Crossing To Paradise (11 page)

Without
their horses, for so long their travel companions, the pilgrims felt vulnerable. And maybe because the first stage of their journey was almost at an end, and they now had to carry everything for themselves, they developed all kinds of aches and pains.

The warm sunlight eased Tilda's stiff fingers but she sprouted ugly boils on both her arms; Snout kept spitting green phlegm; and Lady Gwyneth complained of stabbing pains in her head. And Gatty herself: All her lower teeth somehow pounded, and no amount of rubbing them with garlic and rock salt, or cleaning them with a hazel sprig, made any difference.

But then! Early in the afternoon, the pilgrims realized the shimmer ahead of them was not a mirage. It opened wide; gold-and-silver it dazzled them; it seemed to come forward to meet them, and the pilgrims reached out to it, the cradle of the great lagoon and Venice floating upon it. They all got down on their kneebones. Then Tilda began to sob, and that set off Nest and Snout, and Everard sang alleluia upon alleluia.

After a while, Austin began to pray and, with one voice, all the pilgrims responded and gave thanks to God.

“This place is where our pilgrimage, the greatest journey in our lives, truly begins,” Lady Gwyneth told them. She had no idea, none at all, that for one of the companions kneeling there, Venice was where life's pilgrimage would soon end.

At the landing stage, there were many boatmen eager to row the pilgrims across to Venice. At a cost.

“We can all fit in one boat,” said Lady Gwyneth.

The boatmen shook their heads. “Five in a boat most,” one of them said. “Venice rules.”

“I told you,” Nakin warned Lady Gwyneth. “Venetians are grasping. Everything costs double here, if not three times as much.”

To Gatty, sitting in the gently rocking bow, listening to the sip-and-rush of water, the passage seemed like crossing from waking into the most delicious dream, one that might last forever.

“Hands!” shouted the boatmen. “Mind hands!”

Like a cat, Gatty was instantly awake. And the next moment, the two boats bearing Lady Gwyneth and her companions swung sideways, then bumped into a staked landing stage.

“Engleesh!” the boatmen yelled. “Pilgrims! Engleesh!”

As the boatmen handed them ashore, Gatty noticed a young woman step out of the crowd waiting on the jetty. She was quite small and smiling and round. Her skin was sandy-pink and slightly furry.

She smiled at Gatty, and Gatty returned her smile.

The young woman opened her arms to include them all. “I am for the English,” she announced.

Lady Gwyneth nodded. “And for the Welsh, I hope.”

“
Sì, sì!
” the young woman replied. “I am translator for merchants and pilgrims. I am here to help and guide you.”

Again she smiled straight at Gatty. Then she took Gatty's left hand and squeezed it.

“My name is Simona,” she said.

Early
next morning, Simona came to the pilgrims' hospice to show Nakin the way to the merchant bank. Gatty went with them.

“You'll never find your way back on your own,” Simona told Nakin. “Wait for us here.”

Then Simona took Gatty's arm and the two of them hurried off.

“Can you jump?” Simona asked.

“Can I jump!” said Gatty. She bunched up her cloak with both hands, ran forward and leaped over the stinking stream. “Mind you,” she said, “I know a man what jumped forty-seven feet.”

“Forty-seven!” Simona exclaimed.

“He can do magic,” said Gatty. “Where are we going?”

“I'll show you the Arsenale.”

“The what?”

“You'll see. We needn't hurry. That bank is always busy, and Nakin will have to wait for at least an hour.”

What Gatty saw were soaring stone walls, two proud stone lions roaring on either side of the massive gateway, and inside…

“Foreigners aren't allowed,” Simona said. She took Gatty's rough right hand with her much smaller pink hand. “Neither are Venetians without the password.”

A guard was standing under the gate, blocking their way, but as soon as he saw Simona he called out and then kissed her on both cheeks. A small bow towards Gatty, a click of heels, another kiss for good luck, and Gatty and Simona were inside, standing on the edge of an absolutely enormous courtyard, brimming with water.

“He worked for my father,” Simona explained.

Gatty looked around, amazed. To her left and right were stacks of tree trunks; piles of planks; coils of hawser; masts; anchors; ironmongery; barrels
of caulk; and stretching down each side of the yard dozens of half-made galiotes, saetta, busses, and all kinds of other boats, lying in huge wooden cradles under open-fronted, high-roofed buildings.

