jumping now to cart-wheel and somersault, adding a half-turn aerial before sticking the landing.

Turning steps, cold pale beautifully rendered stone tower precipice well above the roofs of the city, eye level with its other towers, one can see from here most of the lagoon, and terra firma—a few miles away. The westering sun, larger on the horizon, wants to consume, longs for us to bathe in his warmth, asks for one moment more of dalliance with his erstwhile partner. Have I been too bold in my suit? Have I overwhelmed you, too much already, leave me be? Am I artless, clueless, cut off from sensibility, awkward and a fool?

The Argent Regina: Venice 1

2009-02-19T23:16:42Z

The sea calmed to a whisper as the Argent Regina pulled into the lagoon. Spires, bulbs and towers rose above the mists in a golden wash that suffused all the air above the waters. The lagoon teemed with countless small craft, some rowed by oarsmen standing up, others small one-sail fishing vessels bringing in the early morning catch to the markets throughout the islands of Venezia.

The small canals are the roads to the city where families live, laundry drying in the sun on lines several stories above, a grandfather showing a four year old boy how to fish, workers seeking the shade where wine is poured and plates of grilled sardines are passed around.

The light bouncing off the waters on stone foundations under low bridges conjures phantoms skating to an infinitesimal precipice. Crumbling facades narrow on either side of these back canals, but the next turn to your left reveals a majestic tower of brick, marble and finely chiseled stone.

The man with the tufted hair, lavender and lime green damask, and a perfume ball struck a stance as if he was posing for his portrait. Yes, I have indeed traveled to the New World some twelve years hence. The climate on the islands is most agreeable: balmy throughout the winter, an abundance of seafood easily harvested in the waters. And thanking Jesus, Joseph and Mary, the heathens have all converted. And thus have saved not just their souls but their very lives in so doing. Some of the islanders practiced cannibalism, and the two our mission dealt with at their own children—abhorrent! As these were dying out already, they would be completely wiped out if they had not become civilized.

Hayward walked some paths along small canals and over the bridges of stone arches, past columns, multi-hued marble pillars and facades, white ivory streaked with lightning bolts of crimson, somber conservative dark browns regularly pecked with cream and orange, deep gleaming emerald emblazoned with gold. But if Christianity saved the child cannibal islanders from extinction, why were they abundant when the Spaniards arrived, and are all but gone now?

Francesco and Piero were sworn enemies from neighborhoods linked by a bridge over a canal. For years, tradition stated that the bridge must be fought over by gangs of youths wielding sticks on days especially appointed. Francesco and Piero happened to meet, each with nine friends, at the bridge.

You lie through your throat, shouted Piero, in response to Francesco’s taunt that he and his friends had had their way with Piero’s sister Catarina, and that she made love like a casket of rotting fish.

The two young men drew rapiers while their seconds looked on. Piero was taught by a Roman fencing master; Francesco, a Spaniard. Piero wielded a 9 inch dagger in his left hand, for more offense, Francesco, a small twirling cape, a defensive tool. Piero was a hot-blooded youth, prone to outbursts of temper, and his blood was boiling in his ears has he measured his opponent. Francesco, by contrast, was arrogant and cool, and reckoned by many to be the best young fencer in Venice. Piero launched into the attack aggressively but Francesco had no trouble parrying every attack and riposte with sword and cloak. Francesco held the edge of his blade constantly on Piero’s to better forecast the proximity and severity of coming attacks and feints. He let Piero slightly wound him on the forearm, a scarlet gash running through white linen. Too impetuous, Piero’s foolish torso lunge was countered and riposted by half the length of Francesco’s Toledo steel, piercing through Piero’s bicep and back out again.

Piero cried out at this thrust, dropped his rapier, and fell to his knees, his face ripped with agony, gripping his bloodied arm with his left as blood gushed out in great spasmodic spurts. For a moment all regarded the scene with silent recognition of an honorable conclusion to a fight. But Francesco muttered, get up and fight like a man, you dog. Piero ignored him, moaning in agony. Francesco spat at the ground, then in a moment of sheer unreality, bent down, gripped Piero’s sweaty, curly black hair with his left hand, and slashed his throat full open, tossing the writhing corpse towards his friends. There, food for the pigs, he said, spitting towards Piero’s remains. Then, as Francesco turned his back and, laughing, walked back to his friends, Piero’s second Mario bull-rushed Francesco, and ran him through with rapier and dagger.

