Amongst Silk and Spice Read online

  Standing by a window, looking out, Hugo waited in a room with others seeking an audience with the King. The courtyard was busy, and there were new conscripts conducting their training, likely heading up to fight the Scots. While closer to home, Hugo still preferred France to being posted to the wet, cold and miserable lands up in Scotland.

  "Sir Hugo Beauford," a royal clerk called.

  "Here," Hugo said.

  "This way."

  Hugo followed as the man scurried down the hall toward a large door, which guards opened as they approached. "In here," the man indicated and let Hugo pass. The room was full of people standing in groups around a large table covered in documents. Scribes wrote and clerks ran around. Hugo spotted the king standing with a group of men on the other side of the room. He dressed no differently from any other noble and unless one knew what he looked like, it would be hard to find him in a crowd.

  "Beauford," the King said, waving him over. Hugo was pleased to think the king knew his countenance and he walked over as requested, feeling his pulse beat through his body. "You look well."

  "Thank you, Your Majesty."

  "You know Chanderling."

  "I do," Hugo said, nodding to the man with the estate next to his.

  "And you know the story of his daughter—the one that is missing."

  Hugo frowned. He hadn't thought of her in many years. She had been a little thing, full of fire and spite like an angry cat, the daughter of a convicted witch, who’d been burnt—the girl disappearing shortly after. "I do."

  "You are one of the few people who remember her and one of the only who is reliable."

  "I see," Hugo said, but he really didn't.

  "We have decided it is time to retrieve this wayward daughter."

  Hugo looked at the man who was his neighbor, whom he hadn't seen in many years. He was old and gray now. "From where must she be retrieved?" Hugo asked in confusion.

  "There is the quest we are placing at your feet. The last we know of her she was in Venice, but we believe she traveled east."

  "Venice," Hugo said in shock. He hadn't realized it would be an actual quest, across all of Europe, too. "There may not be any trace of her now. Who has her?"

  "We do not know. From what we know, she was traveling alone?"

  "Alone?" Hugo said dismissively, but realised they were serious. A little girl traveled to Venice alone? How was that even possible? Hugo had always assumed she'd been sent off to a monastery somewhere as was the custom with unwanted daughters.

  "I trust you will uncover her whereabouts. It is time for this to be ended. Do you accept this commission?"

  "Of course. I serve in every respect."

  "Good. I knew you were the right man for the task," King Edward smiled.

  "I will not fail you." Hugo realised it was a wonderful opportunity to serve the king in a capacity that could garner him respect and patronage. This was a personal favour to the king and he had been asked to conduct it.

  "Now Killner there will see you have enough provisions for your voyage."

  Hugo was dismissed and he sought out the man the king had indicated, receiving a heavy purse and a letter of support to show as required. The letter would carry great weight, even amongst the Venetians. With this mission and the letter, he was acting on behalf of the king, and few would dare stand in his way.

  Chapter 3:

  * * *

  Hugo could hear the church bells ringing as he sailed into Venice. It was early and the fishermen were sailing the other way, out to sea to find their catch. The city stretched out before him, seemingly built right out of the water and he'd never seen anything like it.

  By the time they reached port, the city was awake. The port was busy and every manner of goods were dragged out of ships or put in. There was silk and spice, carpets from the East, gold and slaves. This was where the world traded. Everything flowed down the canals on little, squat boats. Hugo hadn't thought it possible that so many people could live in one place and Bertholomew had already managed to upset one of them, who was yelling at him with wild hand gestures. Walking down the narrow streets, Hugo saw Latins, Spaniards, Jews and even Saracens with their flowing robes and wrapped heads.

  Shops were opened along the streets. Most of the wooden buildings were two story and whores seemed to ply their trade from the balconies above. Children ran through the streets like wild things, while slaves tended lush gardens. There were also stone or plastered buildings, built more pleasingly than the function required. Elaborate embellishment spoke of the wealth to this city.