“Biggest shipyard in the world,” Simona told Gatty. “Two miles round walls. Come!”

As Gatty and Simona walked through the shipyard, they were greeted with friendly shouts, waves and whistles.

Simona looked at Gatty and raised her eyebrows. “Men!” she said.

“Your father worked here?” Gatty asked.

Simona took hold of Gatty's right arm and plumped herself down. Then she kicked off her sandals and dabbled her feet in the water.

“He was the Master Shipwright,” Simona said. She slowly opened her arms. “The Master Shipwright of this whole Arsenale.”

Gatty heard the pain as well as the pride behind Simona's words. “What happened?”

“He's dead,” said Simona. “He was drowned. I was, nearly.”

“My father's dead too.”

“When?”

“Last summer. Dark elves got inside him and doubled him up.”

“Did he serve Lady Gwyneth too?” Simona asked.

Gatty shook her head. “We didn't live at Ewloe. My father was reeve of a whole manor. He wore the maroon jacket.”

“What's that?”

“The one the reeve wears. He used to beat me lots.” Gatty stared at the water. “Don't matter.”

“It does,” said Simona. She leaned towards Gatty so that they touched shoulders.

“I'm not saying he wasn't fair,” Gatty replied hotly. “He was fair to me, he was…”

“But not to everyone?”

“…except he wouldn't let me sing. He said it just reminded him of my mother.” Gatty felt close to tears. “Don't matter,” she said. “He was what he was. I just…wish…”

Simona waited quietly.

“Well! I wish he said I mattered. To him.”

“Oh Gatty!”

“I might have been that much pigswill!”

“No.”

Gatty tossed her head fiercely. “He did care,” she said. “He just didn't say it.”

“He cared,” said Simona. “Each daughter needs her father. And each father loves his daughter, even when he doesn't say it.”

Gatty put one hand over her right cheek. “My tooth's aching again,” she said.

“I know a man who'll pull it out,” Simona told her.

“He blew the pipe better than everyone,” Gatty said, “everyone at Caldicot. He blew the pipe and banged the tabor. What is it? What you looking at me like that for?”

Simona was sitting bolt upright. “Where did you say?” she croaked. “Better than everyone where?”

“Caldicot.”

Simona gave a little scream. She clapped her hand over her mouth.

“What is it?”

“Arthur! Serle!”

Now it was Gatty's turn. She cried out in amazement and then burst into tears, hot salty tears.

“Arthur!” gulped Simona. “He came back here only eight weeks ago.”

“Eight weeks ago!” exclaimed Gatty. “Arthur did?”

“Lord Stephen was injured…”

“Never!” said Gatty.

“He was wounded and Arthur was taking him home.”

“You mean…” said Gatty. Her face was burning; she put both hands to her cheeks.

“To the ostrich's head!” said Simona, smiling.

“What?”

“England! That's what England looks like on a map.”

Gatty shook her head. “He's not…not in Jerusalem, then?”

“Oh, no! No, Gatty!”

“But that was his…quest. His quest! That's what he told me.”

Tenderly, Simona unlaced Gatty's boots. She put them side by side. “Bathe your feet,” she said. “It will cool your whole body.”

And then, sitting there in the sweet May sunlight, Gatty and Simona talked and talked, they talked hungrily as if, however much they said, it could never be enough.

Simona began at the end and worked backwards. “Arthur told me I looked like an apricot,” she said.

“What's that?”

“
Albicocca.
”

Gatty shook her head.

“Fruit. It's small and orange-pink. He said we must think of each other when there's a full moon.”

“Why?”

“And send a blessing.”

Gatty felt a pain in her heart.

“He told me about you. I know about Winnie, but he said you…Well, Arthur smiles when he talks about you. He said you and he have the best times. You share the best things, and talk about everything.”

Gatty stared at Simona, amazed. “He said that?” She felt her face and neck begin to glow, and the glow spreading out to her whole body.

Then Simona told Gatty about how she came to love Arthur's brother, Serle. “Arthur said I made Serle happy.”

“Happy?” said Gatty. “Serle?”

“Arthur said the crusades made him different. More understanding.”

“He must have changed,” said Gatty.

