Scales of Gold: The Fourth Book of the House of Niccolo

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘Of course,’ the priest said. ‘We are privileged, who have taken part in it. And now, if you will permit, it seems that Signor Niccolò might well appreciate our company back to the ship. We shall see you tomorrow, no doubt?’

  ‘No doubt,’ said the Genoese. ‘I have seldom laughed so much. Your young master is a natural jester. Give him a hump and bells, and he would be immortal.’

  They returned to the ship without crossing the market, their men-at-arms with them, and Nicholas in their midst, silent and stripped of his finery. Even so, half the men they met in the street recognised him, and wanted to hail him and laugh. He returned their sallies, showing his dimples, and explaining his gashes as love-bites. At the jetty he stopped.

  The smaller ship’s boat was there, with its oarsmen and Loppe. Loppe said, ‘Yes. It’s all right.’

  ‘What a pity,’ Nicholas said. And when Godscalc made to say something, turned on him a look of stark fury that made the priest stop. On board, he walked to his cabin and turned at the entrance. The blood, running together, made strange damascened shapes on his doublet. He said, ‘You had better come in.’ And they followed him, Loppe drawing the curtain behind.

  Inside, Michael Crackbene rose to his feet in his red mummer’s costume, blotched also with blood. Without the casque, his broad, blond face showed pale and repressed; his chest heaved. He opened his lips.

  ‘If you speak,’ Nicholas said, ‘I shall probably kill you. Our next call is Portugal. You will disembark there, and I hope never to see you again. In the meanwhile, Loppe will show you where to lie so that none of us will be required to set eyes on you. Get out.’

  ‘I will speak,’ the sailing-master said. ‘Even if you kill me. I meant you no harm. I fulfilled my contract. I was free. All men operate so. One day Piccinino fights for Milan, the next day against him. It is all by contract.’

  ‘And Diniz?’ Nicholas said. ‘Get out of my sight.’

  ‘You saved my life,’ Crackbene said. His voice was puzzled. But when Nicholas looked at him, he turned and left, followed by Loppe. A moment later Gregorio, too, left.

  The galley rocked. The heavy curtain, blocking the light, reduced the great cabin to dimness. It smelt of damp wood, and salt, and the metal of the weapons hung on the wall, and the faint odours of cooking, and humanity, and fresh blood. The priest said, ‘Now? Or shall we come back when the lamps are lit?’

  ‘Oh, now,’ Nicholas said. ‘Sit down. Our next call is Lagos, and we ought to have matters straight before then. He thought I was going to forgive him.’

  ‘Surely not,’ the priest said, and then fell silent as Nicholas looked at him.

  Nicholas said, ‘You’ve wanted to know my state of mind ever since I came back from Cyprus, so let me make you really happy and tell you. I’m sorry, of course, about the deaths of Katelina and Tristão Vasquez, but they’re over. Simon can do what he likes about Katelina’s child; I’m not going to hunt down a baby; it’s up to Simon to rear him. I’m angry that Jordan took away Tristão’s son, but Diniz is eighteen or more. If he wants to get away from his grandfather, he can presumably do it himself.’

  ‘Can he?’ said Godscalc. ‘Leaving his mother and her business to fend for themselves? From this moment on, you will be directly competing with St Pol & Vasquez on their own ground. What, in this storm of decision-making, are you going to do about that?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Nicholas said. ‘Withdraw from the contest and let the Bank fail? You know very well I’ve always kept my hands off Simon and his father, but their business has nothing sacred about it. And if the competition ranges Diniz against me, everyone ought to be pleased.’

  It was too dark now to see his face. Godscalc said, ‘He may range against you and starve. Nicholas, they are blood of your blood, even though they repudiate you. You must take the first step. You must meet Simon at Lagos and make him see that there is no need to pursue this vendetta. If you were to combine your two businesses, there would be no one stronger to fight the Vatachino. Won’t you do that? I should come, if you wanted me. Simon would listen.’

  In the darkness, Nicholas gave a soft laugh. ‘What do you wager? I don’t mind trying, provided I’m wearing my cuirass. But if they won’t be convinced, I’m not going to coy them for ever, or spare them the less gentlemanly aspects of common trade.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t place any wagers on what might happen,’ said Father Godscalc. ‘Simon de St Pol is nearly your equal in stubbornness. But at least you would have tried, and I should be relieved of the black thought I have that you are truly the nameless child Simon thinks you are, and your mother a harlot.’

