The King's Diamond (9 page)

Still my mother made me wait. In one hand she held a paper covered in figures, which she was checking rapidly, her lips working, while the sands ran through the narrow waist of an hourglass framed in ebony. She grudged time spent checking her underlings' accounts, and used the glass's discipline to make herself read fast. Her other hand rested on the respected Dansey seal, a broad disc of brass with a polished wooden knob, which she toyed with as she read. I sat down in a chair facing her. My heart was beating hard.

Suddenly she put down her figures, took hold of the hourglass and laid it on its side, halting the flow of time. She looked at me a moment with her head tilted, still playing with the seal. Then she tapped it on the table three times, and pushed towards me a sheet of paper. I snatched it up and ran my eyes greedily down it.
At sight of this bill I request that you pay to the said Richard Dansey, merchant, of Thames Street in the City of London, for value received, the sum of one thousand marks in Venetian ducats or bonds as shall be agreed, on or before Michaelmas in this year of Grace 1526.
It was a bill of exchange addressed to the Venice branch of the great Nuremberg banking house of Anton Fugger, signed at the bottom, Miriam Dansey, next to a large red disc of wax pressed with the rearing wyvern of the firm. Finally I had it: the thing I had longed to hold in my hands for all those months. And the sum was ample, more than I had dared hope for. I let out a whoop of delight. ‘So you are really funding my venture.'

My mother nodded, but did not smile.

‘You may not be so thankful soon. You have not seen what else I have written for you.' She pulled the bill back and slid towards me a second paper, which I took and quickly read. It was a bill of sale: one of those crafty instruments by which usury was conducted without sin, so that the business of the City could go on, while keeping itself free from the Church courts. By this bill, I acknowledged the receipt of a thousand marks, and sold to her in return a twelve hundred mark chunk of my business. At the bottom was the space for me to sign.
Twenty per cent interest to my mother, that was the meaning of it: only after that would I make a profit. It was a steep rate. She had made not a single concession to the fact I was her son. She was investing in a venture, that was all: and a venture in which she had very little trust. Anger rose up in me as I set the paper down. I had prepared myself for her refusal, but not this. In a single move she was both helping me and throwing up another barrier in my way.

‘You are right,' I told her. ‘I am feeling a good deal less thankful already.'

She sat back in her chair, stroking the polished wooden knob of the seal, her face wearing a faint smile.

‘Having second thoughts?' she said.

I reached for one of the goosefeather pens that stood in the pewter inkpot, and tapped off the excess ink.

‘By God, no.'

‘Wait!' She put the seal down and leant towards me. ‘Dear Richard. You are taking a very great risk. And you are asking me to share in that risk too. Would it not be far, far better to stay with me? Work for the family business? Go where I advise, with our dear, trusted old Mr William to look after you? Build yourself up little by little: that is the best way in trade. You cannot swallow the whole world in one bite, my Richard. Why do you want to strike out fresh paths of your own, when there is so much for you here?'

Her voice was soft and seductive. Before her on the table lay the two documents: one threatening me with its brutal terms of repayment; the other, I suspected, intended to daunt me with the sheer size of the loan. I saw plainly what she was up to. If I embarked on my venture and succeeded, she made a handsome profit; the thought of those two hundred marks doubtless attracted her. If I failed, I would be in her debt, and entirely in her power. I would have to work for years to pay off what I owed her, travelling where she sent me, and buying what she told me to buy. She would be able to remind me forever after that she had been right and I had been wrong. I would
become her creature, a humble minion of the house of Dansey. Even if she never saw her money again, power like that was cheaply bought at a thousand marks. There would be no question of my ever affording another venture on my own.

That was if I failed. But to succeed: to be my own man, to escape the Thameswater stink, the murky family world that had become a prison to me, and rise into a sphere my mother could not guess at, that was worth any risk.

The ink on the pen tip had gone dry. I forced myself not to show my rage. I said, ‘Do you have any other conditions to add before I sign?'

