Crossing To Paradise (15 page)

“Still
two more days,” said Emrys in a gloomy voice.

Tilda screeched and banged her forehead with her right fist.

“You'll feel better when you're underway,” Austin replied. “It's the waiting that's so difficult.”

“It's not really worth going, is it?” said Snout. “I mean, it doesn't feel right without Lady Gwyneth.”

“Gobbo won't leave an hour early,” Nakin said, “not even if I bribe him. He'll wait until he's got the last latecomer aboard.”

“Be patient,” said Austin. “Resolve not to argue.”

But then Simona came to the pilgrims' hospice, asking for Gatty.

“I take you out,” she said with a gay smile.

As soon as they were on their own, Gatty puffed up her cheeks and noisily blew out all the air. “Out is better than in,” she announced. “Where are we going?”

“We meet three strangers. Three Saracens.”

“Saracens!”

Gatty didn't show it but she was shaking. She knew the crusaders were fighting to recapture Jerusalem from them, and she'd heard Oliver say hell's mouth was wide and waiting for them, but she had never met any Saracens before.

The first thing she noticed was that their skins were even darker than the Venetians', and the second was how gentle their voices were—not just the woman but her husband and brother-in-law as well.

“This is Gatty,” Simona told the three traders. “Friend of Sir Arthur.”

“Sir Arthur?”

“The English boy,” Simona reminded them.

“Ah!” exclaimed the husband. “Head-line heart-line.”

“Him, yes.”

“What are you talking about?” Gatty asked.

“Didn't I tell you?” Simona said. “They read Arthur's palm.”

Both men bowed slightly to Gatty. Their long dark gowns swayed.

“I'm not a lady!” Gatty exclaimed.

Then the Saracen woman, who was wearing a kind of mustard-colored wimple covering her hair and draped under her chin, took both Gatty's big hands between her own and murmured something.

Gatty looked at her, bright-eyed.

“She says Sir Arthur's friend is their friend,” Simona translated. “Good prices. You want to buy?”

“I haven't got no money,” Gatty replied. “When we come back to Venice, I want to.”

Gatty scrutinized the table between her and the traders. The little bottles and sponges, the dried herbs and spices.

“What's this?” she asked, pointing to a square tablet the size of a kneecap.

“White soap,” the woman replied. “From oil of olives.”

Gatty shook her head. “We make ours from mutton fat and wood ash.”

“Yech!” growled her husband, screwing up his face.

“From Castile,” said his wife. “Very good for your skin.”

“And this?” Gatty inquired, boldly picking up a little conical loaf.

“Lick it,” said her husband.

Gatty dabbed the loaf with the very tip of her tongue. “Sweet!” she exclaimed, and she gave it a bigger lick.

The trader reached out for the loaf.

“Sugar,” said his brother. “From Egypt.”

“Egypt!” repeated Gatty. “I heard of Egypt.”

“That's where this family comes from,” Simona told her. “Here in this market there are traders from Morocco and Syria, Andalusia, Chios and Cyprus.”

“I never heard of them,” Gatty said.

Simona smacked her lips. “Cyprus. Good sugar.”

“Egypt best!” said the husband.

“Why are Saracens allowed to trade here?” Gatty asked. “They're enemies of God.”

The trader understood her question. He flashed her a smile, and dovetailed his hands.

“You see?” said Simona. “He is saying we are traders and they are traders. We sell and they buy, they sell and we buy. We need each other.”

The Saracen woman took Gatty's hands again and asked her something.

“She askes if you and Sir Arthur are betrothed,” Simona translated.

“Betrothed! Of course we're not!”

“She knows your feelings,” Simona said. “She sees into your heart.”

“How?” Gatty demanded.

“Through your eyes,” said Simona. “They say you're so sad…”

“I am,” Gatty said in a low voice, “and you know why.”

“…but you are strong.”

Gatty sighed. “People always think that.”

“Look!” said Simona.

It was Nakin, advancing on them. “You two young ladies,” he said. “I spied you from afar. What have we here?”

