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‘I noticed one that had wonderful colours…’ Kathryn wrinkled her brow. ‘It was in the great hall and I saw that the colours seemed to glow like jewels when the sunlight touched them. Most of the paintings I have been used to admiring were tempera, but I believe that one was done in oils, was it not?’
‘Indeed, you are right,’ he said. ‘The artist was a man called Giovanni Bellini and my father bought the painting some years ago. I have others that I have bought that you might like to see one day.’
‘Yes, I believe I should, if you have the time to spare, sir. I know you must be a very busy man and—Have a care, sir!’ Kathryn gave a little cry as she saw someone suddenly lunge at his back with what looked like a curved and deadly knife.
Lorenzo whirled round even as she spoke, catching the would-be assassin’s wrist as he raised his arm to strike. There was a sharp tussle and she heard something that sounded like a bone cracking, and then, before she knew what was happening, three men rushed up and overpowered the assassin, dragging him away with them.
‘Forgive us, Madonna,’ Lorenzo said and his face had become the customary hard mask that she found so disturbing, all trace of softness and laughter gone. ‘I believe your safety was not in doubt, but it should not have happened. My men were instructed to keep a look out for anything that might cause an unpleasant incident.’
‘What a terrible thing,’ Lady Mary said, looking distressed. ‘I trust you are not hurt, sir?’
‘I thank you for your concern,’ he said, but his eyes were on Kathryn, an odd expression in their depths. ‘Perhaps now you will understand why it would not be safe for you to wander at will in this city.’
‘But why did he attack you?’ Kathryn had been startled by the incident, but he had dealt with it so swiftly that she was not frightened, though Lady Mary looked shaken. ‘Do you have enemies, sir?’
Lorenzo frowned. ‘I believe that any man in my position must have his share of enemies, but I did not know until today that I had one prepared to attack me here in Venice.’
‘Do you know who the man was?’
‘A hired assassin,’ Lorenzo dismissed the man with a twist of his lips. ‘I dare say I know who paid him.’
‘Someone who hates you?’
‘He has cause enough,’ Lorenzo said. ‘He belongs to that fraternity you despise so much, Kathryn—a Corsair by trade and inclination. He is called the Feared One, for his cruelty exceeds that practised by most of his brethren. Even they fear and hate him, but they do not dare to betray him.’
‘Why does he hate you enough to pay someone to kill you?’
‘Because I have made it my life’s work to destroy as many of his galleys as I can.’ Lorenzo’s eyes were colder than she had ever seen them. Gazing into them, she was caught up in an emotion so strong that it robbed her of breath. ‘I have nineteen galleys at the moment—we recently lost one in a battle with Rachid—but I have ordered six more. Soon my fleet will be large enough to meet him wherever and whenever he takes to the seas—and then I shall destroy him, little by little.’
Kathryn gazed into his eyes, feeling herself drawn into a vortex that had her spinning down and down, drowning in the bottomless depths of his eyes. ‘Then I must tell you that I owe you an apology,’ she said when she could breathe again. ‘I believed that you were as guilty as those men who enslave others because you asked for a ransom for those you rescued, but if you have dedicated your life and your fortune to destroying such an evil man, then—’
‘Pray do not continue,’ Lorenzo said and she saw that his eyes had lost their haunted look and were filled with laughter. ‘You run the risk of flattering me, Madonna. Say only that you approve of what I do and I’ll not ask for more.’
‘You are mocking me,’ she said and could not quite hide her pique.
‘Indeed, it is very unkind in me,’ he said, ‘but do not grudge me the pleasure that teasing you has brought into a life that has hitherto known very little, Madonna.’
Once again she was aware of powerful emotions swirling beneath the mask he showed to the world and was silent for the moment. They had been walking as they talked, a little ahead of Lady Mary and two men who now shadowed them more closely than before, and had now reached one of the canals where Lorenzo’s gondola was waiting to convey them to his palace.
‘You are not what you seem,’ she said. ‘Will you tell me the reason you hate Rachid so much? For there must be other pirates almost as feared, and yet it is he whom you wish to destroy.’
