To commemorate the drama of his arrival home, and to be properly forgiven for the delay, he’d need a significant gift to appease the king. A renowned patron of the arts and a Renaissance man, King Francis I had sponsored Raphael and Titian. His favourite, Leonardo Da Vinci, had died in his arms. That passion for the arts eclipsed any fervour he might have nurtured for transoceanic escapades. The king gave only the lowest priority to New World exploration.
Cartier needed to find a way to startle him, to fire his imagination as did the artists. His voyage to Sicily, then, was intended to guarantee that a proper present from the New World be found. To locate it, he would rummage around the old.
Often windless, the voyage was quiet. Time dragged as slowly as the rising sun and setting moon for the ambitious captain. He longed to be in command of his own vessel again, and regretted in his darkest hours that he had not chosen a land to explore that offered a more forgiving climate, one that might allow him to stay abroad longer. He missed the wildness of those distant shores, the daily challenge to navigate and survive, the exhilaration of unravellingan uncharted coastline. The journey across the Mediterranean bored him.
Given that he had much to prepare, many were surprised that he’d chosen to indulge in the sojourn. Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici de Monreale was an old friend of Cartier’s, but surely the cardinal could afford to travel to him, or the journey could wait. The captain insisted that he needed to speak to his spiritual counsellor before he could properly embark, and explained himself no further. Cloaked in mystery, he bided his time on the small ship sailing east, and endlessly prepared his lists.
To Taignoagny’s eyes, the new woman who had arrived at court, the elegant, haughty and superior Francine Tousignant de Tocqueville, seemed so staggeringly beautiful that, in her company, all contact with the language of the French he’d learned vanished from his lips. She flagrantly burst from her dress, for, unlike the other women, she was neither a flimsy twig of a girl nor a sapling, but a fine stout maple of a woman, with large hips and robust arms—a woman who looked as though she could carry water up from a shore with a child on her hip, or pull a sled in winter—and yet, similar to other French girls in court, she possessed a smile as chaotic as a gale, her black hair heaped above her head in twists and twirls, while her wide eyes, if somewhat unfocused, were as green as a summer forest. He was saying all this to her in Iroquois, and she was twittering into her hands and exchanging quick asides with her gathered friends.
Domagaya could not believe the audacity of his brother, to be telling this girl that she was as beautiful as a sunset and that her eyes were the colour of a mountain lake and that her cheeks were as brightly speckled as the trout they caught there! He had never heard him be so gregarious, and it took a while before he realized that the woman understood not a word of what was being said.
Promptly, he joined the act as well. He told the ladies present that he’d cut off their dresses and plunge his fingers between their legs and kiss their breasts until they hollered. He’d bring them the shank of a king’s stag to munch upon, the balls from one of the king’s bull-cows to admire.
Taignoagny was furious at his brother’s rude incursion and told him so, raising his voice, but his brother carried on as the women giggled, becoming more daring and explicit with every line. He wanted to press the women against the wall of his bedroom at Fontainebleau, and told them so. He wanted to wrestle them on the floor of the pigs’ barn, and splash with them in the fountain where the water flowed upward towards the sky in defiance of nature before it spilled back down to earth, and he wanted to press their bodies to him while they rode in the back of a carriage through the streets of
Cartier needed to find a way to startle him, to fire his imagination as did the artists. His voyage to Sicily, then, was intended to guarantee that a proper present from the New World be found. To locate it, he would rummage around the old.
Often windless, the voyage was quiet. Time dragged as slowly as the rising sun and setting moon for the ambitious captain. He longed to be in command of his own vessel again, and regretted in his darkest hours that he had not chosen a land to explore that offered a more forgiving climate, one that might allow him to stay abroad longer. He missed the wildness of those distant shores, the daily challenge to navigate and survive, the exhilaration of unravellingan uncharted coastline. The journey across the Mediterranean bored him.
Given that he had much to prepare, many were surprised that he’d chosen to indulge in the sojourn. Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici de Monreale was an old friend of Cartier’s, but surely the cardinal could afford to travel to him, or the journey could wait. The captain insisted that he needed to speak to his spiritual counsellor before he could properly embark, and explained himself no further. Cloaked in mystery, he bided his time on the small ship sailing east, and endlessly prepared his lists.
To Taignoagny’s eyes, the new woman who had arrived at court, the elegant, haughty and superior Francine Tousignant de Tocqueville, seemed so staggeringly beautiful that, in her company, all contact with the language of the French he’d learned vanished from his lips. She flagrantly burst from her dress, for, unlike the other women, she was neither a flimsy twig of a girl nor a sapling, but a fine stout maple of a woman, with large hips and robust arms—a woman who looked as though she could carry water up from a shore with a child on her hip, or pull a sled in winter—and yet, similar to other French girls in court, she possessed a smile as chaotic as a gale, her black hair heaped above her head in twists and twirls, while her wide eyes, if somewhat unfocused, were as green as a summer forest. He was saying all this to her in Iroquois, and she was twittering into her hands and exchanging quick asides with her gathered friends.
Domagaya could not believe the audacity of his brother, to be telling this girl that she was as beautiful as a sunset and that her eyes were the colour of a mountain lake and that her cheeks were as brightly speckled as the trout they caught there! He had never heard him be so gregarious, and it took a while before he realized that the woman understood not a word of what was being said.
Promptly, he joined the act as well. He told the ladies present that he’d cut off their dresses and plunge his fingers between their legs and kiss their breasts until they hollered. He’d bring them the shank of a king’s stag to munch upon, the balls from one of the king’s bull-cows to admire.
Taignoagny was furious at his brother’s rude incursion and told him so, raising his voice, but his brother carried on as the women giggled, becoming more daring and explicit with every line. He wanted to press the women against the wall of his bedroom at Fontainebleau, and told them so. He wanted to wrestle them on the floor of the pigs’ barn, and splash with them in the fountain where the water flowed upward towards the sky in defiance of nature before it spilled back down to earth, and he wanted to press their bodies to him while they rode in the back of a carriage through the streets of
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