Nakin delved into his scrip and produced a small felt bag; it was pinkish-grey, like an earthworm. He untied its neck-string, and tipped into the Saracen woman's palm a dozen iron thimbles, each with a little flower incised on its flat top.

“The best iron!” said Nakin. “From Nuremberg.”

The Saracen sniffed. “Iron for locks, yes, and spades and nails and knives. But women's thimbles?”

All the Saracens laughed, and the husband slapped his right thigh and said something.

“Good joke!” Simona translated. “Now! Gold? Silver?”

Nakin wiped his damp brow. “Tell them I can't carry precious metals right across Europe,” he said. “Brigands and bandits would soon smell them out. Tell them one-and-a-half silver groats for each thimble.”

The husband shook his head, held up all ten fingers, and said something.

“All right! Ten groats for all twelve thimbles,” Simona translated. “Ten groats for a posy of flowers!”

Nakin's piggy eyes gleamed and his mouth flapped. “Oil and slime!” he told Gatty. “They're fishy traders!”

“You're one to talk!” Gatty replied gaily.

The Saracen husband pointed to the red cross stitched to Nakin's right shoulder and said something.

“You believe your God came out of a woman's womb?” Simona translated.

“Of course He did,” Nakin replied earnestly.

All three Saracens shook their heads.

“You Christians are fools!” said the husband.

The brother held up two fingers, and said something to Simona.

“Two groats more,” Simona translated. “Twelve groats. One for each thimble.”

Nakin grunted.

“To help you, he says, on your way to his city.”

“It's not his,” Nakin objected. “It's ours, and he knows it.” Then Nakin smiled his openmouthed, crafty smile, and shook the Saracen's hand. “Twelve silver groats,” he said.

The next day was the pilgrims' last in Venice and, solicitous as ever, Simona insisted they should walk halfway across the city to the church of Saint Zanipolo to buy small phials of holy water.

“Why so far?” Nakin complained. “There's holy water in every church.”

“This water is more holy,” Simona replied. “It comes from Saint Peter's spring and runs over many relics. Put one drop into Gobbo's water, and it will taste as fresh as a mountain stream.”

“What do you know about mountain streams?” Tilda asked.

Simona waved airily towards the distant spiky peaks. “I rode north,” she said, but she didn't elaborate.

Gatty glanced at her. Without even asking, she knew that Simona and her Englishman, Aylmer, had ridden to the mountains together, and had been happy there.

“I'll stay here this morning,” said Nest. “I want to think.”

“You're meeting Sei again,” Gatty said. “Aren't you.”

Nest sighed. “I don't know.”

“Nest!” said Gatty. “Please come! It's our last day.”

But Nest would not change her mind. “Anyhow,” she complained, “we've visited relics almost every day we've been here. I've seen more of Saint Martha than she had to begin with, unless she really had twelve fingers and three shin bones.”

“I know!” said Gatty, grinning. “I've been counting. All in all, I've seen seven skulls and five shin-bones and two penises and twenty-one toes!”

Early that evening, Nest took Gatty completely by surprise.

“When you went off to that church, Saint whoever-he-was, I kept wanting to talk to you and you weren't here.”

“I won't be here for the next season,” Gatty said. “None of us will, except Austin.”

“That's exactly it!” said Nest, shaking her head. “I know I've said things about you.”

“And to me!” interrupted Gatty. “‘Mucky!' That's the first thing you said when I came to Ewloe.”

“I know. And sometimes I've thought worse than I've said.”

“Because you were jealous of me and Lady Gwyneth,” Gatty replied.

“I've never told you about what happened,” said Nest. “But I know Lady Gwyneth did.”

Gatty shook her head. “Not much,” she said gently. “I think she wanted you to tell me.”

So Nest told Gatty about how she and her mother and father had lived in the castle at Rhuddlan and had their own sleeping-room because her father was the steward. She told Gatty about all the games she had played with them, and how her father used to jog her up and down on his knees and then suddenly open them so she fell through, screaming and laughing.

Gatty listened and ached. Why didn't my father do that? she thought. He never said nothing. If only my mother had lived a bit longer.

“And after the fire…” said Nest. “You know about the fire?”

