‘I gather Ca’ da Mosto was generous enough with his advice,’ Tobie said.
‘He’s a Venetian. Benincasa makes maps for anybody.’
Julius, this time, had joined them. ‘The Genoese?’ he said. ‘You think he’s making maps for the Vatachino?’
‘He’s making this map for the former Milanese envoy Prosper Schiaffino de Camulio de’ Medici,’ Nicholas said. ‘Remember him?’
Julius stopped drumming his fingers. ‘He represented the Genoese in your alum deal. Nicholas. They threw him out of Genoa in February, and the Medici wouldn’t have him in Florence. He plots.’
‘So why does he want a map of Guinea?’ Nicholas said. ‘You work it out.’
‘The Vatachino likes plotters,’ said Tobie. ‘I see the dangers. All the same. You aren’t going to let all this information go for nothing? Godscalc has sent all he knows to Bessarion.’
‘Then no doubt they’ll commission a rutter in Rome,’ Nicholas said.
‘But not in Venice? You went to San Michele,’ said Julius. ‘Was that not about maps?’
‘I had a book for the abbot,’ said Nicholas. ‘And I wanted to commission copies of others. As for maps, I’m not particularly interested in helping the Genoese.’
‘Or anyone else?’ Tobie had said. ‘You don’t really want anyone to go where you’ve been. Why is that?’
‘They have troubles enough,’ Nicholas said. ‘We have all the money we need. We’d only be helping our rivals.’
‘And the Church’s mission?’ Tobie said. ‘Or don’t you mind their rivals?’
‘As much as you do,’ Nicholas said.
It began to exasperate Julius. Now Tobie had come, Julius had expected Nicholas to march off to Bruges and set in motion a splendid watertight case which would enable them to recover the Ghost. He had further expected him to spend money in Lisbon, and even go there, to pursue both the Ghost and the case against the Fortado.
Failing both these things, Julius had offered to do the work for him, but Nicholas had refused. Nicholas complained enough about the Genoese and the Vatachino, and yet he wouldn’t seize the chance to attack when he had it.
‘He’s had enough travelling,’ Tobie said. ‘Give him time.’
The Feast of St Nicholas and the Feast of Christmas had both passed with due celebration, organised wholly by Julius, on a scale enjoyed by the staff and admired by its clients. Epiphany came and went. Julius reported to Nicholas all that was happening.
The market in Bruges was still depressed because of the quarrel with Scotland: Bonkle had gone to Scotland to find out what was happening. The ducal wedding had been postponed until June. When it came, it should profit both Gregorio and Diniz. Under Diniz, the Charetty company had rallied.
Nearer home, the Bank’s mercenary troops under Captain Astorre were still in Albania, helping to hold Scutari and Croia against the Turkish invader. Recently, Astorre had been joined by the rest of his army from Cyprus. Now, that is, that there was no place for his army in Cyprus.
There was no need to go into details over that. All the news about Cyprus had been rushed to Nicholas by the Venetians. By, to be precise, Caterino Zeno, Venetian merchant (of alum) and his exquisite lady the Trapezuntine princess Violante, who had called to see their dear and respected young friend, and congratulate him on his amazing venture. It was perhaps a mark of what Margot felt about Violante of Naxos that she admitted them both to the Ca’ Niccolò. When Nicholas smiled at her, receiving them, Margot had felt deservedly guilty.
Rumour, which was generally right, said that Nicholas had been the lover of two if not three of the remarkable princesses of Naxos, while remaining on cordial terms with their husbands. On this occasion, all the civilities over, Caterino had introduced the subject of Cyprus.
’What was happening when you left? The Vatachino had been given the dyeworks, and the unfortunate Zorzi expelled (you know his Bruges business failed?). And then – of course, your fees would be affected – King Zacco’s increased tribute to Cairo made it impossible for him to pay the army, or the dues for the sugar estates, yours and ours.
‘We all wished, my dear Niccolò,’ said Signor Caterino Zeno with a smile, ‘that during your stay on the island, you had been a little less hard on the Mamelukes. However. No one has attempted to slay you, I believe, on this visit? And I have to tell you that conditions in Cyprus are improving. And will improve more.’