The longer they talked, the faster Simona spoke. She told Gatty how Arthur had been knighted and was the youngest while his father Sir William was the oldest knight in the whole crusader army, and told her the
whole story of Sir William's death and Lord Stephen's injury, and how Arthur had saved her from drowning, and how a boy was trussed like a chicken and thrown over the city walls in a giant catapult, and how Arthur sobbed when he had to leave his horse Bonamy in Croatia…

Gatty looked at Simona, wide-eyed. Her poor head! Her poor heart! They were reeling and pumping with everything Simona had told her.

“You're not listening!” Simona accused her.

“I am.”

“What are you thinking?”

Gatty shook her head. She was still marveling at what Arthur had said about her, and wondering whether he had reached Caldicot and read her message. How strange, she thought. Arthur, a squire, a young knight, he dreamed of reaching Jerusalem and has gone home, while I, a land-girl, am on my way to the Holy Land.

“When Arthur and Lord Stephen reached here last June,” said Simona, waving toward the gateway, “they stayed on
San Niccolò
.”

“What's that?”

“Saint Nicholas. An island. All the crusaders did. I'll take you there if there's time.”

“Yes,” Gatty said at once. “Did Arthur teach you English, then?”

“No, I told you, I'm a translator.” Simona looked down and scrubbed the tips of her fingers against the gritty ground. “I was betrothed to an Englishman from Norfolk.”

Gatty drew in her breath; she could hear the ache in Simona's voice.

“He was killed.”

“No!” cried Gatty.

“By bandits!” Simona threw her arms round Gatty's shoulders, and squeezed her fiercely. “Aylmer,” she said huskily. “Aylmer de Burnham. I loved him.”

“What was he like?”

“Nakin!” cried Simona.

“Nakin?” exclaimed Gatty, shocked.

“No! No!” said Simona, scrambling to her feet. “I mean, we've been talking and talking. Nakin's waiting!”

Gatty whistled. “I clean forgot him.”

“Get your boots on. I'll help you.”

“Won't harm him,” said Gatty. “He thinks he's so high and mighty and top of the ladder. This'll bring him down a rung or two.”

All
next day, the pilgrims felt like sea creatures washed in by the tide and stranded on the foreshore. Like a jellyfish, moon-faced and blue-veined, Nest feebly blobbed around the pilgrims' hospice, complaining of a headache and somehow sinking deeper and deeper into herself; Lady Gwyneth's head-pains had gone, but she told Gatty there were crabs walking sideways inside her stomach and nipping her with their claws; Snout kept wheezing and bubbling like a bloated cockle; Everard was as pink as a boiled shrimp, but not as whiskered. As for poor Austin, he was feverish and his throbbing right hand, swathed in its slimy, discolored bandage, looked like a giant cuttlefish.

Gatty too felt ill. The ache in her mouth sharpened to a wicked point inside one of her lower molars.

Simona came to the pilgrims' hospice at noon, and Lady Gwyneth immediately asked her, “Can you find a dentist who will look at Gatty's tooth? Nakin will give you money to pay him.”

Simona led Gatty through a maze of dark, narrow lanes to the dog-end of the city. “Gianni. Gianni Nurico,” she said. “Good man! My father's brother.”

Doctor Nurico peered inside Gatty's mouth, and scraped her lower molar with one of his fingernails, and then poked it with a metal probe.

Gatty yelped.

“Worms!” said Doctor Nurico. “Worms have been eating it.”

“Can you get them out?”

Doctor Nurico shook his head. “Not with all the aloe and myrrh in Venice,” he said in excellent English. “Not even that would smoke them out.”

“Dig them out,” said Gatty. “Like worms in a turnip. I'll hold firm. I will.”

Doctor Nurico put his hand on Gatty's shoulder, and looked down at her rather admiringly. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It'll have to come out. You'll feel better afterwards.”

Doctor Nurico picked up a saddler's hook lying on the floor. He nodded at Simona, and Simona, standing behind Gatty, clamped her hands over both Gatty's ears.

“Open!” said Doctor Nurico. “Open wide!”

At once he drove the hook down into Gatty's red gum around the molar.

“Where are the pliers?” he said.

Simona kicked at them with her left foot.

“Right!” exclaimed her uncle. “I'm always losing them.” Then the dentist grabbed Gatty's molar with the pliers, and half-pulled, half-twisted the tooth out.

Gatty howled, and her mouth filled with warm blood. She choked; she spat onto the floor.