She rapped the seal on the table, suddenly irritated.

‘Only that you take along a family servant, whom I shall pick for you. I would not like to think of you entirely alone on your wild errand. That is acceptable?'

‘Very well.'

I dipped the pen once more in the pot, angrily splashing ink on its pewter rim. ‘You will have your twelve hundred marks,' I told her. ‘And I shall make my profit, I promise you.'

I signed the document with a quick flourish,
R. Dansey
. It was done. I had mortgaged myself: there was no going back. My mother pulled the paper towards her and handed me the bill of exchange. She looked at me, thoughtful, and a little surprised, as if she had not expected me to accept her bargain. I stood up.

‘Listen to me, my Richard,' she said. ‘You have a sharp eye for gems, I will grant you that. But, by God, you have the heart of a child. See that you do not go the way of your father.'

I looked back at her levelly. ‘I am following in no one's footsteps. Not his, and certainly not yours.'

She looked back up at me with a faint frown. ‘I am very much aware of that.'

I folded the bill of exchange crisply in three, and stooped to kiss her on the cheek. Then I walked quickly out of the room, down the
stairs and through the warehouse. I was fuming. That second document seemed to drag at me like a stone about my neck; a bargain with the Devil that one day I would be forced to pay. But as I emerged into the moist air of the riverside, my anger and fears left me, and I felt only exhilaration. That night, as I lay in my bedchamber, unsleeping, I worked out the various conversions and began to conceive all that that money might mean. A mark is a measure of silver, worth two-thirds of a pound, and so a thousand marks are six hundred and sixty-six pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence sterling. At the current rate that made two hundred and ninety-six ounces of gold, or a little over three thousand Venetian ducats. Sufficient, I reckoned, for some fifteen good diamonds, or else maybe twenty diamonds of poorer water, and twenty of the finest opals. Or a hundred Oriental amethysts. Perhaps I might even stretch further, if I bought wisely. How to choose? A dozen different schemes for a collection of jewels of intoxicating wonder presented themselves to me.

In the days that followed I counted out my own modest savings and changed them into bills, while Christian Breakespere and even William Marshe volunteered small loans of their own. I made a last effort to discover the mistress's name, going round all my trade connections and pressing Uncle Bennet to use his wiles at Court. But to no purpose. It was galling: without that knowledge my whole venture was at risk. I considered putting off my departure. But I had waited far too long already; if I was to have any chance of success I must sail now, even in my ignorance. I was convinced the mistress's name would not stay secret long. I begged Uncle Bennet to discover it, and write to me as soon as possible. He nodded his bald head in assent.

‘Well, well, I will do all I can. And in return you must promise to send me news of Italy: her politics and the progress of the wars. Send me rumours, send me secrets. I have a particular reason for asking this of you, my Richard. See that you do not fail me, and I shall do my best for you in return.'

On the night before I was due to sail I folded my various bills of exchange inside my casket and nestled it down next to my skin. My great venture was about to begin.

A month later I stepped up on to the great wooden bridge that spans the Grand Canal in Venice. I was swelling with pride and excitement. Crowds pressed round me, noblemen with their servants, girls selling nuts and oranges, and merchants of every nation, Venetians and Turks, Jews and Greeks. Beside me trudged my servant, burly Martin Deller. He was the last person I would have chosen to accompany me. Many was the time in my childhood he had caught me in the forbidden depths of the warehouse, and dragged me out by one ear. But, ‘No servant, no thousand marks': those were the Widow's terms, and she insisted on the right to choose. He called me ‘master' now, he wore a dagger at his side as well as an oak cudgel nine inches long, with a leather wrist strap at one end and some lead shot hammered into the other for weight. He was here to serve me and guard my goods: or so I was supposed to believe.

‘Master,' he whispered, ‘do you think this is wise? Carrying so much coin?'