‘That is something I have told to very few,’ Lorenzo replied. ‘One day perhaps I may tell you, Kathryn. But for the moment I think I shall keep my secret.’
Chapter Three
Here within the courtyard garden, where brightly coloured flowers spilled over from warm terracotta pots, their perfume wafting on the soft night air, Kathryn could almost believe that she was in the knot garden of her home. It was odd, but there was something English about this garden, though many of the flowers were Mediterranean. The roses were fully bloomed and scented, very similar to some that her mother had grown at home.
She thought of her father, wondering if he was missing her. But Philip might be home from college now and so he would have company, though she was sure enough of his love to know that he would think of her. She missed her family and yet she was moving in a new world that she found interesting and colourful.
Her thoughts turned to the incident in St Mark’s Square earlier that day. Had Lorenzo not acted so swiftly it might have ended very differently. It was true that she had called a warning to him, but she did not flatter herself that she had saved his life; he had acted instinctively, as if he had heard or perhaps sensed the assassin’s approach. What kind of a man was he that he needed to be so alert to danger?
He had begun to haunt her thoughts, for she had dreamt of him the previous night. He had been in danger and she had tried to reach him, but a strong wind had been blowing, carrying her further and further away. She had woken from her dream with tears on her face, though she did not understand why she wept.
Kathryn’s feelings were mixed—she did not know how she felt about Lorenzo Santorini. He was such a strange mixture, at one moment as cold as ice, his features rock hard, his mouth an unforgiving line. Yet when his eyes were bright with laughter…it was then that she had this strange feeling of having known him for ever.
What had he meant when he said he would keep his secret for the moment? That he was a man of mystery she did not doubt, but—
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices. Charles Mountfitchet and Lorenzo were talking together. They spoke in English as always, for Lorenzo’s grasp of the English language was much better than their grasp of Italian. He, of course, spoke several languages.
‘It may be that it would be better for you to buy land in Italy,’ Lorenzo was saying. ‘With this threat of invasion from the Turks…’
‘Do you really believe that they will try to invade the island?’
‘I cannot say, sir. I merely sought to warn you of the possibility.’
‘I doubt there is much danger for the moment,’ Charles said, for he had set his heart upon buying land in Cyprus, an island rich in sugar, fruit and fertile wine-growing soil. ‘I visited the man you told me of—poor fellow.’
‘Would he speak to you?’ Lorenzo was saying.
‘He asked if I had come to buy him,’ Charles said, sounding distressed. ‘When I told him that I was trying to find my son he wept, but would not answer me. I could not tell him that he would not be sold to another master, for it was not in my power, despite what you have told me, sir.’
‘From what you saw of him, was there anything that reminded you of your son?’
The two men had come into the courtyard now, clearly unaware that Kathryn was there, standing just behind a tall flowering bush.
‘It is impossible to tell,’ Charles said with a heavy sigh. ‘He could be Richard, but I do not recognise him.’
Kathryn moved towards them and saw the startled expression in both their faces. ‘Will you let me see him?’ she asked. ‘I would know Dickon if I saw him, I am sure of it.’
‘The scar you told us of…’ Charles shook his head sadly. ‘It would not help you to look for that, Kathryn. His wrists are so badly scarred and callused by the wearing of manacles and chains for all that time that any previous scar would have been obliterated.’
‘Oh, the poor man—’ Kathryn began but was interrupted.
‘It would not be fitting for you to see him,’ Lorenzo said. ‘It caused your uncle much grief and a woman would find it too upsetting.’
‘Have you such a low opinion of our sex, sir?’ Kathryn’s head was up, her eyes flashing with pride. Why must he always imagine that she was foolish? ‘Do you think I have not seen suffering before? My dear mother was ill some months before she died of a wasting sickness, and I have seen beggars with sores that were infected with maggots in the marketplace at home. If I saw this man, I might know if he is Dickon.’
‘Kathryn knew my son better than anyone,’ Charles said, looking at her uncertainly. ‘She is a woman of some spirit, Signor Santorini. I think—with your permission—I should like her to see him. After all, what harm can it do for her to speak with him if someone is near by?’