Doctor Nurico held up Gatty's tooth. “Very good!” he pronounced. “Both roots!”

Gatty was blinded by her own tears. Standing behind her, Simona lightly laid her forearms on Gatty's shoulders, and linked her fingers.

“So that's a piece of luck,” the dentist said with a knowing smile, “unless you prefer to call it experience.”

Gatty had no idea what Doctor Nurico was talking about, and anyway his voice came from far off, separated from her by a curtain of pain. Then the dentist told Gatty to open her mouth again, and he gently smeared some grease onto her bleeding gum.

“The brain of a hen,” he said. “Diluted, of course.”

Inside Gatty's brain, there floated the thought that hens don't have brains, but she couldn't dress it in words. She closed her eyes.

“Let the blood form a scab,” Doctor Nurico told her, “and don't be in any hurry to eat. The ointment will help to reduce the swelling.”

Gatty nodded.

“Tomorrow,” said Simona's uncle, “eat lettuce and chervil. Chop them,
mash them, add some wine, and chew them. A lovely young woman like you must look after her teeth.”

It wasn't until the third day after their arrival in Venice that the pilgrims felt well enough to leave the hospice and give thanks for their safe journey in the basilica of Saint Mark.

Gatty's gums were still very sore and her jaw was swollen, and Lady Gwyneth still had crabs edging around inside her, but the fresh wind sweeping in from the sea gave them all new energy, and their energy gave them hope.

As soon as Gatty, Nest and Everard stepped out of the hospice into the May sunlight they heard music. One young man was playing the flute and his companion was plucking a string instrument with a rounded back, like a pear cut in half.

“What is it?” asked Gatty.

“A lute,” said Everard.

“Lute,” repeated Gatty. “I like that word.”

The flautist gave Nest a lingering smile and began to play a lighthearted song, a tune somehow on the tips of its toes; and his companion began to sing:

“
Li noviaus tens et mais et violete
Et rossignols me semont de chanter…
”

What the words meant, Gatty had no idea. She closed her eyes, and listened to the liquid way the flute picked up from the voice and the voice from the flute so that the whole song was seamless—or seemed so, anyhow!

Gatty gently swayed from side to side, like a baby being rocked in its cradle.

“Cinque and Sei,” said a voice right behind her.

Gatty, Nest and Everard turned round, and it was Simona, pink and pretty, with painted lips and painted nails.

“My brothers!” she announced. “Cinque and Sei. Five and six. My fifth and sixth brothers.”

“You got six brothers?” exclaimed Gatty.

“Sei likes the look of you, Nest!”

“I like the look of him,” Nest replied, smiling. “What do the words mean?”

“Love,” said Simona. “And love!” Her eyes simmered.

“Say them to me,” Everard instructed them. “Slowly.”

Then Sei recited the words, and Everard translated, “This new season, this month of May…er, the violets and the nightingales make me sing. At first, he—no, she—she was so loving to me, her smiling mouth…and I never believed, er, I never believed she'd give me such pain. Dear God in Heaven! Let me hold her just once…” Everard paused. He turned pink.

“What, Everard?” Gatty demanded. “Hold her just once…”

“…just once in my arms…” said Everard.

“What's so strange about that?” asked Gatty. “You wouldn't hold someone with your legs, would you?”

“Well,” said Everard, “well, er…naked!”

“Naked!” exclaimed Gatty, and she and Nest hopped around, laughing, while Everard stood rooted to the spot, pink and shamefaced.

Cinque laid his hands across the cantor's slim shoulders. “
Ainz,
” he sang, “
ainz que voise outre mer.
”

“Just once before I go to the Holy Land,” Everard translated.

Then for some reason, quite why she had no idea, Gatty remembered lying on wheatstraw and sacking in a cart, lying blue and bruised and feverish, and looking up at Arthur standing on the back of the cart. She heard herself telling him, “You got the sky on your shoulders,” and Arthur smiling, and replying, “Well, you've got the stars back in your eyes…”

“Come on, now,” said Simona. “Lady Gwyneth's waiting to go to Mass. Then we're going to see the two pilgrim ships.”

Sei winked at Nest, and she blew him a kiss.

Then, sheepishly, Gatty looked under her long eyelashes at his brother. But Cinque, he was smiling at Everard.

“Come on!” Simona repeated. “You'll see them again when Venice marries the sea.”