I paused at the highest point of the bridge and glanced at him in irritation. We had just come from the Fontego dei Tedeschi, the Exchange House of the Germans, a vast building of white stone with
jagged crenellations like some Saracen fortress that rose five storeys high out of the water of the Grand Canal. Here, in the office of the agent of Anton Fugger, banker to emperors and popes, I had presented my mother's bill and asked for a quarter of my sum in gold, and the rest in smaller bills of exchange. The agent unlocked one of the chests that stood against the wall and lifted out a large canvas bag. From this he scooped out gold, and gold, and more gold. It thrilled me to see those shimmering stacks of ducats, which the clerk marshalled into ranks, counted and then counted again: thirty stacks and more, of twenty ducats apiece, like the towers of a golden city. Seven hundred and seventeen coins in all, stamped on one side with Saint Mark and the Doge, and Christ seated in His glory on the other. I had the coins gathered into a leather purse, which I fastened to my belt beside my dagger. It was a fair burden: nearly four pounds' weight of gold.

‘We shall not be carrying this for long, my Martin. We are about to begin to spend.' Before us lay the Rialto: the richest two hundred yards of ground in the world. It formed an island, with the Grand Canal wrapping itself round it, north, east and south, while lesser canals cut it off to the west. All along its waterfronts vessels were constantly landing, a fresh one putting in just as soon as the last had discharged its cargo. Behind the canal, the Rialto's lanes and squares were filled with myriad warehouses and shops, the
fonteghi
and
botteghe
, where you could buy anything that grows or is fashioned under the sun. I saw rich tapestries and carpets, ostrich eggs garnished in gold and coral, and backgammon tables inlaid with jasper and chalcedony and ivory, carved with heads and heraldic shields. There were painted playing cards crusted with gold leaf, and the most wondrous printed books with woodcuts on almost every page, for the best books in the world are Venetian; and of course all manner of marvels woven out of the gold thread which goes by the name of Venice gold. I could have filled the
Rose
seven times over with treasures.

I strode forward, down off the bridge, and at once caught sight of a goldsmith's shop. It had as its sign a gold chain painted on a board, and several steps led down to its door from the street. I leapt down those steps and pushed open the door. For many a night I had dreamt of this, and I was here at last. But, as I stood in the dappled light that glimmered in through a barred window from the canal outside and looked round, I was puzzled. On the shelves of the shop were gold chains: nothing but slender gold chains, of a wonderful fineness, some enamelled, others set with pearls, others bearing the repeated SS of the
spiritus sanctus
. I questioned the jeweller as he came out from behind his workbench. It was then that I learnt the vast scale of the trade in Venice. There was no Goldsmiths' Row as in London, with its fourteen shops, each one selling a little of everything. The goldsmiths of Venice were divided into twelve separate guilds, each encompassing dozens of craftsmen and shops. The establishment I had stepped into was of the branch that dealt only in
catenelle d'oro
: small gold chains. There were other shops for basins and chalices in silver, others for gold and silver cutlery; there was another guild for trinkets, another for the larger gold chains as opposed to the smaller, another for filigree and one for the setting of jewels; another for embossing and engraving and work with the chisel and stamps; there was even a guild all of its own for buttons made of fine gold wire. And that was not to mention the
diamanteri
: the jewellers, who are themselves split in two: those who trade in diamonds, and those who sell gems of colour. There was even a guild for sellers of imitation jewels and false pearls. ‘Then finally,' the shopman went on, ‘there are those who carve rock crystal, and those who specialise in faceting, or casting gold in moulds of clay, with or without the use of clamps.'

He stood smiling and blinking at me. I did not wish him to see just how dismayed I was. It was the first hint that this world I had stepped into was a great deal wider than I had supposed. I thanked him and bowed my way out.