Lorenzo’s eyes flickered with what might have been anger, but it was controlled, not allowed to flare into life. ‘Very well, I shall arrange it for tomorrow. But I warn you, Kathryn, he has suffered things that you cannot begin to contemplate. I fear your tender heart may sway your good sense.’
‘I shall know if he is Dickon,’ Kathryn said stubbornly, though in her heart she was not sure that she would truly know. For that one moment when her senses had betrayed her, she had thought that Lorenzo himself might be her lost love, though that was impossible, of course. There was no possibility that Dickon and this cold, arrogant Venetian could be the same man. He had clearly been born to privilege and wealth and could never have suffered as this poor slave he would deny the chance of a new life.
‘Very well, you may see him tomorrow. I shall have him brought here for you.’ He inclined his head curtly, clearly not pleased to be overruled in this matter. ‘I fear I have an appointment this evening. In my absence, I beg you to make yourselves free of my home. My servants will serve you supper and care for your needs. Do not hesitate to ask for whatever you want.’
‘You are generous,’ Charles said. ‘I myself have a business meeting this evening, but Mary and Kathryn will be company for each other.’
‘Yes, of course we shall,’ Kathryn said and smiled at him. She did not look at Lorenzo, annoyed with him because he had tried to deny her the chance to identify Dickon. ‘We have many little tasks that need our attention.’
‘Then I shall wish you a pleasant evening.’ Lorenzo inclined his head, turned and left them together.
Charles looked at her for a moment in silence, then said, ‘It was a harrowing experience, my dear. Signor Santorini is probably right in thinking that it will upset you.’
‘I do not expect otherwise,’ Kathryn said. ‘Who could remain unaffected by suffering such as he describes? But it was for this that I came with you, Uncle. I can only trust my instincts. If I do not feel it is Dickon, I shall tell you.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘You said that he hardly spoke to you—do you think he might tell me more?’
‘Perhaps he does not remember,’ Charles said. ‘Signor Santorini believes that he has been a slave for many years, perhaps not always in the galleys. He might have been a house slave for a while and sent to the galleys for some misdemeanour. It is the way of things. Youths make amusing slaves for some men, but when they grow older and stronger they become too dangerous to keep in the house. I shall not tell you of the things these youths are forced to endure, for it is not fitting, but it may be that a man would prefer to forget rather than remember such abuses.’
Kathryn’s eyes were wet with tears, for she could guess what he would not say. She brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘How can men be so cruel to one another?’
‘I do not know, Kathryn,’ Charles said with a deep sigh.
‘How can anyone survive such terrible things?’ Kathryn asked. ‘It seems impossible. Yet this man has done so and deserves our kindness, if no more.’
‘Yes, you are right,’ Charles said, looking thoughtful. ‘I must leave you now, Kathryn. Go into your aunt, my dear, and do not dwell on this too much. I think it unlikely the poor wretch I saw today is my son, but I should value your opinion.’
Kathryn kissed his cheek, doing as he bid her.
She spent the evening with Lady Mary, working on her sewing, for they had purchased many materials before they left England and had not had time to complete their wardrobes. One or other of the servants they had brought with them did much of the plain sewing, but they liked to finish the garments with embroidery and ribbons themselves.
Kathryn was not tired when she retired for the night. She felt a restless energy that would not let her sleep, and sat by the open window looking out over the courtyard. The sky was dark, but there were many stars, besides a crescent moon, and she found it fascinating to look at them, for it was possible to see far more here than at home where there was so often clouds to obscure them.
She became aware of someone in the sunken courtyard. A man just standing there alone, staring at the little fountain that played into a lily pool. He was so still that he might have been one of the beautiful statues that adorned his house and garden, and yet she knew him.
What was he thinking? Was he too unable to sleep? He was such a difficult man to understand, and sometimes she wanted to fly at him in a rage, though at others…she liked him. Yes, despite herself she had begun to like him.
Sighing, Kathryn turned from the window as the man moved towards the house. It was time she was in bed, even if she did not sleep, for Aunt Mary wished to go exploring again in the morning. They were to be taken in a gondola through the waterways so that they might see more of the city.
