The change in weather helped the motion-sick passengers, but it did not please Lugani or the crew. The seamen had trimmed the sails to get the most out of the breeze, but it was barely strong enough to ruffle anyone’s hair, let alone drive a fat-bellied nave to Messina. Lugani paced the deck like a caged animal, and Cane prowled the ship, keeping an eye on the passengers, who were cautiously starting to appear. I found a secluded nook on the starboard side behind a row of olive oil barrels and sat, listening to the creaking of the ship’s boards and the clanking of the rigging.
Something about traveling—when I’m suspended between what I’ve left and where I’m going—transcends time. At sea that sense is magnified—the water stretches to a flat horizon where the dark water meets the lighter blue of the sky. The ocean goes on and on with a relentless, rhythmic power, as it has for centuries, and people sail their little boats on it, thinking they are getting somewhere. Leaning back in the sun I had the sensation that if I closed my eyes for a few seconds I might open them to find myself on the deck of a modern ship instead of a medieval one. But I wasn’t on a pleasure cruise to Sicily—I was a hired scribe bound for a medieval trading port. My imagination wasn’t strong enough to move me forward six or seven hundred years; I had yet to figure out what combination of factors might do that. And now I was heading away from the home I’d found in this century, leaving behind almost everyone I knew as the Plague’s arrival loomed larger and larger. And even worse, I was headed straight into its path.
* * *
After a few hours, the wind picked up again. Lugani stood grimly on deck, deep in conversation with the ship’s captain. I made my way to where they stood and pulled up alongside them to listen.
“A bad storm is on the way; I can taste the bitterness on the wind.” The wizened captain, who looked like he’d seen more than his share of bitterness, spat onto the deck.
“Keep us off the bottom of the sea, shipmaster, and you’ll have extra gold for your troubles.”
“If gold could gentle the storm, sailing would be a different business,” the captain grunted, “but I’ll take your promise as extra incentive.” He smiled, showing a small number of peg-like teeth. “You see the dark clouds massing there on the sea’s edge? They’ll be here soon, and we’ll see how your gold holds up against them.” His laugh was humorless.
I stayed on deck as long as I dared, horrified and fascinated by the approaching storm. The sky grew dark, with a greenish tint that made it feel like we were underwater. The ship cut through the fierce wind, our starboard-side railings close enough to the water to be wet with spray. The merchant ship seemed impossibly tiny against the rising waves.
I wasn’t sure whether my ignorance made me feel better or worse. Were the sails in danger of tearing? Could a mast break? I doubted life jackets had even been invented. Was there something that could serve as a flotation device? I’d cataloged every item on the boat and couldn’t think of anything. The sailors swarmed on deck, pulling and tying lines. The most agile shimmied up the masts to handle the sails as the captain barked commands. The first raindrops spattered on the deck, and then within seconds the clouds opened up and a wall of water swept over the boat, soaking me and everything else in its path. As the captain sent two sailors to relieve the spent rudder men, he saw me at the rail.
“Get down below, madwoman, before the waves take you!” I took his excellent advice without arguing. The wind was so strong I could hardly make my way across the deck to the hatch. I slammed the trap above my head against the rising wail of the storm and descended to the cabin, bracing myself against the walls for support. There I found Clara hunched in a ball in the corner, knees to her chest and hands over her head. She looked up at me as I came in, tears coursing down her cheeks.
“Are we going to perish, Beatrice?”
“I hope not.” I stripped off my wet clothes, shivering. I found our warmest blanket and draped it over Clara’s shoulders, then got another blanket for myself and sat next to her. She wrapped her arms about me as if I were a raft that might carry her to safety. We clung to each other in the dim cabin, feeling the shuddering of the ship each time a wave crashed against it, and the vibration from the pounding footsteps above. Every few minutes one end of the room rose up nauseatingly, then slammed down hard, throwing us against each other and the wall. The sickening rhythm continued for hours, like a horrible amusement park ride gone out of control. Clara and I reverted to a primitive state of waking and sleeping. We shared the bottom bunk, cocooned in each other’s arms and rocking together in a mirror of the water’s frenzy. What would happen if I drowned in this medieval ocean, hundreds of years from my own time? I fell asleep imagining my lifeless body appearing in Ben’s guest room bed, soaking wet with seawater-filled lungs, lying still as the linen curtains blew in the orange-scented breeze from the window.
A change in the ship’s movement woke me. Clara was still asleep—her head nestled between my head and shoulder. The rocking had subsided, and I hoped that meant something good. I had no idea what disaster might feel like. Would it be ferocious, a spinning, violent descent under the waves, or would it be swift and silent as the craft gave up its battle with the water? I gently disentangled myself from Clara. My dress was still too damp to wear, but my chemise had dried enough to put back on. I drew the blanket around my shoulders and pulled it closed. I picked up the bucket and Clara woke, her eyes wide in the dim light.
“Are we dead, Signora?”
That, at least, I was fairly certain about. “No, we’re very much alive.”
“I should hate to die, with my life just beginning,” Clara said. Just beginning. It was an odd turn of phrase, and her rhapsodic tone made me suspicious.
“Just beginning? You mean because you’re leaving Siena for the first time?”
Her response was surprisingly flustered. “Oh, I meant nothing. Yes, as you say, the voyage, a new beginning.” She laughed awkwardly. There was a long pause that she eventually broke. “Monna Trovato, what is it like to be married?” I didn’t say that I had no idea, since in theory I was a widow.
“I’m sorry it ended. Why?” I didn’t mean to be snappy, but it was a peculiar topic for discussion, at this grim, malodorous moment in a ship sailing through a deadly storm.
“I cannot keep it to myself any longer!” She beamed broadly and continued. “I am so glad to be alive today, with the promise of bethrothal before me.”
“Betrothal? To whom?” She hadn’t been out of my sight for more than a few hours—how had she managed that?
Clara looked heavenward and sighed rapturously. “Messer Lugani has shown me the ways of love.”
“He what?”
“He assured me that once we were safe on land, our intimacy would be blessed by the Church.”
My suspicions were unfortunately well founded; Lugani had seduced Clara, and even promised her marriage—this adolescent orphaned Ospedale assistant cook. There were many things I didn’t know about Lugani, but if he carried through on his promise I’d eat my logbook.