Margot watched him watch Nicholas. The Venetian sugar estates were the largest in Cyprus, next to those run by the Banco di Niccolò. As Zeno had said, no dues had come from either since the King ran out of money. She knew Nicholas had received nothing from his private farms either.
Nicholas said, ‘I’m glad to hear it. Who will benefit?’
‘Oh, everyone,’ had said Zeno expansively. ‘The whole of Venice. Every Venetian with interests on the island. If you lose the royal estates, there will be others for you, I am sure. After King Zacco is married.’
‘You think so?’ Nicholas said. ‘I heard he hoped for a Queen from either Naples or Rome.’
‘Tattle,’ said Zeno. ‘When a man is young and unmarried and has need of legitimate heirs, such talk will go round. No. He has chosen a Venetian bride.’
‘Not someone I know? Not a kinswoman of your own?’ Nicholas asked. His voice was awe-struck.
‘Are we not honoured? And you have met her. You remember Catherine?’ Violante of Naxos enquired. ‘My sister’s daughter? I am to be the aunt of a Queen. I feel aged.’
‘In no respect, except perhaps when compared in age with a child,’ Nicholas said. ‘Can she be marriageable?’
‘She is thirteen,’ said the merchant. ‘We expect womanhood in a matter of months. And meantime the papers are signed. King Zacco of Cyprus became a son of Venice by proxy this morning. A pretty sight. All the other children were there. Our young Pietro as well. Violante and I were lamenting. Had he not been born a boy, Zacco’s eye might have fallen on him.’
Both dimples appeared. ‘Don’t despair,’ said Nicholas, smiling.
On the way to their boat, Violante detained him. Perhaps she knew Margot was near; perhaps she didn’t. ‘Deprivation suits you,’ she said. ‘But where is the sweet young ox that once I favoured? I hear you live the life of a monk. I hear you do not even console the motherly Margot.’
‘Have I made a mistake?’ Nicholas said. ‘I didn’t know that consolation was what I was supposed to be dispensing. I must have let you down badly.’
She was beautiful, and clever, and no more visibly engaged than he was. ‘You and Zacco,’ she said. ‘I am told he remembers you still. He has put aside your Primaflora long ago. You must not let this new marriage affect you. It is good for Venice.’
There was a note of something that might have been wistfulness in her voice. Nicholas said, ‘Poor Zacco. Doesn’t he deserve something a little closer to his own tastes? I thought your husband, by the way, looked rather poorly. Do take care of him.’
Violante of Naxos flicked him on the cheek and, laughing, walked to the edge of the wharf.
‘Bitch,’ said Margot.
‘I thought you were there,’ Nicholas said. ‘Do you want me to console you?’
‘Not if you want to stay here,’ Margot said. ‘What do you think all that will mean?’
‘At a guess? The Venetian families get the royal sugar franchise. Cyprus becomes a Venetian fortress, with Zacco its puppet. Cairo loses its tribute, and is therefore keener to trade with people like me. And John le Grant is out of a job. He might do rather well in Alexandria. Shall I suggest it to Julius?’
‘You’re the head of the Bank,’ Margot said.
‘No. They are. Gregorio and Julius. I,’ Nicholas said, ‘am the evil genius who whispers from time to time in their ears, but prefers to be absent.’
But he hadn’t been absent.
Then February came, and one morning, at dawn, a messenger at the door of the Ca’ Niccolò. At first the porter refused to let him in, b
ut when the man presented a paper, the porter opened the door. Margot, in her bedgown, said, ‘What?’
‘For my lord Niccolò,’ said the porter. ‘This man has been paid to bring such a message whenever it comes, and to deliver it personally.’
‘Come with me,’ Margot said.
Afterwards, she thought that Nicholas had heard the disturbance; or perhaps he had been sleeping lightly. At any rate, she had hardly knocked before the door opened. Nicholas looked from her to the man, who held out the packet he carried.
‘Wait,’ said Nicholas. ‘Margot, will you excuse me?’
There was a lamp already lit by his desk. He took the packet over, and lifted scissors and snipped all the threads. The seal had told her nothing, except that it was made from poor wax. Then Nicholas turned and came back.