The two neighborhood gangs clashed full bore at the top of the bridge, over the fallen body of Francesco. The Piero youths had the momentum with them at first, felling three of their enemies within the first minute of the furious clash. Then, steadily, they began to falter. The Spanish-trained fencers employed patient tactics, and began picking off the hot-blooded Piero youths one at a time. Bodies for both sides were piling up, and when it looked like there might be a stalemate, the Francesco partisans were bolstered by four more swordsmen, freshly entering the fray. When Tadeo, the cousin of Piero fell, Mario, now wounded on his left hand, called for a retreat. The chase through narrow alleyways commenced nine chasing four. At least Mario, Antony, Lucca and Giorgio had the advantage of being on home turf. They headed for the busy market plaza where they might be able to lose the pursuers, perhaps pick up allies. Running at full speed, they dodged porters, leaped carts full of fruit, spun to narrowly miss housewives toting buckets of water on a stick. Some of the old people in the plaza hurled pomegranates, rotten cabbages and pig intestines at the chasers; one was hit square in the face with a pomegranate, running blood red down his cheeks.

Enough time was gained by the pursued that they could afford a diversion. They turned a corner, and dipped into a papermaker’s shop. The back door would open onto a canal the four could easily leap, and then into another neighborhood. Except that Giorgio had stepped into a vat of dye, and slipped on the steps down to the canal, so that the leap was three parts into the water, one part, the head, onto the opposing stone bank. His body sank like a stone into the narrow canal. His cohorts looked dumbly at him for a moment, and in that instant, they were spotted. The chase continued towards the center of the city.

Mario decided there was nothing for it but to head for a major church and plead sanctuary. Francesco’s neighbors were right on their heels. In fact, at one critical juncture, they realized they were likely to be cut off. Sure enough, there were two Francesco gang members on a bridge they had to cross, and at least nine more chasing. The three attacked two, in a furious battle where one of the two was speared through an eye socket, Lucca went down with a slashed spleen, and the other bridge holder run through the right lung, collapsing in agony. Run Antony! North to the Basilica San Marco!

Mario and Antony ran full speed across the plaza, swords sheathed, pigeons bursting up in great waves, then into the doors of the Church where the remains of the Apostle Mark are said to lie. The Basilica was strangely quiet and empty. Candles sputtered and the light reflected on countless priceless gilded pieces of reliquary. Mario and Antony crossed themselves and hid behind the altar.

Marcantonio, the leader of the Francesco faction, stopped in front of the Basilica San Marco to discuss tactics with his 7 soldiers. We must not fight inside the church, but we cannot let these dogs escape. You two guard the side exit, everyone sheath weapons and keep them so until I draw. We must enter as if holy penitents. The six walked in, not expecting to see an empty hall. Where are all the holy fathers, whispered Aldo. Probably tasting the new barrels of Vin Santo on the Lido, answered Marcantonio. They split up into pairs, and quietly searched the Basilica. Something told Marcantonio they were being watched. He coolly regarded images of saints staring blankly down. Then he saw the silken coverlet at the altar move slightly. He raised his hand and pointed in that direction to his fellow, indicating circling the prey.

Come down and fight like men! All six against two pulled sharp rapiers, and in a passionate lunge, Mario and Antony attacked Marcantonio, but the other five were there, quickly dispatching the desperate youths in a textbook flanking move. The blood oozed out over flagstones worn smooth by centuries of penitents taking the most holy mass.

The Argent Regina: London 3

2009-02-13T15:10:07Z

Hayward shouldered the bulk of supplies after counting out shillings. Wine-seller Oswald Harrison had a bit of a cough and thick northern accent, yet the inventory in his shop proved he was no rube: Madeira, malmsey, Muscat, German ale, Aqua Vitae, Belgian lambics, wines from Spain, Burgundy, Italy, Portugal, Bordeaux, Alsace, and plum brandy from Slovakia, Sherry, Port, cider and mead. His cousin Franklin has a cheese shop with quite a selection. He has business associates with shops of their own in Amsterdam, Bilbao and Paris. At the moment, he is arranging shipments to the Low Countries; if Master Hayward hears of any reputable men seeking employment, send them to here to me to inquire about this courier position. And, one might add, his daughter is soon sixteen, and her father is looking for a suitable match.

The streets were all a ruckus as a group of Morris dancers were being toasted before the Tavern across the avenue. Some soldiers were questioning citizens down the street, and attempting to herd onlookers aside so the normal traffic of porters, carts and wagons could pass in the thoroughfare. Several of the soldiers were hunched down, trying to pry words from a trio of garishly clad young men being dressed with bandages & poultices by a barber and his two teenage assistants.