  The vessel creaked. Below the curtain, a line of light showed where the lamps on deck had been lit, and there was a distant sound of men’s voices, and of the footsteps of crewmen in the leisurely tempo of harbour. Nicholas said, ‘That doesn’t draw blood any more.’

  Doesn’t it? Godscalc thought.

  He said, ‘I notice, sure enough, you are becoming an impervious man. So, Simon is ruined, his sister made destitute and the boy’s future put back in your hands. After that, you cannot claim any kinship.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning to,’ Nicholas said. He was speaking a little more slowly than usual. ‘I’m saying what Crackbene was saying, except that I’m giving due warning. That contract is finished. It was valid, but I’ve chosen to finish it. Now I’ve started another.’

  ‘Balderdash,’ Godscalc said. ‘Crackbene was talking of filling his purse. You speak of denying family ties – ties that you persuaded me, you persuaded Marian you would give your heart’s blood to have recognised. If this is the truth, you’ve made fools of us. And that isn’t all. How dare you dismiss Katelina like that, or the death of Lucia’s husband, or the fate of the lad Diniz? I can understand, heaven knows, why you leave Katelina’s child in Simon’s hands; it would never live otherwise. If he has wronged you, don’t you remember how he has been wronged?’

  ‘Only he doesn’t know it,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘That is despicable,’ Godscalc said. He found he had risen to his feet. He said, ‘You had a great gift: you could withstand almost anything because you tried to understand the other man’s mind. It would be a sad thing if the child Claes could accept blows, but the man Nicholas cannot.’

  ‘I have been accepting them for the last ten minutes,’ Nicholas said. ‘I understand perfectly. I disagree, that is all. Do you want to leave me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Godscalc said sadly. ‘But I dare not.’

  He stayed aboard the following day, when Nicholas went ashore with Gregorio to accomplish their trading. The day after that, the Ciaretti raised anchor and sailed north-west to Portuguese waters, and journey’s end; and journey’s beginning.

  Chapter 9

  THE MOORS, OF COURSE, had named the Al Gharb, the southernmost province of Portugal, which meant Western Land. Fear had named its most south-westerly point The End of the World. Less than thirty miles short of the End of the World stood Lagos, the Roman Lacobriga, capital of the Algarve, and the harbour from which the small ships sent out by Prince Henry of Portugal had ventured south, to discover whether the ocean ended beyond Cape Bojador in the Sea of Obscurity; whether there were heathens to convert or Christians to trade and ally with.

  The Ciaretti dropped anchor at night, and by dawn, the Governor’s boat stood below, with a summons.

  This time, neither Godscalc nor Gregorio went with Nicholas. This time, they knew it was not a matter of trade, but the discussion of a complex proposition already tabled by courier, to which they were not so far privy.

  Father Godscalc, early risen, remained in his quarters. Gregorio, disturbed, watched Nicholas leave, elaborately dressed and attended, and also watched the small boat that soon after put ashore Michael Crackbene.

  Somewhere up that steep castled hill, or on the river-bank with its markets and palaces, or on the tall headland that enclosed the western harbour, was the house built for Joao Vasquez, secretary to the Duchess of
Burgundy, and shared by his kinsman Tristao’s widow and family. Lucia de St Pol was living there, and possibly Diniz her son, and probably Simon her brother. And perhaps, if Godscalc was right, Gelis van Borselen, whose sister had died on Cyprus. But for the moment, in the Governor’s charge, Nicholas was surely protected.

  A long time later, the Governor’s boat returned, and Nicholas and his retinue came aboard, accompanied by a man with the dark, bitten face of a seaman. The retinue bowed and dispersed, all but their interpreter Loppe, and Gregorio and Godscalc found themselves summoned to the great cabin.

  The stranger, introduced as Jorge da Silves, was a short, lean Portuguese of taciturn disposition. After a little wine and some surly exchanges, it emerged that he spoke and understood Catalan. A little later, Gregorio gathered that he was a sea captain of note, who had taken ships down the west coast of Africa. Much later, Gregorio guessed that he knew both Ca’ da Mosto and the Jew in Mallorca, and that Nicholas wanted his services.