He really observed her then, she thought, for the first time, and caught her by the wrist, saying, ‘It’s all right.’ Then he turned to the messenger. ‘This is what I was expecting. You received your wage?’
‘Every week, my lord,’ said the man.
‘Good. Then our arrangement has come to an end. But you have been watchful. I appreciate it. Let me close the transaction with this.’
She couldn’t see how many gold coins there were in his palm, but she heard the man’s gasp. He coloured, and tried to kiss the hand that had given them to him. Then he backed off and ran.
‘Well?’ said Nicholas to Margot, standing still in the doorway. ‘What news was it, do you think?’
Something told her. Something identified the reason for all the weeks of waiting, the curious withdrawal, the reluctance to move. She said, ‘I think it is good news of the one person you have been waiting to hear from. I think it is to say that Loppe – that Umar is safely home.’
He kissed her then; a kiss of pure affection and relief and a number of other emotions she could not then name. He said, ‘I don’t need consolation any more, and if you do, it’s going to take the form of strong liquor. Margot, go and wake Tobie and Julius. I don’t want to sit here alone, not even with you. And then I have to make plans.’
‘You’re going?’ she said. ‘Now you can move, you are going? Where?’
‘Where else but Bruges?’ Nicholas said.
Bruges in spring was the homecoming gift Nicholas had refused for three months to allow himself. When he left Venice, he took Margot with him, with the extremely ready permission of Julius. She was a quiet companion, and the journey, though hard, was not painful. No sweet singing voice disturbed the snows of the Alps, but the same voice was still lifted in song, if in a different land, and there were three children now to hear it, including a daughter.
The spirit of Marian de Charetty remained, but as a dear and benevolent presence, and no longer the source it had once been of self-reproach and of anguish. Marian his wife slept near Dijon. Six years ago, her two orphaned daughters in Bruges had forbidden him to enter the Charetty house. Since then, Tilde had met him in Venice, and he had tried to make her into a friend. She and Catherine her sister had permitted Gregorio to use part of their house for the Banco di Niccolò, and any lingering doubts, Nicholas suspected, would have been swept away by their new guide and manager, Diniz Vasquez. And Godscalc was with them.
Nicholas had heard from Gregorio, and from Diniz. Hasty letters received just before he left Venice, they expressed incoherent joy at his return. Godscalc had added a great sprawling line with a joke in it.
He had received other letters – from his fellow merchants, from the city fathers, from the boys he had grown up with. He was a burgher of Bruges; he had been seen to do the town honour: there would be a reception almost as great as the one he had been given in Venice. He was prepared for it; crowds did not disturb him now. He had not barred himself from society out of fear, only from a need to establish, in peace, what had happened to him. He knew what he wanted, but until Umar was safe, he would not snatch it.
He had received no letter from Gelis van Borselen, and looked for none. Whatever had to be said, good or bad, had to be spoken. She knew he was home, and could guess he would come, sometime, to Bruges.
If she did not want to see him, she had only to leave early for Scotland. She had not left. And if she had not done so immediately, he thought she would wait for him now.
He had forgotten how green and wooded the countryside was, and the noise of the birds, and the density of the colours: the chestnut of ploughing horses; the crimson caps, the russet tunics, the dark leather aprons of the men in the villages; the ruddy cheeks and muslin-wrapped heads of the women; the scarlet and gold of poppy and buttercup in the hedgerows. And on every side, the blinding flash of sunlight on water, brighter than diamonds.
Then the brown walls of Bruges stood before him, the windmills turning above; the tunnelled, towered portico open; the drawbridge down over the canal; and a crowd on the far side. Among them he saw silk and velvet, banners and trumpets. In the centre was the Black Lion of Flanders, the great standard of Bruges.
Nicholas brought his cavalcade to a halt, and rode forward alone. Understanding, he did not feel either a fool, or contemptuous.
From the town issued a group of three échevins and three laymen. He didn’t look at the échevins, for the other three were Gregorio, Diniz and Tilde. Beside him, Margot was weeping.
Then the leading official stepped forward, and to a flourish of trumpets, bid welcome home to his town the Knight Nicholas vander Poele, honourable burgher of Bruges.
