Ransom Bride. Anne Herries

he saw her interest. ‘You are admiring my bracelets, Kathryn?’ He pulled back his sleeves so that she could see that he wore the curious bands on each wrist. ‘The symbols may not be familiar to you, for they are in Arabic. One stands for life, the other for death.’ There was something in his eyes that made her shiver inwardly, an expression so different to any other that she had seen in him that her stomach clenched with fear. ‘It is to remind me, lest I should forget, that one is the close companion of the other.’

      ‘Surely…’The words died on her lips, for now she felt a sense of desolation in him and it touched her, reaching down inside her so that she shared his grief, his pain, and it almost sent her reeling into darkness. ‘They are remarkable, sir,’ she said, fighting to pull herself back from that deep pit. ‘But you asked about a distinguishing mark. There was one that Uncle Charles would not know about.’ She paused, for the memory was so strong in her mind then that it made her ache with the grief of her loss. ‘Dickon was my closest companion, my dearest friend. One day he told me that he would always love only me, even though I was but nine years to his fifteen. I said that when he grew up he would forget me, and he drew his knife. He cut my initial into his arm, just above his wrist.’ She saw Lorenzo’s eyes darken, his gaze intensifying on her face. ‘It bled a great deal and I was frightened. I gave him my kerchief to bind his wrist, but it was deep and the bleeding would not stop. My nurse bound it for him when we went home and scolded me for allowing him to hurt himself. When it began to heal, there was a livid mark in the shape of a K.’

      ‘You have never told me this, Kathryn,’ Charles said and frowned. ‘It might help in the search—if it still remains.’

      ‘It might have been obliterated by other marks,’ Lorenzo said and he looked thoughtful, serious now, all mockery gone. ‘I do not wish to distress the ladies, Lord Mountfitchet, but you must realise that the manacles galley slaves wear leave deep scars. Even if the scar that Richard inflicted on himself remained, it might not be easy to see after so many years of being chained to an oar.’

      ‘If he was a galley slave,’ Kathryn said. ‘He was but fifteen, sir. Might he not have been sold as a house slave?’ She had prayed so often that it might be so, otherwise there was little hope that Dickon would have survived.

      ‘It is possible—but if he was strong for his age he would more likely have been put to the oars. The rate of death amongst such unfortunates is high and anyone with the strength to pull an oar might be used if the Corsairs had lost some of their oarsmen.’

      ‘Yet that makes it all the more likely that the mark may still be there,’ Kathryn said. ‘For if he lives, it is unlikely that he was in the galleys.’

      ‘You speak truly, for I doubt that any man could survive ten years in the galleys,’ Lorenzo told her and the expression in his eyes sent a shiver down her spine. ‘We must hope that for at least some part of the time your cousin was more fortunate.’

      Kathryn looked at him, seeing an odd expression in his eyes. What was he thinking now?

      ‘Would your friend in Granada help us to find Dickon?’ she asked.

      ‘Yes, that is possible,’ Lorenzo said. ‘I will write to him and ask if he will make inquiries, though after so long…’ His words drifted away and he lifted his shoulders in a gesture that made her want to defy him all the more.

      ‘You think it is impossible, don’t you?’ Kathryn saw the answer in his face. ‘But I don’t believe that Dickon is dead. I am certain he lives. I feel it in here.’ She put her hands to her breast, her face wearing an expression of such expectation, such hope, that he was moved. ‘As we journeyed here my feeling grew stronger. I believe that he is alive and may be closer than we think.’

      ‘All things are possible,’ Lorenzo said, for he found that he did not wish to dim the light in those beautiful eyes by telling her she was wrong. ‘My friend would tell you that it is the will of Allah, but I believe it is the will of man. If Dickon was strong enough, if he wanted to live badly enough, he would find a way to survive. And perhaps he might have been fortunate. Not all slaves are ill treated, Kathryn. Some masters are better than others.’

      ‘You speak as if you have some experience of these things, sir?’

      Lorenzo smiled oddly. ‘Perhaps…’

      Kathryn would have pressed for an answer, but he turned to Lord Mountfitchet and began to talk of Cyprus and the land most suitable for wine growing. Kathryn sat and listened, her first disgust of him waning a little as she realised that he was a man of knowledge and influence.

      She could not condone what he did in the matter of the ransoms he demanded from the families of those he rescued, and yet she began to understand that it could be but a small part of his business and not the source of his vast wealth.

      She could not like him, she decided, for he was too arrogant, too certain of his position, and he could not understand how she felt—how Lord Mountfitchet felt—about the loss of Dickon. But perhaps Uncle Charles was right and he would deal honestly with them.

      Besides, what right had she to judge him when she did not know him?

      Lorenzo turned his gaze on her again for a moment, and she felt that strange sensation that had almost made her faint when they first met. Why was it that she felt as if they had met before?

      

      ‘This is so beautiful,’ Kathryn exclaimed as they wandered about the square that was the centre of Venice. ‘Is it true that the Church of Saint Mark was built to house his body when it was brought from Alexandria?’

      ‘That is what I have been told,’ Lorenzo answered her though she had addressed her question to her aunt. ‘The building you see near by is the Palazzo Ducale—and over there is the Cathedral, which was first begun in the ninth century and rebuilt after a fire in the eleventh. Notice the architecture, which bears a distinctly Byzantine influence.’

      ‘It is very fine,’ Kathryn replied. ‘I had thought the people of Byzantium were barbarians, but it seems that they knew how to build.’

      ‘They knew many things,’ Lorenzo replied with a smile. ‘It was a great empire that demands our respect.’

      ‘You seem to know so much,’ she said, a little overcome by all the things he had told them as they explored the beautiful city of Venice and its waterways. ‘What, pray tell me, are those buildings over there?’

      ‘That is the Procuratie Vecchie, and used by the procurators or magistrates, from amongst whom the Doge is chosen, and is built, as you see, in the Italian style, as are many of the palaces themselves. And those columns were erected in the twelfth century. That one bears the winged lion of St Mark and the other portrays St Theodore on a crocodile.’ He looked at Kathryn, a faint smile on his lips. ‘Would you wish to visit the Bridge of Sighs—or would you prefer return to my home and take some refreshment?’

      ‘Tell me, why is it called the Bridge of Sighs?’

      ‘I imagine Signor Santorini has had enough of your questions for one day,’ Lady Mary said. ‘It was kind of him to accompany us, but perhaps like me he is ready to return home for some refreshment.’

      ‘Oh, forgive me,’ Kathryn said, for she was not in the least tired and might have carried on exploring for another hour or more. ‘Yes, we shall go home—at least, we shall return to your home, signor.’

      ‘It is also yours for the duration of your stay,’ Lorenzo said. On discovering the previous evening that the lodgings they had taken were less than they had hoped for, he had sent his servants to remove their baggage, insisting that they stay with him until they left for Cyprus. It was also his suggestion that he accompany Lady Mary and Kathryn on their tour of the city, for Lord Mountfitchet had other business and, despite Kathryn’s protests, he did not think it suitable that they should go alone. ‘And as to the matter of why the bridge has that name, it is because the palace connects to the prison and the bridge is the route by which prisoners are taken to the judgement hall.’

      ‘Ah, I see,’ Kathryn