Daughters of the Silk Road: A beautiful and epic novel of family, love and the secrets of a Ming Vase (17 page)

Inside the large banqueting hall, two gargantuan mechanical chandeliers had been suspended from the ceiling. They looked like mountains, with paths winding round their bulk, decorated with life-like flowers and trees. Models of people and animals ascended the paths, climbing towards a castle that stood at the summit of each mountain. At the base of each chandelier were seven mirrors which were arranged so that anyone glancing up could see everything that happened in the vast space beneath; the walls were hung with rich tapestries made of gold and silver thread and a large stage had been erected for dancing and tableaux. The food was served on silver plates and guests were seated at long wooden tables on which stood seven-foot-long wooden ships painted in gold and azure blue and each carrying the name of one of the Duke’s lordships. They were perfect in every detail – with ropes made of gold thread and miniature models of sailors. Into each ship was placed the food for the banquet. Beside them stood tall pies made to look like castles, also decorated in gold and azure blue. And surrounding each one were little dishes of olives and capers and lemons.

The girls gasped when they sat down at their places. ‘What extraordinary imagination the organisers must have,’ said Beatrice. ‘Look up there,’ said Katje. ‘You can see your face in the mirrors. And the little sailors… They’re so sweet.’

Caterina refused to be drawn by her sisters’ excitement. Her attention had been taken immediately by a handsome young man seated on her right-hand side. Carlo Cavalcanti sold silks on behalf of the Medici family, who were bankers to the Burgundian Court. His manager, Tomasso Portarini, had been intricately involved in the wedding arrangements. He had supplied the cloth of gold worn by the Duke on his wedding day along with a large proportion of the clothes worn by the Duke and his family throughout the twelve days of feasting and jousting. The Duke owed Portarini over fifty thousand pounds, and young Carlo, who had arranged for the fine cloth to be imported, had been rewarded with a place at the Duke’s feast.

‘So, madam,’ he said to Caterina, gesturing towards the royal couple at the top table, ‘what do you think of the Duke’s fine cloth of gold?’

‘It is stunning,’ said Caterina. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I brought it into the country, from Florence. The Medici were tasked with supplying all the wedding clothes.’

‘I’m very impressed,’ said Caterina politely. ‘And what do you make of my dress? My father had the silk brought in from Venice.’

‘I recognised it. It’s beautiful – as are you, lady.’

Caterina giggled. There was no doubt that Carlo was a handsome man; he was also amusing, and well connected. At fifteen, she was keenly aware that she should find a husband soon. The Duke had the power to compel unmarried or even widowed women from merchant families into marriages with his friends and acquaintances if he thought the alliance would be helpful. Caterina had recently overheard her mother discussing the plight of a young widow who had been persuaded into a marriage against her will. Her husband, a furrier named Jean Pinte, had died suddenly and even as he was being buried his widow was forcibly engaged to another furrier named Willeret de Noeuville. He had the virtue, at least, of being a young man, aged just twenty, but nevertheless, the woman was forced to consummate the marriage the day after she buried her first husband. Had she been a rich widow, her family could perhaps have paid money to prevent the marriage, which was the only way to avoid it. This was not a predicament Caterina wished to find herself in. Her parents were rich, of course, which would afford her some protection. But Caterina didn’t want to take any chances; she had already asked her father to help her select a suitable husband as soon as possible, and he had promised to do so. She wondered now if Carlo Cavalcanti might be the man.

‘How long have you worked with the Medici bank?’

‘Some five years. I speak French and so it makes sense for me to liaise with the court here in Bruges. I have a good position.’

‘They are powerful, the Medici.’

‘Yes, very. We do well here.’

‘And will you stay – here in Bruges?’

‘I think so,’ said Carlo. ‘At least for now. I like it here. The people are wealthy, the ladies are beautiful, and I am good at what I do.’

‘You are full of conceit,’ said Caterina playfully.

Opposite Carlo sat a dark-haired young man. He had pale blue eyes and a long nose, which he rubbed from time to time between thumb and forefinger. He was not classically good looking, but he had a gentle countenance. Perhaps he was shy, Caterina thought, for he had not yet spoken to anyone around him.

Wishing to tease Carlo a little, Caterina turned away from him and spoke instead to the young man.

‘Do you like it here, in Bruges?’

The young man blushed a little and looked slightly surprised to be so addressed.