Lorenzo unbuckled his sword, dropping it on to one of the silken couches that he preferred about him, something he had learned to appreciate at the house of Ali Khayr. A wry smile touched his mouth, for his friend had tried hard to convert him to Islam, though as yet he resisted.
‘You are more at home here with us than in the Christian world,’ Ali Khayr had said to him once as they debated religion and culture. ‘And no one hates the Inquisition more than you, Lorenzo—and yet you resist the true faith.’
‘Perhaps there is good reason,’ Lorenzo said and smiled as the other raised his brow. ‘I do not believe in a god—neither yours, nor the Christian variety.’
‘And yet it was by the will of Allah that you came to me and my son was saved,’ Ali Khayr said. ‘Why do you not accept the teachings of the Prophet? It might help to heal your soul and bring you happiness.’
‘I think I am beyond redemption from your god or the god the Inquisition uses as an excuse for torture and murder.’
‘Hush, Lorenzo,’ Ali Khayr told him. ‘What a man may do in the name of religion may not be called murder, though it would not be our way. We use our slaves more kindly, and those that convert to Islam may rise to positions of importance and a life of ease.’
‘You may choose that way,’ Lorenzo said, a glint in his eyes, ‘but others of your people are less tolerant.’
‘You speak of pirates and thugs,’ Ali Khayr said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘There are men of all races in that fraternity, Lorenzo: Christians as well as Muslims. They say that Rachid, your enemy, was from the Western world, though I do not know if it be true.’
‘It is true,’ Lorenzo said. ‘He wears the clothes of Islam and he speaks the language like a native, but a clever man may learn many languages. I have seen him close to, though he did not look at me, for I was beneath him—a beast of labour, no more.’
‘You have good cause to hate him,’ Ali Khayr said. ‘And I do not condemn you for what you do—but I would bring ease to your soul, Lorenzo. If you put your faith in Allah, you might die a warrior’s death safe in the knowledge that you would be born again in Paradise.’
‘And what is Paradise?’ Lorenzo smiled at him. ‘You would have it a place of beautiful women, and wine such as you have never tasted? My business is fine wines and if I cared for it I could have a beautiful houri when I chose.’
Ali had laughed at his realism. ‘You are stubborn, my friend, but I shall win you in the end.’
Now, alone in his private chamber, Lorenzo smiled grimly as he removed the leather bracelets from his wrists, rubbing at the scars that sometimes irritated him beyond bearing—the badges of his endurance and his slavery. The three years he had served as a slave in Rachid’s personal galley had almost ended his life. Had he been taken sick at sea he would no doubt have been thrown overboard, for there was no mercy for slaves who could not work aboard Rachid’s galley. His good fortune had been that they were near the shores of Granada and he had been taken ashore when the men went to buy fruit and water from traders on the waterfront. He had been left where he fell on the beach, left to die because he was no longer strong enough to work.
It was luck, and only luck, that had brought the Venetian galley to that same shore later that day. He had no memory of how it happened, but he had been taken aboard the personal galley of Antonio Santorini and brought back to life by the devotion of that good man—a man who had also suffered pain and torture, but at the hands of the Inquisition.
Lorenzo recalled the time shortly after he was brought to his father’s house. He had been broken in body, though not in spirit, and it was the gentleness, the kindness of a good man who had brought him back to life. Antonio had taken him in, treating him first as an honoured guest and then as a son, adopting him so that he had a name and a family. For Lorenzo did not know his own name. He had no memory of his life before the years he had spent as a galley slave.
This was the secret he so jealously guarded. No one but his father had known of his loss of a past life, and only Michael amongst his friends knew that he had served in Rachid’s galley, though some might guess. There was a look about him, a hardness that came from endurance. For, once he had regained his strength and health, Lorenzo had worked tirelessly to be the best swordsman, the best galley master, the best judge of fine wines. No softness was allowed into his life. On his galleys he lived as his men lived, worked and trained as hard as they did, and he treated them with decency, though never with softness. He was known as a hard man, ruthless in business, but fair. He had repaid Antonio Santorini for his kindness, taking the Venetian’s small fortune and increasing it a thousand-fold.
