The Deadliest Sin (20 page)

‘And how is the trade – between you and Trebizond, I mean?’

Ricci moved close to me, and all but whispered in my ear, ‘Moving swiftly to a conclusion actually, but don’t tell Finati. I am mostly interested in the alum trade out of Kerasous.
The weavers of Bruges will pay well for it as a mordant for their dyes. After the Emperor’s little spat with Genoa that resulted in some fisticuffs, Panaretos is under instructions to offer
Genoa’s concessions to Venice, as long as we pay the proper dues.’

‘Which you will?’

Ricci laughed, and audibly downed a great glug of wine.

‘Of course, we will. Anything to get one over Genoa. Finati will be going home empty-handed.’

A final draught of wine went down his throat, and I thought I had all I wanted to know. Though there was one other matter that perhaps Ricci could enlighten me about.

‘What of the Florentines? Is Belzoni going to get what he wants, or could he be as frustrated as Finati, and capable of similar extreme measures to get his way?’

I almost heard the frown creasing Ricci’s face.

‘Extreme measures? I don’t know what you mean. For all of us trade is trade – we are not warriors. No, Belzoni will be glad with what sweepings-up he can get after my deal is
concluded. After all, he will be more than satisfied that the Genoans – who are in league with the French here and in Italy – will go home with nothing.’

I downed the rest of my Rhenish wine, and thanked Ricci for his hospitality. I left, thinking he had been wrong – trading was indeed a fascinating subject. Our conversation had told me a
great deal. Enough to set Panaretos’ mind at rest. It only remained for me to confront Finati with the facts, and then I would be finished. But that was for tomorrow. Tonight, Philip and I
had an invitation to a banquet.

The meal turned out to be a special occasion, for Lady Baia was present from the beginning at the table. She had not been relegated to the kitchen, nor was she being used as a
serving maid. I detected her patchouli-scented presence from the very start, but as if I needed any confirmation, Philip spoke up eagerly as he guided me into the room. ‘My lady, we are
delighted by your presence.’ I could detect the catch in his voice, and wondered if his ears were already glowing. I added my own thanks at her invitation, and bowed in the general direction
of her and the stronger scent that hardly hid the odour of the sweating Panaretos. His voice wheezed breathily as he spoke to me.

‘I am told, Master Falconer, that you have been questioning the Venetians about the constant threats on my life. Did you draw any conclusions, or are you still reluctant to come to a
decision on who it is wishes me dead?’

I heard a faint rustle of alarm from the lips of Baia, and a quiet remonstration at her husband’s boorishness. But Panaretos clearly waved her concerns aside.

‘This . . . man was presented to me as some expert on deductive logic. So let him expound his theories.’

I knew the slight hesitation between his first and second words hinted at his desire to say another word. His inclination had been to pour scorn on my sightless state, and wonder how he could
have let a blind man even begin to investigate the perpetrator of the threats. For multiple threats there had been – Theokratos had just told me so. Baia had deliberately misled Philip, but
before I could ask her why, she broke the awkward silence that hung over us.

‘Look, the warners are being served. We should sit.’

Philip subtly guided me to my place and sat at my elbow. He expressed delight at the sugary subtleties that had been brought to the table as a warning the meal was under way. I had no sweet
tooth and declined the carved delicacy, but I could tell that Panaretos had no such reticence, and was cracking the sugary sculpture in his no doubt ravaged teeth. I could smell his bad breath from
where I sat. I told him of my discoveries as we awaited the first course.

‘I have no doubt that the document you showed me at the beginning of this enquiry was made to look as if it was written by, or at least on behalf of Messer Finati. He will be much vilified
when he returns to Genoa without a renewal of the trade contracts that formerly applied.’

Panaretos laughed harshly, and smacked his lips. The broth was being served, and he was already spooning it into his maw, along with lumps of bread torn from his trencher. I revelled in the
aroma of mace and cinnamon that drifted from the bowl placed before me. I tasted the soup appreciatively, noting the flavour of chicken, and the thickness of it that had been achieved with mixing
in bread crumbs and then sieving most carefully.

Philip whispered in my ear, ‘He is surely twice as fat as when we first saw him. His chins have multiplied till they rest upon his breast, which is itself of a womanish
roundness.’