  If it was for Nicholas, it was for the Bank. Gregorio, accustomed to Catalan, did his best to please, and was glad to see the fellow, as he thought, responding a little. The priest added his professional skills, and Nicholas all his specialised charm. The man, accompanied by Loppe, left the boat a little flushed, and not far from smiling. Godscalc said, ‘All right. Who was that?’

  ‘You will get to know him very well,’ Nicholas said. ‘He is the captain who is going to take us up the African arm of the Nile.’

  ‘On a raft?’ Godscalc said. Ever since Sanlúcar, Godscalc had been sarcastic with Nicholas.

  ‘In a caravel,’ Nicholas said. ‘The kind of little lateen-rigged three-master that Prince Henry developed for Africa. The only ship that can sail close to the wind coming home.’

  ‘You haven’t got one,’ said Gregorio. ‘And don’t tell me Senhor da Silves has a thousand crowns invested in anything.’

  ‘I have one,’ Nicholas said. ‘Nearly finished, and lying there in the shipyard. Leased to me by the Portuguese King, provided I fit her out and load her cargo myself, and pay him a quarter of my eventual profit, together with all the charts I can make of my journey. In return, the King will be renowned as the man who opened the way to Ethiopia.’

  ‘You’ve got her for nothing?’ said Godscalc.

  ‘Does it seem so? said Nicholas. ‘I had the impression I took some trouble to lay all the ground work. Tomorrow we view her and complete all the documentation. Today, I thought I should visit the home of the Vasquez. You said you felt you ought to be present.’

  It seemed to Gregorio that Godscalc’s face became heavy, like dough. The priest said, ‘Who is there? You do know?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Nicholas said. ‘It’s going to be very dangerous. There is no one there but Simon’s sister and Gelis van Borselen.’

  He spoke to Godscalc, and curtly, with none of the relief that would have seemed natural. Godscalc’s face in turn darkened again. He said, ‘Simon has gone? Jordan is still away?’

  ‘Apparently,’ Nicholas said. ‘So I have only the ladies to charm.’

  ‘They won’t let you in,’ Gregorio said.

  ‘I thought of taking a squadron of soldiers,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or keeping the porter in talk while I send a party round the back wall with high ladders. Or hiding some men in a cart, and driving it into their courtyard, dressed as a wife from the campo selling chickens.’

  Godscalc said, ‘Stop trifling. You’d lose your caravel if you did any of that.’

  ‘It does no harm to dream. In real dreary life, the Governor has sent to ask the Widow Vasquez to receive the lord Niccolò vander Poele, her old Flemish friend and commander of the next Portuguese voyage to Guinea. His Excellency’s chamberlain will supply and accompany an escort, and the Palace has loaned us some horses. There they are, on the quay with their groom. You may come of course, or not, as you wish. There will not, I am afraid, be any bloodshed. Now that Tristão is dead, the Portuguese could easily remove Simon’s licence to trade and ask him to go back to Scotland. Lucia daren’t offend them.’

  ‘Have you ever met her?’ said Gregorio. ‘Simon’s sister?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I remember Gelis.’

  Gregorio said nothing at all. Whatever the Governor believed, Nicholas was here neither as an old friend of the Vasquez, nor as the leader of the next voyage to Guinea. He was here to explain how Tristão Vasquez and Katelina van Borselen had met their deaths. Gregorio was mortally glad he was not going to be there to listen.

  The house occupied by the two Vasquez families was large and built high on the hill, although outside the wall of the castle. Glancing back, as the small cavalcade began to approach it, Nicholas could see the masts of the Ciaretti as she lay, her hatch covers off, discharging that part of the cargo destined for immediate warehousing.

  She was the only boat in the bay, apart from fishing vessels and a caravel recently in, which lay being careened in the busy yards of the estuary. The town was full of her seamen. It wouldn’t be difficult to make up a crew, when he needed one. Her cargo was also warehoused, but in a different quarter, being alive. The double line of black slaves was already ashore before he dropped anchor and, inspected and valued, would soon be brought to market. It was where Loppe had been bought by his first master, who taught him Portuguese and trained him to produce sugar. The chamberlain riding beside him said something, and Godscalc replied. Soon, they would arrive at the house.