After that began days of searching, of trudging alleys and climbing bridges, pushing through the bustle of the fish market and the streets of the butchers, the spicers, the druggists and the poulterers, then past the flour and grain warehouses, past the rope-sellers and the sail-makers near the Grand Canal, and the crowds around the four great banks of Venice, two for the nobles and two for the citizens. Everywhere we asked after gold and gems. In those days we spent many an hour, Martin and I, in those damp underground rooms, while I ran my eye over the goldsmiths' work and surveyed stone after stone. I saw wonders there: emeralds of Persia weighing as much as three scruples; a wine-coloured amethyst, as large and precious as any diamond, that shot out a ruby's fire from a heart of purple; a set of blue-green sapphires of Pegu beyond India, rare and evenly matched. I saw turquoises and cornelians, rings, basins, dishes for sweetmeats piled with diamonds and pearls. My head swam at the richness of it. But all their gems were dear, much too dear. A thousand ducats could vanish on a single stone.

Some of the shopmen curled their lips, detecting the narrowness of my purse. ‘Perhaps the signore would prefer something cheaper?' They showed me the trays of lesser stones, the pale garnets and small yellow topazes and chrysolites that sold for fifty ducats and less. But that would not do. I had set myself to buy stones that had in them the seeds of obsession: deep stones, stones with hearts, stones to reflect a mighty, kingly passion.

By the seventh day I was beginning to think I had made a fatal mistake in coming here. I would have only one chance in my life at breaking free of my mother's empire. I had made my attempt too soon, without enough funds, and I was going to fail. These were the thoughts I tormented myself with as I walked the alleys in the heavy, late summer showers. My cloak was sodden with water, and my hat, a flat woollen cap of the kind worn by apprentices in London, drooped from my head. And if Venice was not for me, where else could I go? If I returned home, it would be to defeat and shame; and
I would still owe my mother those twelve hundred marks. I might travel further, to Cairo and beyond, but the time needed for a venture of that sort would stretch into many months, or even years, and my expenses would rise and rise. All hope of a quick success with the King would be gone. No, my fortune must be secured right here and right now, or nowhere and never.

My impatience came near to leading me to ruin. I had just crossed another bridge over another canal. On the far side of it was a small grated doorway; over it hung a wooden sign showing a gold ring set with a dark green stone. It was a goldsmith's: and one who dealt in gems. With a fresh surge of hope I pushed open the door and went in. Sapphires and turquoises flashed in the dim light, as if from the walls of some fantastic mine. I caught for an instant a blood-red glint from the deeper part of the shop, where I found a great fiery ruby resting on a white silk cushion. The shopman was at my elbow, his eyes glinting, murmuring low.

‘A ruby of Serendip, signor. A higher colour or more life in a stone you will not find. Not in the rubies of Calicut, or Bisnager, or Pegu. Look on it. Weigh it. A full fifteen carats. For you, two thousand ducats.'

I picked up the stone and turned it in my fingers, letting it stain them red. It flashed like a burning coal, and its colour was strong, from the centre right to its extremity. It was flawless, smooth but uncut, with an uneven, bulging outline. I tried it on my tongue, and felt the coldness that is the mark of the very best rubies. As I turned it in my hands I could feel its magic seducing me. I knew I could beat down the goldsmith's price. Suddenly Martin was beside me.

‘Does it not please you, master?' he whispered. ‘Is it flawed?'

‘No,' I said. ‘On the contrary.'

‘Then buy it, for God's sake. Why should you need more than a single stone? Buy it, and let us go home to England.'

Buy it
, the voice of temptation whispered to me in concert with Martin's. It would be so easy. It was my mother's voice too, teasing
me.
If you say you are such a great merchant,
she seemed to murmur,
let us see you make a purchase. But you are a dreamer, and a hesitator. You never had the backbone of your brother.

‘I shall cut it for you myself,' the shopman offered. ‘A pyramid cut. It is too rounded for a table. A plain ring, perhaps. I promise you it will look superb.'