‘God was kind to me when he sent me you,’ Antonio had told him on his deathbed. ‘I know that you have cause to hate Rachid and all his kind, my son—as I have cause to hate the Inquisition. I was tortured for what they said was blasphemy, though it was merely the debate of learned men who questioned the Bible in some aspects. They would have us all follow their word in blind obedience, my son. Yet the God I believe in is a gentle god and forgives us our sins. I pray that you will let Him into your heart one day, Lorenzo, for only then may you find happiness.’
It was strange, Lorenzo thought, as he prepared for bed, that two good men would convert him to their faith, though they believed in different gods. A wry smile touched his mouth as he buckled on his bracelets again. He wore them to guard his secret, for knowledge was power and he knew that some would use it against him.
As he lay on his couch, he thought for a moment of Kathryn. He had deliberately shut her out of his mind, for she was too dangerous. When he was with her he forgot to be on his guard, he forgot that he had sworn to dedicate his life to destroying evil.
To feel warmth and affection for a woman would weaken him, nibble away at his resolve so that he became soft, forgot his hatred, the hatred that fed his determination to destroy Rachid. He could not love. He had felt something approaching it for Antonio—but a man might feel that kind of affection for another man and remain a man. To love a woman…He could not afford to let her beneath his guard, though at times she tempted him sorely. Had she been a tavern wench he would have bedded her and no doubt forgotten her, but a woman like that was for marrying.
He smiled as he remembered the way her eyes flashed with temper when she was aroused. She gave the appearance of being modest and obedient until something made her betray her true self. The man she loved—her cousin, it seemed—would have been fortunate had pirates not taken him that day.
It was a sad story, but one that Lorenzo had heard often enough through the years. He thought of the poor creature she had insisted on seeing. If he was indeed the man they sought, she would probably devote the rest of her life to him—and that would be a shame.
Lorenzo glared at the ceiling as he lay sleepless, Kathryn invading his thoughts now though he had tried to keep her out. It would be a waste of all that beauty and spirit if she considered it her duty to care for a man who might never be a husband to her.
Kathryn had chosen to receive the former galley slave in the courtyard of Lorenzo’s home. She thought that it might be easier for him than the splendid rooms of the palace, where he might be afraid of what was happening to him. Here in the garden, she could sit on one of the benches and wait in the warmth of the sunshine until he was brought to her.
‘You do not mind if I join you?’
Looking up, she saw Lorenzo and frowned. ‘I had hoped I might be allowed to see him alone, sir. He may be frightened of you and refuse to speak to me.’
‘I have not harmed him, nor would I.’
‘Yet he may fear you.’ Kathryn hesitated. ‘Your expression is sometimes harsh, sir. If I were a slave, I would fear you.’
‘Do you fear me, Kathryn?’
‘No, for I have no reason,’ she replied with a smile. ‘I find you…difficult, for you seem to be not always the same. At times—’ She broke off, for she heard voices and then three men came into the courtyard. One of them was clearly the former galley slave—he was thin almost to the point of emaciation and his hair was grey, straggling about his face. His clothes hung on his body, though they were not rags, and some attempt had been made to keep him clean, his beard neatly trimmed.
Kathryn’s throat closed and she could hardly keep from crying out in distress as she saw him, for pity stirred her and her eyes stung. She got up and moved towards him, a smile upon her lips.
‘Will you not come and sit by me, sir?’ she invited. ‘I would like to hear your story if you will tell it to me.’
His eyes were deep blue, though not quite the colour of Lorenzo’s—or Dickon’s. Kathryn felt the disappointment keenly. A man might change in many respects, but his eyes would surely not change their colour?
For a moment the man seemed confused, as if he feared to believe his eyes, and then he shuffled forward, sitting on the bench she indicated. He stared at her, seeming bewildered, not truly afraid, but wary.
Kathryn sat beside him. She saw that Lorenzo made a dismissive movement of his hand, causing his men to withdraw to a distance, though he still stood closer than she would have liked.
‘There is no need to be afraid,’ she said to the former slave. ‘No one will hurt you. I promise you that, sir. I only wish to hear your story.’