The sun was turning down, into thick layers of wool to the west. Finley, hauling the wooden crate of claret towards the river suggested Hayward balance the pack of medicines more evenly on his back. The way is not steep, but there’s slippery footing with the wet mud over the cobblestones on which hard leather cannot make purchase.

Cold potato soup with leeks simmered in butter was served first, followed by roasted game hens with rice, pork loin generously rubbed with spices, and a fruit and cheese tray including cherries, preserved pears, sharp cheddar and a soft white cheese spreadable on bread. Numerous pickles, sauces and mustards were scattered about the table including pickled herrings, anchovy fillets in olive oil, and small pickled cucumbers. The final course lingered and yet the supper company had only made it through half the case of claret.

Tybalt and the Frenchman Emile Mouton practiced their Tuscan on the guest of honor, Gianni di Parma. Di Parma had as much trouble understanding their book-learned Italian as Hayward. Master Fields and a handful of local small merchants made up the balance of the supper guests.

From the conversation, Hayward gathered that much of it was centered on Spanish-Portuguese relations, and a border dispute between them on islands in the Orient said to produce the finest export spices. The two powers were posturing in much too warlike a way for the Pope’s liking. Most of Italy and Western Europe wanted to find a peaceful settlement.

Mouton openly pondered the question of stopping war without the use of arms to halt an aggressor: a meaningless pursuit?

Dampened wisps of cloth. Threads of story go to seed then wilt, interwoven with tendrils of self-consciousness until Hayward is aware of the dim light, the throbbing in his left temple, the utter parched cat’s tongue grinding a sandpaper roof of mouth. You might do better in the morning quaffing a pint of water before taking your bed after so much claret chasing the welkin. Tybalt fared slightly better, though his eyes were bloodshot.

Returning to the events of last night’s feast, Tybalt was overjoyed in recounting the banter. Hayward’s initial assessment, an interminable discussion on political digressions, was entirely wrong. Tybalt had no intention of hosting a Greek symposium or courtly fete discussing aesthetics, beauty and graceful living. Since no entry to the deliberations of the Spanish, Portuguese or Holy Roman Empire was possible, this would have to do. No further intelligence was necessary. All would be decided in Venice.

Fly to the lateen sail, my hearties. Rig her up for sailing in the morning. Tonight one last debauch on dry land.

Terrines of rabbit, lamb’s spleen on flatbread, Islington partridge and sour apple pies, buttered mullet in a gooseberry sauce, sparrow pudding, joints of roasted lamb, Dover sole, peas and ham, sharp cheese and leek pastry, spiced double cream and pear tart, bacon-wrapped Cornish game hen braised with turnips and beets were served with great flagons of dark English ale.

The bulk of the ship’s crew repaired to a poxy cheap brothel south of the River, while others made it an early night. By dimmest first light, the Argent Regina had wound itself halfway to the mouth of the Thames. A dreamy wet morning, naught but slight coastal gusts. The current did most of the work until the waves neutralized its power. Sails were set at oblique angles to best take advantage of the winds hailing from the west northwest. By nightfall, the distant coast of Normandy could be roughly sited. Then Brittany, Bordeaux, Bilbao, Lisbon, Cadiz, Gibraltar, Malaga, Palermo, Messina, then up the Adriatic.

The Argent Regina: London 2

2009-02-12T18:01:07Z

Trevor watched from the side curtain as Alfred narrated the events at the beginning of the Book of Genesis. Nigel was next to him fitting into his Satan costume, while David and Roy were slipping into the garb of the Archangels Michael and Gabriel. The locals were struck dumb with awe as Alfred played story-teller and Jehovah all in one. Liam wouldn’t be needed until midway through Act II for his turn as The Queen of Sheba against Danny’s King Solomon. Anyone spotting Liam casing out the buildings beyond the market square would not recognize him onstage. Steve was already clad in his Eve costume and Trevor ready as Adam. Nigel would simply don a serpent’s head over his Satan costume. From the time the fireworks were lit for the line “Let there be light!” the audience was spell-bound.

The players stayed in costume and makeup after the passion play while drinking with locals in the tavern. All the proceeds from the collection baskets went to rounds of hard cider for the townsfolk. The wagon and horses were already stowed outside of town by Danny. They only had to wait until one by one the locals took their leave or fell asleep tankard in hand.