I turned the stone in the light, forcing myself to think coolly. What would its worth be, when cut and set, and carried home to England? More than two thousand ducats? Perhaps. But after the cost of cutting and all my other expenses there was every chance I would go home to the fate I dreaded more than all else. I would follow in my father's steps, and make a loss. And whatever its worth, it was only a single stone. It was not enough to snare and enchant the King; not enough to outshine Breakespere and Heyes. I glanced sideways at Martin, who continued to peer at the gem: whether in genuine wonder, or out of a desire to lure me into a purchase, I was unsure.

As long as I remained standing there I was in danger. I made myself lower the ruby back into its place. On the white cushion its gleam tormented me, so that I closed my eyes and turned from it. Without a word I walked back up the steps to the street. As soon as I was back in the bright sunlight the spell of the stone fell away from me, and I thanked God for my escape. I was angry with myself for having come so near to so great a mistake, and I strode on fast. All I wanted was to put as much distance as possible between myself and that treacherous stone. I heard Martin's voice behind me.

‘Master! Why did you not buy that ruby? You said yourself it hadn't a flaw. When are we going to buy something?'

I could have kicked him for his obtuseness. Or was he not as dull as he seemed? I was in no doubt that Martin was under special orders from the Widow. At the very least, he must be my mother's spy. And what if he was more? What if he had delivered that near-fatal advice on purpose?

‘But, in God's name, master!' Martin called after me again. ‘We have seen all the goldsmiths' shops: every one. What do you intend to do?'

I turned on him. I saw in his eyes my mother's view of me, her scorn at my childish confidence, and the naïve pleasure I took in pretty things: ‘So like your father.' Thomas was the one with steel in him, she always said. His mind was sharp, an accurate tool that weighed and calculated, just like the Widow herself. She did not see the Thomas who sang in the moonlight beneath a girl's window, or the Thomas who leapt across the eaves of a church roof with just as much recklessness as myself. Nor did she see the fine judgements I had taught myself to make in my quests for gems. She was mistaken, deeply, about both of us: so I told myself. But that ruby's fire had burnt away a good part of my self-assurance.

I faced up to Martin and said, ‘I am here to buy gems, gems in quantity, gems of wonder and obsession, gems to kill for and die for. And that is just what I propose to do.'

I turned and kept on walking. How, though, was I to pursue this venture? It would take all my ingenuity and nerve. I knew that every great city has its depths. Most go no further than the warm shallows, but it is in the darker waters, where the fiercer fishes swim, that fortunes are to be made, for there the prices are low, and sales are quick and dangerous. I had seen the connections my father and Mr William had set up in the underworld of Lisbon, over years of patient intrigue. I must do the same in Venice: and I had very little time to do it in. And so we walked, hour after hour, day after day.

The Rialto was not only the richest and most wondrous marketplace of all Europe. It was also a crossroads between the city's different quarters, and between multifarious worlds. Southwards began the great palaces of the nobles, with their rows of windows cut in strange traceries in emulation of the rich cities of Islam. By night this district rang with the sound of balls and serenades. I saw gondolas
steered by moorish slaves, and veiled ladies stepping inside their closed cabins with a flash of jewels. There were opportunities here, no question. But this world was closed to me.

North and west were the districts of the spicers, and then the silk-dyers and scarlet-dyers. Further still, over the Grand Canal, lay the old foundries, the
jactum
or Ghetto. Here the authorities had permitted the Jews to settle who had been expelled from Spain by our Queen Katherine's parents, Ferdinand and Isabella, thirty years before. The Jews were allowed to practise no craft or profession, and that turned them into masters of finance and trade. And so I learnt my way around the Ghetto, and asked from tavern to tavern, and began to make friends. They knew everything, I was sure, but their lips were tight sealed on their customers' secrets. I visited the Angel, too, the inn near the Rialto Bridge where the Turks in their enormous white turbans and red felt caps were permitted to lodge. They spoke to me of their trade in ginger and aloes and coral, and of the markets in Beirut and Aleppo. One or other of these connections, I hoped, would bear fruit soon.