‘I do,’ he said quietly.

‘I do not believe we have been introduced. I am Caterina Haas, the daughter of Peter Haas the merchant; he is sitting down there.’ She gestured towards her father, who was laughing loudly at a friend’s joke.

‘Cornelius van Vaerwye, from Antwerp.’

‘Antwerp – is it nice there?’

‘It is. I have lived there all my life. I like it.’

‘And what do you do in Antwerp, Cornelius van Vaerwye?’

‘I am a merchant too. My family has been there for many generations.’

‘And are you successful?’

Cornelius blushed. He was slightly shocked at the young woman’s impertinence. ‘I am, madam. I mean, we are.’

Margarethe, who had been seated next to Cornelius, glared at her younger sister.

‘Cornelius,’ she interjected, ‘what did you make of the wonderful tableau as we arrived? Was it not astonishing?’

The young man smiled and appeared to relax a little. He and Margarethe began to chat easily. Not for the first time in her life, Caterina felt a pang of jealousy. Her elder sister appeared to have an easy way with conversation. Caterina preferred a combative style. Her father often chastised her for it, but secretly he admired his daughter’s quick wit and sharp tongue. She made him laugh and he saw himself in her – cool and fair-haired on the outside, but fiery and hot within.

Caterina spent the rest of the meal chatting with Carlo. He was charming and intelligent and appeared to enjoy her company. But she could not help glancing across the table towards her sister. Margarethe and Cornelius appeared to be in deep conversation about something. They kept their voices low and it was impossible to decipher what they were saying.

When the meal was finished and the tables cleared away, the room was prepared for dancing.

A group of performers displayed the latest dances on the stage. The audience all applauded. Then the musicians struck up a familiar tune and the guests were invited to take to the floor.

Carlo invited Caterina to dance. She accepted, but noted with irritation that Cornelius had asked her sister Margarethe. They lined up next to one another. There was something in Caterina’s nature that caused her to chase after anyone who failed to show an interest in her. It was as if she was determined to have whatever she set her mind to. She resolved to persuade Cornelius to fall in love with her.

The first dance was the
basse danse
. It was popular at the Burgundian court. The couples processed gracefully in an elegant gliding motion. Caterina found it rather dull. She preferred dances where the participants were required to leap or hop from the floor. She and Carlo moved elegantly around the room, his hand just touching hers. He was tall and graceful and smiled at her from time to time. But she was unable to take her eyes off her sister who appeared to be quite entranced by Cornelius. The pair moved together so perfectly, in such unison, that they were almost like one person.

The
pavane
came next. Much like the first dance, it involved slow graceful processional movements. Caterina suggested to her partner that they went for a glass of wine. She stood at the side of the great hall watching her sister with Cornelius. Carlo leant down and whispered in her ear.

‘You watch your sister with great interest, Caterina.’

‘Yes, I think she is making a fool of herself with that boring merchant from Antwerp.’

‘Shall we break them up?’ asked Carlo, smiling.

‘Can we?’ asked Caterina.

‘I shall ask her to dance, then he will be forced to dance with you. I am envious of him already.’

‘Why would you do that?’ asked Caterina.

‘Because it would please you.’

As the
pavane
came to its stately close, the couples began to disperse. Cornelius and Margarethe walked back towards their table.

The musicians struck up a
saltarello
. This was much more to Caterina’s liking as it was faster than the earlier dances and involved the dancers hopping on each second beat. Carlo went at once to Margarethe and asked her to dance. Cornelius looked around and saw Caterina gazing at him. He was powerless to avoid her.

‘Would you care to dance the
saltarello
?’

‘I would,’ said Caterina. She threw herself into the dance, laughing as she leapt into the air, twirling around her partner. Her pale skin flushed a little, her fine gold hair escaped from her hennin.

Cornelius danced well; he appeared more handsome than at first sight. As the dance came to a close he spun her round; he put his hand on her waist and she felt herself shudder with excitement.

The two couples walked back to the table. Caterina chattered gaily to her companion. But Cornelius seemed impervious to her; his eyes, she noted with irritation, followed Margarethe around the room.

The family arrived back at their house on the Groenerei well after midnight. Maria kissed the girls as they went upstairs to bed.

‘You were all beautiful tonight.’

Her daughters smiled: ‘So were you, Mama.’