I was sure the young monk was extra critical of our host due to his enchantment by the man’s wife, but I am sure his assessment of Panaretos was essentially truthful. The man’s
gluttony was causing him to expand like some blown up bladder. Apart from expressing his delight at my findings – which I was not sure he understood – he spoke little, addressing more
the plates that came forth inexorably from the kitchen.

The next delicacy was crustardes of herbs and fish. A pastry case enclosed pieces of fish stewed in lemon water to which were added walnuts, parsley, thyme and lemon balm. I don’t suppose
that Panaretos had time to taste any of the subtle flavours in his pursuit of excessive consumption, but I complimented Baia on the concoction.

‘I am pleased you like it so, Master Falconer.’

I could get little else out of her, though, and was unable to question her about the more veiled threats that had dogged her husband from the time of the first clear warning contained on the
parchment. Theokratos had told me that Panaretos had complained about one particular incident that his wife had reported to him. She had been with her maid in the fish market down by the harbour,
and a hooded figure, dressed like a foreigner, had said that she should tell her husband to hurry up and sign the trade deal or he wouldn’t have a pretty wife any more. Perhaps she had
refrained from telling Philip this because she was afraid the threat might be carried out if she spoke of it to anyone but her husband. Whatever the reason, Panaretos was not going to give me the
chance to ask her.

The next course was a heavy stew called monchelet. Neck of lamb pieces had been stewed in a large pan in a wine and herb stock, along with chopped onions, then the sauce had been thickened with
egg yolks. The meat was tender and glossy, and once again Panaretos soon began to demolish his portion. I could hear his breathing, stertorous and heavy, and then he belched. I wondered if he had
reached the limit of even his gargantuan appetite. Baia’s announcement of the final course told me.

‘We have a blanc manger next, darling, made from pounded chicken breast flavoured with sugar and almonds.’

‘Good. I am still hungry.’

I silently marvelled at Panaretos’ capacity for ever more servings of rich food, and was ready to decline anything more than a spoonful of the sweet, tempting dish that crusaders had first
encountered in Outremer years ago. I was not, however, faced with such a dilemma. Before the blanc manger could be brought, we heard a disturbance in the kitchens, and the sound of running feet.
One of Panaretos’ servants came into the room where we sat, and called out a warning.

‘Master, we have been warned that pirates from Sinope – the Emir’s men – have attacked the harbour. They are woring their way up the hill towards us. What shall we
do?’

Panaretos lurched to his feet; I could hear his breath quicken in alarm. But before he could give any instructions, his voice became nothing more than a strangled gurgle. I heard his chair crash
over, and the cry of alarm from the servant. Then I heard the soft thud of a considerable body landing on the marble floor. I called out to Philip, groping for his arm.

‘What has happened? Philip, tell me.’

It seemed my companion was completely unable to respond, other than to stutter a few meaningless words. It was a female voice that cut calmly through the panic.

‘It looks as though my husband has had an apoplexy. When he rose from his chair, his face turned bright red, his eyes bulged out of his head, and he collapsed. I am afraid he also vomited
all down his robe.’

Her tone was unusually calm in the circumstances, and she seemed to be observing a scene in which she took no part, nor had any interest in. Perhaps the shock of such a sudden series of events
had overwhelmed her, and she would break down and weep as soon as the consequences struck her. But I was not so sure.

‘What of the Emir of Sinope’s pirate band? Should we not flee for safety?’

The scent of patchouli came closer, and I felt a feminine hand on my arm.

‘Oh, I don’t think there is truly any danger. The gates to the lower town will have been closed already. The Emperor must be protected at all costs, and we shall be safe enough here.
The servants are such ninnies, and run around in fright at the slightest danger.’

I heard her sit back at the table.

‘Would you like some blanc manger?’

The old man sensed all the eyes of the assembled pilgrims were on him, boring into him. He hoped he had told his story well, and that the correct conclusion had been
reached. It was the woman, Katie Valier, who spoke first. He had known before she even uttered her opening words that it would be she who would guess the truth.

‘Panaretos ate himself to death, and that was the reward for his gluttony.’

Falconer smiled.