Chapter 39
BEFORE HE SET OUT for Bruges, Nicholas had in mind that, by some subtle arrangement, his first words there to Gelis would be spoken in private. On the other hand, it was always possible that she would choose (as she did) to come face to face with him before others, and on an occasion as public as the reception given for him by the Lord Louis de Gruuthuse.
Considering Gelis, Nicholas took into account (he took everything into account) that it was two and a half years since they met. The only intimacy between them had been the physical bond of one night, and in her only sight of him since, he had been a senseless invalid, in a worse state than Godscalc.
He himself had not realised, until the faces of Diniz and the other two warned him, that his own colleagues had come to the Gand gate apprehensive of what they would see. They had heard he was safe: he had sent them messages; he was obviously capable still of journeying over the Alps. If they were so relieved to see him properly gowned and largely unchanged, then presumably others had shared their misgivings. It was not until he saw Godscalc that he understood the whole cause.
By then, he had replied to the speeches and received the scroll with the burgomaster’s name on it, and led his small cavalcade through all the familiar streets to the tall, elaborate house he now shared with the Charetty. The citizens of Bruges did not line the way, although the most curious had come as far as the bridge and plenty of others glanced over their shoulders as the banners and trumpets trooped past. He saw a few rascals he knew, and a few old friends, and one or two very old enemies. He didn’t embarrass any of them by stopping to speak.
Diniz was, he thought, disappointed; but Gregorio, flushed with emotion, explained over the noise of the hooves. ‘I’m amazed they managed the trumpets – they’re punch-drunk with ceremonies. The old Duke’s funeral, the new Duke’s entry, the Chapter of the Golden Fleece, the Easter processions, and now this bloody Wedding, twice postponed. Are you really well?’
His eyes kept travelling beyond Nicholas. Nicholas said, ‘If you stopped yelling in my ear, you could drop back and ride beside her. Margot, tell him we’re all really well, and you’ve agreed to marry me.’
Both now scarlet, Gregorio and his splendid Margot changed their order of riding. Tilde said, ‘They should marry.’
She looked well, too; twenty-one years old, with her brown hair long and burnished under her cap and her lightly furred cloak falling from straight shoulders. She was smiling into space.
Diniz said, ‘Everyone should.’ He was smiling
into space, too. Then they both turned and spoke to Nicholas at once.
At Spangnaerts Street, their town escort departed and Diniz, by magic, disposed of the servants and soldiers they had brought with them. In the yard were all the dyeyard workers from Henninc downwards, and the office workers led by Cristoffels. And Catherine, Tilde’s young sister, crying a little. And a tall, bent man in a priest’s robe with a crutch under one arm who held out the claw of a bird and said, ‘Now I am content.’
‘And I, also,’ said Nicholas. ‘But there is still room for improvement.’
That day he spent among them all, as was right. The barrels of wine were broken open and the platters of food came steaming through from the kitchen, accompanied by the cooks themselves, and the whispering kitchen boys in relays. And as the hours wore on, others came – not of the greater sort, but small clients and craftsmen who would not figure at the town’s board, but who had known the Charetty family long enough. Among them was Colard Mansion, scribe and painter.
‘My dear! The Baptist, angelic and meagre! And sober, on your day of rejoicing?’
‘It’s a lie. I’m as drunk as you are. Did you get my letters?’ said Nicholas.
‘What letters?’ said Colard. ‘Yes, I got them. Never mind farting business. You should see what vander Goes and I have done for the Wedding. You heard about the Wedding? We had to get it all ready for May, and now it’s not till nearly July. The twelve bloody labours of Hercules – I am serious. Ships, and trees. A lion. A leopard. A unicorn. A whale. A camel – you ought to know all about camels. Anything that can take a tube up its arse and pee wine. Come and see it all. I’ll get Governor William to come.’
‘Will you?’ said Nicholas. Godscalc was out of hearing.
‘Yes. How much money have you got?’ said Colard Mansion.
‘Enough for half of what you’re thinking of,’ Nicholas said.
‘You’re a mean bastard,’ said Colard, without rancour. ‘You’re a mean, sober bastard who likes to see other men drunk.’
Scales of Gold: The Fourth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 61