‘I think perhaps one of you might have met your husband tonight?’ said Maria, smiling up at Margarethe.

‘Mama! What makes you say such a thing?’ said Margarethe, blushing.

‘Just something about the way you were together. I spoke to him a little, as did your father. He is from a fine family of merchants in Antwerp.’

Margarethe smiled. ‘So, did you like him?’

‘We did. We have invited him to dine with us next week.’

Margarethe was delighted. ‘Oh Mama, thank you. I should very much like to see him again.’

‘He will be here throughout the Duke’s celebrations. I thought it would be a good opportunity.’

‘I thought him rather dull,’ said Caterina spitefully. ‘I can’t imagine a worse person to marry than that.’

‘Oh Caterina,’ said Maria, ‘don’t be so silly. He is delightful. He would not be right for you perhaps, but Margarethe has a much gentler disposition.’

This cut Caterina to the quick. Her mother professed to love her daughters equally, but she could not avoid the feeling that her eldest sister had more of her mother’s love and affection.

‘So who am I to marry?’ she asked petulantly. ‘Someone with a violent disposition? I will not be forced to marry some man that the Duke chooses for me.’

‘Oh Caterina, you are young and so hot-headed. You must not worry about your future husband yet. We will not allow any of our daughters to be married against their will. You must know that. But we must settle Margarethe first and then Beatrice. Your time will come.’

Caterina followed her sisters up the large oak staircase to bed, filled with resentment that she had not been born the eldest sister. But as she climbed into her bed and pulled the curtains around her, she lay against the lace pillows and thought about Carlo Cavalcanti and what sort of life she might have with the man who sold silk to the Burgundian court.

M
argarethe lay in her bed
, propped up with cushions. She had flung the bed curtains open to let in some air. The room was humid, fetid almost, and she felt faint and weak. Early morning light filtered through the latticed windows in her bedchamber. Pain was searing through her and in spite of herself, she let out a high-pitched scream.

‘Madam, madam, calm yourself.’ The midwife stroked her brow. Her voice was soothing, but her face told a different story. She was worried. The baby was stuck and Margarethe could not, however hard she tried, push any harder. Besides, the pain was terrible, unimaginable.

‘I can’t do any more,’ she said after the last contraction as she collapsed onto her sweat-soaked pillows.

‘I know, I know. You are doing well. I must examine you, I think.’

The midwife plunged her hand between Margarethe’s legs. In agony, Margarethe let out an involuntary scream.

‘Hush now, I know it’s uncomfortable.’

‘Uncomfortable!’ shouted Margarethe. ‘That was terrible. I’ve never felt such a thing before.’

‘The baby is breach – I must turn it or you and the baby will die. You will never push it out the way it’s lying.’

Margarethe wept silently and fingered her rosary. It was made of carved coral beads with a silver bead at either end. Cornelius had given it to her on the birth of their first child Jacob eighteen years before.

‘I will turn the baby now. Take a deep breath.’

Margarethe took in a huge draft of hot humid air as the midwife plunged her hand deep inside her. Her fingers clutched at the rosary so tightly that the sharp carved edges of the tiny beads cut the flesh of her palm. She prayed under her breath. ‘Pray for me, mother of God, now and in the hour of our death,’ over and over again.

‘There! It is done,’ said the midwife with an air of satisfaction, wiping her bloody hand on her apron. ‘I did one of those last week too.’

‘And did it go well?’ said Margarethe anxiously.

‘Not on that occasion, no. Now, when the next contraction comes, you can push.’

Within seconds, the deep burning pain rose up through Margarethe’s body and she pushed with all her might. Her entire being seemed to be on fire as she finally expelled the reluctant child.

The slippery infant fell into the midwife’s waiting hands. She tossed the child upside down and slapped it firmly on the back. It wailed gustily.

Margarethe collapsed back onto the pillows and wept with relief and joy. The absence of pain was overwhelming. ‘Is the baby all right?’

‘Yes! A fine girl – a sister for all those boys.’

‘A girl! Oh, thank you!’

At the age of thirty-nine, Margarethe knew that she was fortunate to have survived another birth. She and Cornelius were already parents to five sons. Two other children had been born – both girls – but they had died in infancy. This was then her eighth delivery, and she was grateful that it was over. She hoped fervently that she would never have to endure it again. She prayed too that this daughter would survive.