“Lady Gwyneth told me.”

“She came to Rhuddlan herself, and brought me back to Ewloe with her. She cared for me. She loved me, and I loved her.” Nest wiped her eyes. “You're right. I was jealous of you. But it's different now. My feelings are different. I mean, I know what you're like. Running after those boys in London, and saving Austin, and…lots of things.”

Gatty shook her head.

“I couldn't do them,” Nest said. “It's right to go on with our pilgrimage. I know it is. It's just I'm not strong enough.”

“Who says?” asked Gatty.

“Not without Lady Gwyneth. I get so afraid. I can't stop myself.”

“You're strong enough!” Gatty said, smiling. “I think you are.”

Nest gazed at Gatty, wide-eyed.

“It's just you don't think you are.” Gatty reached out, and pinched the end of Nest's nose.

“Don't!” exclaimed Nest. But then she threw herself into Gatty's arms, and the two of them reeled across the room, clutching each other.

“Can I come?” cried Nest. “After all? I will! I'm coming with you!”

Gatty narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“I know I'll be afraid. Simona says that on Gobbo's ship there are giant biting flies, and she told me about harems and Assassins. But it's what I promised Lady Gwyneth.”

“Amen!” said Gatty in a loud voice.

“It's only…” Nest began. Her gaze drifted over Gatty's head; her eyes misted.

“What?” asked Gatty. “Sei, you mean?”

Nest sighed.

“I thought so.”

“I don't know how it's happened, but it's happened. I've never had feelings like this before.”

“Nest!” said Gatty tenderly.

“I know! I know he'll be here when I come back.”

“He will.”

“But after that, Gatty?”

“Wait and see,” Gatty advised her.

“Will the others understand? About me coming?”

“Our priest at Caldicot,” Gatty replied, “Oliver, he'd say something about it's never too late, and laughter in heaven.”

“But what about Nakin and Everard and everyone?”

“They'll be glad. Emrys will say it's what Lady Gwyneth wanted, and Tilda will be pleased there's another woman. So will Nakin!”

Nest laughed. “He can't keep his hands off me.”

“And Everard,” Gatty continued, “he'll say something about women always changing their minds, and Snout…well, he'll be glad, and so am I! You remember how Lady Gwyneth said we're all sisters and brothers and each brings something different to this pilgrimage?”

Nest nodded.

“Well, you're a maker. A needle-and-cloth magician! I could never do what you did, making them cloaks and red crosses and hats-and-scarves.”

“You helped me,” said Nest.

“If you come to Jerusalem,” Gatty said, “you'll mend our clothes, and trim our hair so we still look almost human.”

“Oh, Gatty!”

“And show us colors and patterns and shapes.”

“Oh, Gatty!” Nest exclaimed again. Her eyes filled with tears.

On their way down to the waterfront that night, Gatty gently took Austin's arm. She told him how she'd pray for his hand each day and remind everyone else to do so, and asked him to pray for them.

“There are seven of you,” the priest said, “and seven's a blessed number.”

“Not the Seven Whistlers,” Gatty replied. “They drown you.”

“True,” said Austin. “But the Holy Spirit gives us seven gifts…”

“Understanding and good judgement,” Gatty began, “and being brave…”

Austin smiled a wry smile. “I believe Jesus will watch over you all the way to His city, and will bring you home, sound and safe. But He may need a little help.”

“Jesus doesn't need help.”

“Understanding and good judgement and being brave,” Austin said. “You must use those gifts for a start. And you must work at your reading and writing with Everard.” Austin wheeled Gatty right round to face him, and put his left hand on her shoulder. “If you're all to reach the Golden City,” he said, “and then return safe home, a great deal depends on you, Gatty.”

Gatty looked at the priest. A calm, unblinking, grey-green gaze. Then she lowered her eyes, and her eyelashes flickered. “I know,” she murmured.

The waterfront was lit with lanterns and flaming brands, and heaving with priests, pilgrims, pardoners, traders, sailors, quartermasters, suppliers, stallholders, and the merely curious. Simona led the pilgrims to Gobbo's ship, and the captain came halfway down the gangway to meet them.