  It took Hugo some time to find Saint Mark's Square where he'd been told the king's envoy lived. The square was filled with sellers of all manner of things and the Basilica told Hugo he had reached the right place. It wasn't hard to find a trader who spoke French, and who could point him to the envoy’s lodging.

  Bertholomew went to seek out their own lodging at one of the hostelries, aware that there was one particularly serving the English. The last thing they needed was some Frenchman promoting the French cause by slashing their throats at night.

  Making enquiries, Hugo soon found the right door, where an elderly slave of seemingly Eastern origin gave him entrance.

  "Who enquires?" a man yelled from another room. A rustle was heard, then the envoy appeared, stopping as he saw Hugo. He had long, graying hair and his body was running to fat. "We have a visitor. And a knight, too. What brings you to Venice, my lord?"

  "King's business."

  "Come through," the man said hurriedly, urging him to continue through the building, emerging out into a courtyard surrounded by a small garden. "Sit. I am Victor Stagly—at your service, Sir—?"

  “Beauford,” Hugo stated, taking a seat in a wooden chair with carved sides. The sun was warming and the elderly slave brought wine and cheese.

  "Have you been to Venice before?" the envoy asked.

  "No."

  "It is quite a place. At the same time the godliest and the most ungodly of cities. There is not a sin this city does not cater to. You saw the Doge's Palace."

  "I saw construction."

  "Yes, they have been rebuilding it for many years—making it grander. The old Byzantine architecture is no longer appreciated and the Church wants the palace to reflect the wealth of Venice. The people hate it, of course. They resent the Doge's presence." The envoy took a sip of his wine and let the cup rest on his knee. "Although you have come on an interesting day. There will be horse racing through the city."

  "I am not here for the pleasures," Hugo said, looking around the courtyard. The envoy had nice lodgings here, looking settled enough to stay, and Hugo suspected the man might do so when his commission ended.

  "Of course. How may I assist you with this business you have here?"

  "The king has commissioned me with finding a woman—an Eloise Chanderling."

  "I am aware of the lady. Others have been enquiring of her previously—not a knight, of course, but she is no longer in the city." The envoy snapped for the slave, who appeared immediately. "Bring me the Chanderling jewel."

  The slave returned with a pouch, handing it to the envoy. "This is a necklace she sold here. The earl requested I retrieve it for him." The envoy handed the pouch over. "It should perhaps return with you. I trust there would be no safer escort."

  "I can return it to its owner." Hugo didn't like the man, how his eyes roamed, suspecting his proclivity. No doubt a sin this city catered to, as the man had suggested.

  "Now the girl. She was apparently living here for a few years. I never made her acquaintance, but she left. Indications suggested that she may have sailed to Constantinople, but there is no proof. Ships leave here every day, although via Piraeus at the moment, due to the Genoese presence in Constantinople. It is not often we have wayward nobility hiding in our streets—an unusual case."

  Hugo thought back on the girl he knew, and her disapproving pout. She was a headstrong thing, even as a child, but he had no idea what she was like as a woman.
He wasn't even sure he would recognize her as such, hoping the king's faith in Hugo's recollection wasn't misplaced.

  "What she did here, I don't know," the envoy went on. "The necklace would have earned her enough to live on. There is little more I can say on the topic. What news is there from England, and the war?"

  Hugo informed the envoy of the development with King John's capture and the envoy listened intently to Hugo's quick description of the Battle of Poitiers. To the envoy's disappointment, Hugo would not stay to indulge in a meal. He needed to find a merchant sailing to Piraeus, although he would not enjoy spending more nights at sea without a rest. But he was here on the king's business and he would likely receive less unwanted attention out at sea than in this city.

  It was warm when Hugo emerged back in the square and he reiterated that it had been the right decision to leave his armor behind. He wasn't heading into battle, but he'd wore mail under his surcoat. Bertholomew was waiting for him, looking around nervously. He was a decent enough squire, but he didn't like being out of his element, and Venice made him uncomfortable. "We are going to Constantinople in the morning," Hugo said and Bertholomew winced. Hugo noted that the young man looked particularly tired.