The midwife cut the cord; as was the custom, it would be burned later that day in the fire. The baby was bathed and swaddled. Margarethe’s maid helped her to change her nightgown. Her bed was cleaned as best they could and the child was laid in her arms. Cornelius entered the bedchamber accompanied by Margarethe’s dog, Lysbette, the granddaughter of her beloved Spitzke. The little griffon snuffled around the pile of soiled linen that lay by the bed before the midwife shooed it away. Gathering the linen up in her sturdy arms, she left the couple alone together. A fire had been lit in the hearth, casting a warm glow in the room.

‘Is all well, my dear?’

‘Yes, all is well, Cornelius. We have a daughter.’

Cornelius bent over the child and stroked her cheek.

‘She is beautiful. I wonder what her brothers will make of her?’

‘They will spoil her, I suspect.’

‘And what shall we call her?’

‘I would like to call her Maria – after my own mother. Maria Margret.’

Four days later, Caterina Cavalcanti received news of her sister’s new baby as she sat in the drawing room of her house in Bruges. Her brother-in-law’s letter spoke at length of the new baby’s virtues – the child’s blue eyes, and her full head of dark hair. Caterina had loathed childbirth and had refused to breastfeed any of her children. She had insisted on a wet nurse for each of them. To her, the thought that her sister had now given birth to her eighth child was horrific. Her sister, she felt, was too easily persuaded to do her husband’s bidding, especially when it came to sharing his bed. Caterina had learned to be firm with Carlo and had often refused him entry to her chamber as a means of protecting herself from yet another pregnancy. It annoyed him, she knew, but she could always get around Carlo. They were so alike – sharp, manipulative and quick-witted. He had done well for himself and the family. He had left the Medici bank some seventeen years earlier and struck out on his own and he had made a great fortune for the family from his silk business. He travelled a great deal and those long journeys abroad gave Caterina respite from his incessant demands. She imagined that he took advantage of his freedom when he was away from home. She didn’t resent it. As long as he returned from each buying trip with a length of expensive silk or a fashionable garment for her or the children, she was content.

Cornelius’s letter continued with news of their sons and how well they were all doing; their eldest son Jacob was to travel soon to Portugal to collect the latest shipment of porcelain. Caterina was interested enough in her nephews’ lives, of course, but she could never quite cope with the idea that her sister’s children were in some way doing better than her own four.

She and Carlo had two daughters and two sons. They were attractive young people. The boys had inherited their father’s dark Italian good looks and the two girls were fair-haired like their mother. But the boys lacked energy and she was envious of her nephew’s desire to travel the world and increase the family fortune. She laid her brother-in-law’s letter down her desk with a sigh. She would reply later that day. In the meantime, she must write to Carlo about a more pressing matter. He was in Italy on a buying expedition and was to leave Lucca, his final destination, within a week and return to Bruges.

D
ear treasure
,
she wrote,

I ask you not to forget about my Italian coat, like the one Willhelm Imhoff brought his wife from Venice. Do not think ill of me because I always try to wheedle something out of you in every letter. I especially ask that you bring some red and saffron coloured satin, if you can find an inexpensive measure or two.

Yours ever,

Caterina.

P.S. I have just received a letter from Cornelius. It seems that Margarethe has been delivered of yet another child, a girl, who they will name Maria Margret
.’

B
ack in Antwerp
, the new baby was soon welcomed into the family. Four days after her birth, she was christened in the cathedral, accompanied by her father and her brothers. Jacob and Pieter stood as godfathers to the tiny girl.

A few days later, their mother felt strong enough to venture downstairs and re-join the family. She was anxious to spend as much time as possible with the boys, for Jacob and Pieter were soon to travel abroad to develop relationships with Portuguese merchants who would import their next big shipment of Chinese porcelain. The Portuguese and Spanish merchants dominated the direct trading routes to the East, and whilst some goods, including porcelain, could be carried overland along the Silk Road, it was a long journey and involved a complex sequence of intermediaries. The Portuguese had opened up a direct sea route to China the previous year, travelling around the Cape of Good Hope. They had returned with a shipload of porcelain from the imperial kilns and Pieter and Jacob were to make the journey to Portugal to secure the shipment. Pieter was only seventeen, and Margarethe was concerned that he was too young to travel so far, but Jacob and Cornelius had persuaded her that he was old enough, and ready and eager for the excitement.