Costume changes to dark clothes and blackface were effected one hour after midnight. Nigel collected stage costumes and rendezvoused with Danny & the wagon. Roy and Liam retrieved their ropes, grappling hooks, lock pick tools and a crowbar while Alfred, Trevor, and Steve kept watch. One by one, they picked off the coffers and strongboxes of the jewel merchant, the quarry master, a wine merchant, a furrier and even the Lord Mayor. As always, the house of the black brothers was considered too risky.

On the road south to London, Alfred sorted the loot. These North Country jewels can be sold to Jan Grunding, who has ample markets on the continent.

Drips pattering from the roof muffled the din of the city until Tybalt’s boots approached the warehouse. Supplies purchased? Yes, and stowed below decks. Repair thee to the apothecary shop on the High Street. Master Cooper has a list of simples. Bring one of the men with you for surety. Here’s some shillings more for a case of claret; we have guests tonight for supper.

Hayward motioned to Finley casually as he turned to don his cloak and hat. With you, young Master Hayward, blustered Jones. Hayward’s rejoinder stuck in this throat as Finley rudely grabbed at Jones’ shoulders, You meant me, sir, Finley shouted. Jones snared Finley in a grip of his own, no, it’s your turn now to stay here and peel potatoes and clean oysters. Not if I clout you well first, you mangy villain. Enough, shouted Tybalt, make your choice Master Hayward. Words still wedged, Hayward flipped a coin, tails it is, Finley come with me.

Bric-a-brac mosaic on the High Street: carters, porters, horse-drawn carriages, rag collectors, indulgence sellers, vendors hawking meat pies, a sea of wool, linen and fur lined cloaks, hats of hard weatherworn leather vied with those of crimson velvet sporting tasteful plumage set by a gem set pin of gold. The apothecary was a grim short white haired man with thick little spectacles, grimacing at the scrawled list Hayward handed him. Pots of clay filled with dry powders and herbs sat on shelves behind him, also small greenish glass vials full of thick herb-smelling tinctures. Here we have simples of head colds, nose bleeds, sea sickness, constipation, back ache, the Spanish pox, the Black Death, consumption, demonic possession, remedies to reverse a witch’s spell, to cure diarrhea, stomach ulcers, rheumatism, the boils, random flare-ups of the black bile, and shingles. Not that men at sea need them, good my lord, but would your master be wanting any potions to cure a lack of virility, the little druggist inquired. Better not. If that is all, my good man, can you direct us to one Oswald Harrison? He is said to have a good selection of claret at his wine shop.

Three brothers embarked on a caravel in Rotterdam bound for London. Their uncles had a going concern in the Low Countries exporting simple machines, notably small clocks. The brothers brought a letter of introduction to one Jan Grunding, known to members of the Tinker’s Guild as a man who could get things done.

With all the swagger of bracing colts ready for the charge, donned in the latest style fashionable in Lisbon, Milan and Venice, amply perfumed with French cologne, and each with a large backpack holding personal items and a small bolt of the finest gold and scarlet damask which they hoped to sell here at profit, the young men took their first steps on an island country.

Strange odors and a guttural cadence of speech fell on newly arrived noses and ears. A shortcut through an open air fish market proved astounding—no salted mackerel?! Yet, oysters everywhere, and cheap. Some rough-looking sailors could be seen inside a tavern, stuffing themselves with raw oysters and washing them down with a foul-looking ale as dark as ink. And ahead, some disturbance in the street. They thought this was street where the shop of Jan Grunding was to be found. They pressed closer to the throng of citizens, congestion so thick none could move. Straining on tip-toes they scanned above the crowd to see if they could spy the shop.

They heard little bells ringing in a rhythmic cadence. At once, the crowd parted ways, and the brothers could see a group of grown Englishmen clad garishly, bells fastened to legs, long silk ribbons falling from each hand, a green vest and a funny hat. They pranced a silly jig to the delight of the citizens.

Once they passed, the brothers found themselves in an avenue they had not noticed before. What are these shops? Where is the Draper’s Street? They proceeded a while, downhill, back towards the river, then circled back, retracing their steps. Looking around hopelessly, they conferred in a side alleyway. Just as they realized they were at cross-purposes, the youngest brother suggested they ask a local.

Down the alleyway, emerging from a small little building labeled “Privy”, not eight feet away, was a fat half-drunk Englishman, fastening his britches and reeling towards them.

Sir, please. Vat is Jan Grunding? Jan Grunding, Jan Grunding, the other two brothers chimed in.

