The She-Wolf. Морис ДрюонЧитать онлайн книгу.
with you on the profits.’12
Having a pretty good idea of how much foreign gold was available and adding it to what he already had in his coffers, Tolomei calculated that the operation would make him a profit of from fifteen to twenty thousand livres. He had just lent ten thousand and would therefore make about double his loan. With the profits he could make further loans. Mere routine.
When Boccaccio congratulated him on his ability and, turning the compliment in his thin-lipped, bourgeois, Florentine way, said that it was not in vain that the Lombard companies in Paris had chosen Messer Spinello Tolomei for their Captain-General, the old man replied: ‘Oh, after fifty years in the business, I no longer deserve any credit for it; it’s simply second nature. If I were really clever, do you know what I would have done? I’d have bought up your reserves of florins and kept all the profit for myself. But when you come to think of it, what use would it be to me? You’ll learn, Boccaccio, you’re still very young …’
Boccaccio had sons who were already grey at the temples.
‘You reach an age when you have a feeling of working to no purpose if you’re merely working for yourself. I miss my nephew. And yet his difficulties are more or less resolved; I’m sure that he’d be running no risk if he came back now. But that young devil of a Guccio refuses to come; he’s being stubborn, from pride I think. And, in the evening, when the clerks have left and the servants gone to bed, this big house seems very empty. I sometimes regret Siena.’
‘Your nephew ought to have done what I did, Spinello,’ said Boccaccio, ‘when I found myself in a similar difficulty with a woman of Paris. I removed my son and took him to Italy.’
Messer Tolomei shook his head and thought how melancholy a house was without children. Guccio’s son must be seven by now; and Tolomei had never seen him. The mother refused to allow it.
The banker rubbed his right leg which felt heavy and cold; he had pins and needles in it. Over the years, death began to catch up with you, little by little, taking you by the feet. Presently, before going to bed, he would send for a basin of hot water and put his leg in it.
‘MONSEIGNEUR OF MORTIMER, I shall have great need of brave and gallant knights such as you for my crusade,’ declared Charles of Valois. ‘You will think me very vain to say my crusade when in truth it is Our Lord’s, but I must confess, and everyone will recognize the fact, that if this vast enterprise, the greatest and most glorious to which the Christian nations can be summoned, takes place, it will be because I shall have organized it with my own hands. And so, Monseigneur of Mortimer, I ask you straight out, and with that frankness you will learn to recognize as natural to me: will you join me?’
Roger Mortimer sat up straight in his chair; he frowned a little and lowered his lids over his flint-coloured eyes. Was he being merely offered the command of a banner of twenty knights, like some little country noble or some soldier of fortune stranded here by the mischances of fate? The proposal was mere charity.
It was the first time Mortimer had been received by the Count of Valois, who till now had always been busy with his duties in Council, or receiving foreign ambassadors, or travelling about the kingdom. But now, at last, Mortimer was face to face with the man who ruled France, who had that very day appointed one of his protégés, Jean de Cherchemont, as the new Chancellor,13 and on whom his own fate depended. For Mortimer’s situation, undoubtedly enviable for a man who had been condemned to prison for life, though painful for a great lord, was that of an exile who had nothing to offer and was reduced to begging and hoping.
The interview was taking place in what had once been the King of Sicily’s palace, which Charles of Valois had received from his first father-in-law, Charles the Lame of Naples, as a wedding present. There were some dozen people in the great audience chamber, equerries, courtiers, secretaries, all talking quietly in little groups, frequently turning their eyes towards their master, who was giving audience, like a real sovereign, seated on a sort of throne surmounted by a canopy. Monseigneur of Valois was dressed in a long indoor robe of blue velvet, embroidered with lilies and capital V’s, which parted in front to show a fur lining. His hands were laden with rings; he wore his private seal, which was carved from a precious stone, hanging from his belt by a gold chain; and on his head was a velvet cap of maintenance held in place by a chased circlet of gold, a sort of undress crown. Among his entourage were his eldest son, Philippe of Valois, a strapping fellow with a long nose, who was leaning on the back of the throne, and his son-in-law, Robert of Artois, who was sitting on a stool, his huge red-leather boots stretched out in front of him. A tree-trunk was burning on the hearth near by.
‘Monseigneur,’ Mortimer said slowly, ‘if the help of a man who is first among the barons of the Welsh Marches, who has governed the Kingdom of Ireland and has commanded in a number of battles, can be of help to you, I willingly give you my aid in defence of Christianity, and my blood is at your service from this moment.’
Valois realized that here was a proud man, who spoke of his fiefs in the Marches as if he still held them, and that he must treat him tactfully if he wished to make use of him.
‘I have the honour, my lord,’ he replied, ‘to see arrayed under the banner of the King of France, or rather mine, since it has been arranged that my nephew shall continue to govern the kingdom while I command the crusade, to see arrayed, I say, the leading sovereign princes of Europe: my cousin Jean of Luxemburg, King of Bohemia, my brother-in-law Robert of Naples and Sicily, my cousin Alfonso of Spain, as well as the Republics of Genoa and Venice who, at the Holy Father’s request, will give us the support of their galleys. You will be in no bad company, my lord, and I shall see to it that everyone gives you the respect and honour due to the great lord you are. France, from which your ancestors sprung and which gave birth to your mother, will make sure that your deserts are better recognized than they appear to be in England.’
Mortimer bowed in silence. Whatever this assurance might be worth, he would see that it came to more than mere words.
‘For it is fifty years and more,’ went on Monseigneur of Valois, ‘since anything of importance was done by Europe in the service of God; to be precise, since my grandfather Saint Louis who, if he won his way to Heaven by it, lost his life in the process. Encouraged by our absence, the Infidels have raised their heads and believe themselves masters everywhere; they ravage the coasts, pillage ships, hinder trade and, by their mere presence, profane the Holy Places. And what have we done? Year after year we have retreated from all our possessions and establishments; we have abandoned the castles we built and have neglected to defend the sacred rights we had acquired. And this has all happened as a result of the suppression of the Templars, of which my elder brother – peace to his soul, though in this I never approved him – was the instrument. But those times are past. At the beginning of this year, delegates from Lesser Armenia came to ask our help against the Turks. I give grateful thanks to my nephew, King Charles IV, for his understanding of the importance of this appeal and for giving his support to the steps I then took. Indeed, he now believes the idea to have been originally his. Anyway, it is most satisfactory that he should now have faith in it. And so, as soon as our own forces have been assembled, we shall go to attack the Saracens in their distant lands.’
Robert of Artois, who was listening to this speech for the hundredth time, nodded his head as if much impressed, while secretly amused at the enthusiasm his father-in-law displayed in explaining the greatness of his cause. Robert was well aware of what lay behind all this. He knew that, though it was indeed the intention to attack the Turks, the Christians were to be jostled a little on the way; for the Emperor Andronicos Paleologos, who reigned in Byzantium, was not so far as one knew the champion of Mahomet. No doubt his Church was not altogether the true one, and it made the sign of the Cross