  "Are we to traipse all over the world for this woman?"

  "We might find her there easily. Are you missing the battle field?" Hugo chuckled, knowing that Bertholomew hated the battlefield even more. Truthfully, he wasn't overly enthused about sailing again himself, but hopefully it would be the end of this journey. He supposed it would be interesting to see Constantinople with all its ancient history, but admittedly, he wasn't the most ardent pupil for such topics.

  Venice was such a different beast from what he knew and more crowded than he thought possible. Its beauty far surpassed London, which was also a reflection of its riches. He had heard that the whores in Venice surpassed all others in both beauty and skill, but he wasn't here for such things, and he certainly couldn't afford to catch a pox.

  The streets were growing more crowded ahead of the horse race and even the nobility in their fine silks were drawn out of their houses.

  The next morning, Bertholomew had a sickly sheen to his face and there was no arguing that a fever was brewing in his body. The young man failed to rise and groaned in pain as the fever ravaged him. The other travelers started casting them accusing looks, fearing the plague being brought back into their midst.

  But it wasn’t the plague, it was just fever, but quite a severe bout. There was nothing Hugo could do but wait and intermittently force water into the man, praying he would live. He would hate having to explain the passing of the young man put in his care.

  Bertholomew’s fever did eventually break, being young and strong, but he was too weak to travel. Mr. Stagly agreed to take Bertholomew in while he recuperated, so Hugo left him in the envoy’s care with the mission to return the reclaimed necklace to Lord Chanderling on his return to England.

  Constantinople could not have been more different. Where Venice was an assault on the senses, Constantinople was ordered and thoughtful, its streets wide and gardens taking up every available space, even on roofs. If Venice had a guarded relationship with the Church, Constantinople embraced its Christianity like a cloak, incorporating all its doctrines. The women were somber and demure, where the Venetians had embraced their beauty in a city built to match it.

  It took weeks to find traces of her, but she couldn't hide what she was and an English noble woman was noticed.

  Hugo arrived at a courtyard, where buildings surrounded an enclosed garden. It was serene and peaceful with the scent of fruit trees. Apparently she had shared a domicile with another woman, a scholar of medicine, he was told.

  Banging on the appropriate door, he waited, finally being greeted by a young woman with dark eyes and long braided hair. She didn't look the way that English or French women did, but she was quite beautiful.

  "I am looking for Eloise Chanderling," he said.

  The woman considered him without greeting him. "She is not here."

  "But she was."

  "Yes, but two years ago. What do you want with her?"

  "I am here on behalf of her father."

  "She told me she didn't have one. Do you mean her harm?"

  "No," he said, looking behind her. There was the chance that the woman was hiding Eloise.

  "You do not believe me."

  He didn't respond at first, not wanting to lie. "Mistress Eloise might not want to be found."

  "Search if you must," she said, crossing her arms, and Hugo walked in when she stepped aside. "Some of her things are still here."

  "What things?"

  "Books."

  "Books?" He hadn't been aware she could read. "What kind of books?"

  "Philosophy. Greek mostly, but also Eastern. She spent some time in Greece before coming here."

  "Where is she now?" Hugo didn't care where she'd spent time, only where he could find her. Although her scholarly instincts were a surprise. Not a feminine quality her father would encourage.

  "Baghdad."

  "What?" Hugo said with dismay. He hated having to travel this far to retrieve some wayward lady; now having to travel even further made him livid. "Baghdad?"

  "The Mohammedian philosophers grew in interest for her."

  "When did she go?"

  "Two years ago. As I said."