Margarethe sat in the high-backed chair in the drawing room, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and the baby nestling contentedly in the little cot at her side. She sipped a little glass of wine while the boys laughed and teased one another around her. Their youngest brother Henryk was usually the butt of their jokes. A good-humoured boy of eight years of age, he had recently begun the study of Latin and had proved an able student. His elder brothers had never found learning quite so straightforward. They were better suited to a more active life. They were proud of their little brother, for he was the smartest of them all. But they were determined to rib him about it. Margarethe relished the time with her boys. She stroked her baby’s cheek and laughed as the young men teased their little brother.

‘Oh, leave poor Henryk in peace,’ she begged, wiping tears of laughter from her cheeks. ‘He is too good-natured. You’ll see when you get back from your travels. He’ll have grown big and strong and will not take any more of your ribbing.’

‘Ha! I’d like to see that,’ said Jacob. ‘He’s a thoughtful fellow, to be sure, and wise for his years, but he will never beat me with a sword, or a fist.’ And he made as if to punch his little brother, who ducked nimbly out of the way.

Surrounded by her family, Margarethe gazed up at the Ming vase that stood on the mantle-shelf. It had protected them well. She had lost two babies, and that had been a tragedy, but it was so common for babies to die. And the vase was not magic, after all, she thought. She had never quite believed her mother when she had told her of its ‘magical qualities’. But of one thing she was quite certain; she and Cornelius had had a successful and happy life. They had made a lot of money importing porcelain into northern Europe. Their sons were delighted to take the business on, and now they had a beautiful daughter. She fingered her rosary and prayed fervently that Maria Margret would survive.

The Ming vase glowed in the evening light, the flickering of candlelight reflected in its luminescent surface. The dragon seemed to dance gaily around its centre. That day she had written another entry for her mother’s ‘family history’ and it lay now by her side, ready for her to put it back into its place deep within the vase. It was filled now with information about the family. Margarethe had taken the task on with enthusiasm and had drawn up a proper family tree. She had taken great pleasure in the task, as a sister was married or a child was born, decorating the names with little drawings and sketches.

Caterina had married Carlo and had four children. Beatrice had married too – also to a member of the Medici bank. He was called Folco d’Adoardo di Giovanni Portinari, and had been made acting manager of the Bruges branch of the bank some eleven years before. They had since moved to England, where he ran the London branch. It had been many years since she had seen her sister, but Beatrice was a faithful correspondent. She had five children of her own, although two had sadly died – a son at just three years of age and her youngest daughter, Magdalena, had been lost following their journey to London. The child had contracted pneumonia on the journey across the Channel and never recovered. Beatrice had written to her elder sister of her devastation, but she had somehow survived, and her remaining three children – two sons and a daughter – were in good health.

Lastly, little Katje had married a young man named Andreas, a cousin of their Uncle Daniele’s wife, Annelise. They had met in Bruges after Daniele’s wedding. He had been persuaded to return to Bruges for a short time to help their father run the business. In that first year, Annelise had pined for her home country, and her cousin Andreas had come to visit her and keep her company. He and Katje had met and the attraction was obvious. He was a furrier from a very successful family business in Sweden. Katje had returned to Sweden with him nearly a decade before and now had two sons. Daniele and Annelise had also returned to Sweden. Daniele had not enjoyed his time in Bruges. It reminded him too much of Venice; the narrow streets and canals were too claustrophobic for him and he pined for the Swedish countryside, where he was free to gallop through the forests with his dog at his heels. He and Annelise lived a simple but contented life in their country house outside Gothenburg. They had no children, but seemed happy enough.

All in all, Margarethe thought, as she rocked her tiny baby’s cot, the family should be content with their progress in life. How much this had to do with the Ming vase she could not say. But she had lived up to her promise to her mother Maria and had taken great care of it. Maria and Peter were due to arrive in Antwerp the following day and Margarethe was excited at the prospect. Her mother was sixty-three now, but still healthy and strong. Her dark hair was threaded with silver, fine lines edged her clear aquiline eyes. Her father Peter was in good health, although recently he had suffered from gout, which made him irritable. Margarethe hoped that Maria would be happy with her newest granddaughter and pleased that she had been named for her. She resolved, as she gazed into the flames of the fire, that if her daughter survived to adulthood, she would give her the vase. Maria Margret would be the guardian of the magical dragon.