  Some time ago, Nicholas had begun to realise that Jordan de Ribérac had not chosen to wait for him here. It was not hard to find out that Louis of France, deprived for too long of his foremost financial adviser, had compelled the vicomte de Ribérac to return forthwith to Court.

  On the other hand, had Jordan de Ribérac really wished it, he could have found means to remain. If he had gone, it was because he planned a different, slower revenge. Nicholas assumed an execution was planned. The scar on his cheek, given long ago, had been a token of intent, often renewed.

  What else would Jordan do? He would send the child somewhere safe; and this he had done. No messenger had been able to trace the three-year-old heir born to Katelina. One might have thought Henry de St Pol dead, except that the boy’s nurses had also vanished from view, and the word from Katelina’s kinsmen in Bruges conveyed no impression of dreadful despair; only the angry hurt of a family parted from its daughter’s sole child.

  And the boy was not in Simon’s erratic grasp: Simon until recently had been here, in Portugal, waiting for Nicholas. Then he had gone, the Governor said, to take ship from Lisbon since the Barbary war had left Lagos empty of vessels. Ship for where, he didn’t know. Scotland, perhaps. Or Madeira, now that the company’s plantations needed a master. But his lady sister, the Senhora Lucia, would tell Senhor Niccolò all about that.

  Would she? Married at fifteen, Lucia de St Pol was still young; not much more than a decade older than he was. But through Nicholas, it would seem, she had lost the partner in a long, happy marriage, and also lost, in another way, her delightful son Diniz.

  Brought from Cyprus to part him from Nicholas, Diniz would continue, surely, to be kept out of reach. The boy might rebel; but he had his mother’s business to run. And a scandal, it would surely be put to him, would harm Nicholas as much as himself. Jordan was clever.

  Which left Gelis van Borselen, who would be eighteen or nineteen and a woman, instead of the short, strident child who had been jealous of Katelina her sister. Wilful Katelina, who had given herself out of pique to an apprentice, and died as a result, broken and starved in Famagusta.

  Godscalc said, ‘Nicholas, we have arrived.’

  The residence, now he saw it, was surprisingly like his own estate house in Kouklia: a walled yard approached by an archway and surrounded on all sides by buildings, of which the principal was a long red-tiled house of two storeys. Downhill, the town hummed like a beehive, and the hammer-blows and cries of the shipyards sounded distant and festive as firecrackers.
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br />   The double doors of the archway were already open. The porter, bowing, ushered them through to the yard where they dismounted, leaving their escort. Led by a steward, the chamberlain mounted the steps to the doors of Tristão’s home, Godscalc and Nicholas following. At the top was a long, open balcony, and within, another door which gave access, it proved, to an anteroom, and then to a further, larger chamber within which the steward hurried alone. Nicholas could hear his voice, and a woman’s. Then he returned and nodded, and stood aside as the Palace official entered, and then signalled that the gentlemen from the Ciaretti should follow him.

  Godscalc said, ‘After you. Remember? You are beginning an entirely new contract.’

  It was to be expected that Simon’s sister would have his yellow hair and blue eyes, but not that she would be tall, as tall, Nicholas conjectured, surprised, as Diniz her son, who was not of course here. The only other person here was a maid, who had also risen, a piece of sewing in her hands. Simon’s sister came forward.

  In fact, her hair was not the butter-yellow of Simon’s, but something nearer to the colour of oats, and her brows and lashes were brown. Her facial bones, too, although marked, lacked the symmetry that made Simon’s face beautiful, and all his conquests so easy.

  Watching her give her hand to the Governor’s chamberlain, Nicholas thought he saw none the less a hint of the same jouster’s freedom of carriage; and ran an assessing eye, before he could stop himself, over the black, high-seamed day gown of mourning which affirmed, clearly enough, the shape and proportions of the body beneath it. There, he had no need to guess, all Lucia’s real excellence lay.

  Then he realised how he knew, and it was like being slammed in the stomach. Of course, this wasn’t Lucia.

  He waited. His breath came back, parcel by parcel, although the pain remained in his throat. The chamberlain introduced him. ‘My lord, you know, of course, the lady Gelis van Borselen.’

  ‘I believe,’ she said, ‘he thought I was my hostess. The lady Lucia, I am sorry to say, is unwell. And Father Godscalc? Now I know the mission you speak of is serious.’ Her blue eyes, unwinking, stared into those of the priest.