  Shifting on his feet, Hugo tried to dissipate the annoyance he felt—actually tempted to draw his sword and smash something. He took a deep breath and calmed down, guessing there was nothing to do but to follow in her footsteps. It would mean another two months on this unwanted journey, and truthfully, he was starting to wonder what kind of woman he would find when he got there. Philosophy. To what point would she engage herself with such dribble?

  Chapter 4:

  * * *

  Cambeluc, Cathay

  Eloise stood on the balcony facing the garden in the back. A fish jumped in the dark waters of the pond, making a splash in the otherwise serene garden. The cherry blossoms were falling, depositing the small pink flowers across the grass. Placing her temple to one of the lacquered poles, she looked out and sighed. The cool wind ran through her legs where the silk dressing gown had parted.

  She heard Malik move and turned back to him, his long, black hair flowing around his shoulders as he lay back on the pillows watching her. She smiled. "Good morning," she said and returned to the bed, softly walking over the dark, bare boards of the floor, sitting down by him.

  His dark eyes considered her. "Such a beautiful sight," he said and placed his hand on her knee. "One that never stops pleasing me to wake up to." His hand cupped her cheek.

  Eloise had met Malik here, where he worked as an administrator for the Mongolians. He was older than her, but he spoke French and Eloise had sought him out at one point for that reason, the older man whose eyes had drawn her in. "If for one minute I believed you would be content as a Persian wife, I would marry you, but I know you better."

  Eloise knew he was right. She had seen the lives of Persian women and it held nothing but sacrifice. "But we would be together."

  "And for some that would be enough, but not for you. You strive to know the world, and freedom suits you all too well."

  Lying down, Eloise placed her head on his taut abdomen and he stroked her hair. She loved him, everything about him. She'd had to pursue him and it had taken a while for him to relent. "Besides," he continued. "You need a young man. Someone who can challenge you, give you children."

  Malik could well give her children, but what he said was true—their life here did not encourage Eloise to stop the measures she had learnt to keep her fertility low. Being with Malik would be giving up more than she could tolerate. Persians often had more than one wife, another thing Eloise would find impossible to tolerate and Malik would be disparaged by his peers if he didn't follow that custom.

  She knew their situation was impossible, but she didn't want to accept it. But here, in Cambeluc, the pr
imary city of Cathay, they were away from all expectations or requirements placed on them by anything other than their faith and hearts.

  It was perfect; they lived in a small house together and there was no one to complain—at least no one who could do anything about it. She could go on like this, but she knew that Malik had been in Cathay long enough that he was starting to yearn for home. And everyone could see that tensions were rising. Bad harvests had caused hunger and the Cathayans blamed the Mongols controlling the city and their century-long rule for the hardships the people faced. Their rule was never accepted and never would be.

  "Now, I must rise. Cambeluc will not run itself." Malik slid his body out from underneath her head and she watched as he moved to the wardrobe to dress. His skin was dark and beautiful, and Eloise adored everything about his body. She had not been innocent when she met him, having surrendered that gift to a Genose boy the same age as her, whom she had traveled the Black Sea with. Her first time had been driven by passion and curiosity, encumbered by a complete lack of skill as they were hidden in the hull of a ship, succumbing to the heady attraction they both felt. It had been sweet and she didn't regret it, but Malik had taught her the joys to be had between a man and a woman, with skills she believed were unsurpassed. Just his eyes watching her caused heat and tension to build in her, and there was nothing better in the world than when he came to her—reluctantly though he had been at first.

  She watched as he donned his robes and wound his hair. She would lose him now for the day, getting him back at dusk.

  "What shall you do today?" he asked.

  "I don't know. I might go see the Masters." The Masters were Cathayan painters, revered by the people for their beautiful drawing of mountains, rivers and valleys, as well as the wildlife that existed there. Cathayan art was different from anything in the West. Art here was practiced for its own sake, for beauty's sale—a discipline in its own right to strive for and the apprentices practiced years before they were accepted as true artists. In the West, the art was clumsy in comparison, focused on the Church or on conveying wealth, mostly both.