The rotund man stopped, turned red, then white. Gesturing back down the alleyway, he repeated Yon Grunting? Yah, the brothers retorted, Jan Grunding! Yon grunting? Why, I’ll do you for that, you bloody knaves! Horrified, the brothers stared as the fat man pulled a rapier and dagger on them, and, lickety-split, rushed in, steel brandishing. Have at you! The brothers pulled their own Toledo blades in self-defense, bewildered, and before they knew it, were surrounded by countless drunk Englishmen having issued from the tavern next to the privy, wielding clubs, sticks, pewter mugs, clenched fists, roast chickens, broken bottles and a few swords.

Why, those three looked like German soldiers, not knowing where they were. The Emperor’s own men, to judge by the size of those swords. The brush, Alice, give it to me. These stains are mighty obstinate. Dried stew or blood sausage drippings most like. Use some salt on it—Margery swears by it, says it even sops up the grease from roast mutton. Joan, what soap is this? Two shillings says it comes from the Emperor’s own lands in Castile. Don’t splash cold water on it, use the warm. What are those mongrel dogs barking at now? Sean the Tanner’s cat is on the prowl, sneaking under the eaves I reckon. As soon as the boys began their bull rush out of the Sable Chevron, old Lumpkin was reeling from one foot to another. Is he still passed out on the avenue? No, the boys brought him back into the tavern, livened him up with cold water, a draught of aqua vitae, and a bracing mug of cider. I swear I could hear his voice singing with the rest of them not quarter an hour ago, with that hog-calling cadence and basset hound vibrato. Be happy he’s not born a rooster or your husband. Fie on thee, my Freddy snores like a broken bellows, it could hardly be worse, not to mention farting like a whale during Mass. Or my boy Edward, scabs on his elbows and knees from pitching marbles or mock soldiering, picking off the scabs when he should have his head down praying, looking their quality in the light as if he’s found a rare ruby before fitting it for a ring. The dogs have hushed; I can hear the wind on the sail rigging in the harbor. Are you bringing your boys to the hanging on Saturday? The poachers caught shooting at boar on the King’s lands in Kent will be given their last rites on the scaffold in front of all before the chop and heads on sticks high above the Southgate bridge.

Copyright 2009 George Leake

The Argent Regina: London 1

2009-02-11T13:59:40Z

John Hayward joined members of the merchant company for a walk down to the strand where the ship was docked. Rough clad men in soiled shirts were unloading cargo as Lord Tybalt looked on, reviewing the accounts ledger. Customs agents stood apart, on occasion inspecting the books as goods travelled from the ship's gangway to the dockside warehouse.

"A moment, young Hayward," Tybalt intoned.

The two brushed past porters into the warehouse, up dark stairs, and into a room with one large window facing the light on the river. Hayward sat where directed and instinctively brought out paper, ink and pen.

"No need for that, Hayward, just words. You know that the Argent Regina returns to Venice shortly? We'll have the usual cargo, but additional tasks. I need an apt translator & scribe at the court, one like you who knows Latin, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese and French. And I understand you know the Venetian dialect?"

"Yes, my lord, learned from a Venetian glass merchant I scribed for two years ago. I taught him a bit of English and he taught me a bit of Venetian."

"That is well. You may wonder what new business we pursue in Venice. Here is the true reason.” He pulled from his pouch a silver key as he spoke, and quickly unlocked a black cabinet. From a chamber therein, he lifted a small wooden box, trimmed with brass fittings. He relocked the cabinet and brought the box to the writing desk in front of Hayward. “Open it,” Tybalt prodded. Hayward easily solved the mechanism of the latch, and swung the box open with some difficulty: a tight fit. Instantly, the nose of the room changed a familiar odor to be sure, but with a charged freshness. Inside the little box sat a stack of what seemed at first glance small scrolls of brown parchment. These were clearly not parchment, far too rough of texture and coarse. At Tybalt’s bidding, Hayward tasted the parchment. Never had John Hayward tasted cinnamon so intense! “This is why we go to Venice.”

With the last sacks and boxes being safely stowed, the crew readied the caravel Argent Regina for battening down, and anchoring a little ways from the dock. The men were soon off for pints at the Plastered Venus. Lord Tybalt, his personal staff and the Customs Agents retreated into the warehouse to inspect some of the newly arrived goods.

"Spices from the Orient," began Tybalt, opening a box of carefully packed nutmeg, "and there we have cinnamon, cloves, 50 lb. sacks of peppercorns, half ton of mace, five tons of dried ginger. Some not from so afar, as these several tins of Spanish saffron will attest. Some of the supply is powdered, but we do have some quantity whole for discerning connoisseurs. King Henry himself prefers spices this way. Nothing like whole cloves punctured into fruit for baking."