‘Oh, it was more than merely his gluttony that killed him. You see, I travelled to Genoa on Finati’s ship, and he swore to me that he never wrote the threatening letter, nor acted
in any other way to coerce Panaretos into accepting a trade deal. It only confirmed my own conclusions, which Panaretos did not give me time to expound upon. I could have told him who was
threatening his life, but he died before I could.’

Katie was quick to see his point.

‘Then it was Baia who wrote the letter, and she also made up the other threats in order to scare her husband.’

One of the other pilgrims piped up, not fully comprehending the enormity of Katie’s suggestion.

‘But why would she do that? I know that from what you tell us, Master Falconer, that he mistreated her. But what would she gain by making him even more fearful and angry?’

The old man could tell Katie was looking at him in an understanding way, so he completed the story.

‘Because when Panaretos was agitated he turned to his main comfort, which was not his wife, but food. And she gladly complied with his wishes. Over several months, she fed him rich food
in ever increasing portions that made him fatter and fatter until the merest exertion brought on an apoplexy. She murdered him just as effectively as if she had used poison or a knife, but it was a
much more subtle way to do it that meant she was not even suspected. Except by me, and I saw no reason to tell anyone my suspicions. You see, it was the slowest and the kindest murder I have ever
witnessed.’

‘Lust, greed and avarice are grave sins indeed,’ said John Wynter, prior of the Austin canons in Carmarthen, a tall, hatchet-faced man who had nodded approvingly
at the punishments meted out to the wrongdoers in the previous tales. ‘But there is one graver yet.’

Wynter had strong opinions about sin, which was why he had been prepared to leave his comfortable monastery when all sensible folk were closing their doors and huddling together in the hope
that the deadly pestilence would pass them by. It had not been his own lapses that had driven him east, of course: he had been appointed by his Prior General to sit in judgement over others –
at their sister house in Walsingham.

‘A sin worse than greed?’ asked Katie Valier sceptically. Outside, an owl hooted in the night, as if agreeing with her. ‘Or lust and avarice?’

‘Sloth,’ hissed Wynter, ‘is the deadliest sin.’

‘I hardly think so!’ declared Katie. ‘You are wrong, Father Prior.’

‘It is the most deadly transgression because of its insidious effects on the soul,’ boomed Wynter in the deep, sepulchral voice that had made many a Carmarthen novice quail in his
boots. ‘And I do not refer to simple laziness, but to an emptiness of the soul.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Katie, shaking her pretty head. ‘Why should—’

‘It is a spiritual apathy that will lead even good men to Hell,’ interrupted Wynter. ‘And I shall prove it. Here is a tale I was told many years ago. It describes what
happens to those who allow sloth to rule them, and will be a warning to you all.’

He glanced around, saw he had his companions’ complete attention, and began with his tale of . . .

Autumn 1205, the Austin Priory of Llanthony, Monmouthshire

Prior Martin had many vices, but the one that disturbed his monks the most was his determination to enjoy an easy life. He disliked making decisions, and had a nasty habit of
postponing them until they no longer mattered, while any problems brought to him were dismissed with an airy wave and the injunction to ask God for a solution instead.

Unfortunately, that would not do for the matter that currently troubled the monastery – one that his canons felt would not have arisen if Martin had not been so lazy. Their daughter house
in Gloucestershire had grown rich and fat under its powerful patrons and energetic leaders, and was clamouring for independence. It could not be given. The ‘cell’ at Hempsted was an
important source of revenue, one Llanthony could not afford to lose.

The canons stood in the refectory, hands folded demurely inside their sleeves and their heads bowed, although all were in a state of high agitation, because a deputation from Hempsted had just
arrived – a dozen sleekly arrogant monks who looked around disdainfully, comparing Llanthony’s cracked plaster and leaking roofs to their own palatial dwellings. They were led by Canon
Walter, a ruthlessly determined man who would do anything to be Hempsted’s first prior. He was unwell, as attested by his pallor and damp forehead, but that did not make his ambition burn any
less fiercely. He was aided and abetted by Gilbert, his monkey-faced sacrist, who intended eventually to step into Walter’s shoes – and better a prior’s shoes than those of a mere
deputy under the thumb of Llanthony.