Transactions completed and documents signed, the remaining company members snuffed candles & lanterns, and then joined the crew at the rough and rowdy Plastered Venus Tavern. Customs agent Master William Fields accompanied them.

Tybalt sat his companions at a stained oak table near a low burning brazier and ordered ale all around. Several ate bowls of mutton and turnip stew with black bread in order to quell the lingering strong taste of spices.

Hayward asked Master Fields of the life as a Customs Agent. Fields was only about five years older than Hayward but seemed much advanced in experience of the world. Fields had come to London to study Law. Lack of funds and connections meant that he soon had to settle for pursuing the modest route of a law clerk. In this capacity, he is employed with the Customs office. All routine paperwork. Good eyesight helps as does an understanding of several continental languages, including Latin of course. All very mundane as one regularly sees the same merchants with the same sorts of cargo. The exciting work of inspecting seditious literature, ships laden with contraband and the like is all the aegis of a special branch administered by the Foreign Secretary.

Still, the life of the Law always fascinated Master Fields. Especially the concept of Ethics. At this, Fields launched into a discourse on Aristotle, all the while draining a third pint and ordering another. "I may not have Morals," he said, leering sideways at the poorly rendered fresco of a half-naked Venus above the central fireplace, "but I have Ethics. I will not take a bribe. There have been some offered in a roundabout way. I may not have the morals of a plain-dressing dour cleric, but I definitely have Ethics."

Morning broke with a faint light, heavy cloud cover, and a slight wind. Tybalt dispatched Hayward with a couple of burly porters, Finley & Jones, to the market to purchase sundry supplies. The open plaza of the market was some distance off from the docks, yet an easy flat walk through narrow side avenues. Finley was arguing the merits of hunting over fishing. "Sure ye can catch many a fish in the morning on the line in the river or the sea, but rarely can ye net something as large as a boar. Nor can ye set up as many traps in the water, so easily as compared to coney-snares."

"Oh go your ways--I have been on many trips in the North Sea where we have caught sea-lions, narwhales and dolphins. These are easily the size of a boar, and just as good for curing. Have ye never heard of a crab-trap? My cousin Tim sets them all around the sandy shoreline east of Ipswich. The crabs each are as large as a coney. And while he's waiting on them to fill, he's snatching clams and oysters, as numerous as sands on those shores. Takes much less skill in a bow and reckoning does fishing."

"And more likely to drown or caught in a sudden gale at sea," rejoined Finley.

"And impossible to be snared by men of some Lord or the King for poaching," retorted Jones.

"But there are sea-dragons in those waters."

"And witches and goblins in the dark woods."

Hayward patiently listened to this back and forth as they neared the market. New buildings were being erected in this part of the city, fuelled by increased business near the wharf and market speculation. Though the price of spices continued to increase, there was no abetting the appetite for the exotic among those with newly acquired wealth or those interested in raising their status in society.

Pens, ink and blank journals purchased & stowed in satchel, Hayward, Finley and Jones left the silken streets of Blackfriars for meaner markets. Fog still hung in narrow alleyways where magistrates, housewives and ale conners emerged from reticent doorways. The smell of burning rose over all else. Then sewage, perfumes, soiled clothing, rotting meat & cabbages, barley roasting in an alehouse, incense from a chapel, a pestilential effluvia of rotting fish from the river, sweetmeats grilled on open flames. The sun was a fuzzy copper blur in front of them as they entered the market plaza. Stalls stretched in several columns with vendors hawking salted herring, flowers, apples, fowl, bread and pies. Speaking to several vendors and sampling their wares, the party arranged for purchase and delivery to the docks of ample supply of hard tack and salt pork for a long voyage. Eel ships lingered in the middle of the river. The bells of St. Olafe could be heard gently sounding across the waves, south wise. Drapes of rain closed down as the men guided the hired porters, pushing carts, down to the wharves. Muddied stone-paths and here's an extra shilling if you'll load the goods below decks. Good morning, kind sir, god-speed. Thin trails of smoke issued from every rooftop eaten soon by the soup. A tronager was evaluating the scales at a Flemish merchant's warehouse. Jones returned shortly from his errand and the three silently broke their fast on dark bread, cheese and small beer as they waited for Tybalt and other men of the merchant company to rendezvous at the wharf.