‘Apart from marrying you?’ Smiling still, the long-lashed eyes were observing Simon de St Pol among the group who were entering the room. David de Salmeton said softly, ‘What else has he done?’
‘Found Michael Crackbene,’ Nicholas said. ‘Among other things. That’s his written statement. Now tell me I don’t own the Ghost.’
During the hour that they talked, they could have heard, through closed windows, the blare of the trumpets and clarions; the signal that the half-hour of the sand-glass had run; the pause to rearm; the further fanfares and tattoos that announced the next stage of the contest. Within, no one listened, for they were fighting with words.
Nicholas had never thought it would be easy. The Ghost had begun life as a ship of Jordan de Ribérac’s purloined by Simon, but without Jordan no one could prove it. It had been sailed to Trebizond by Simon’s agent and had been captured by the Turks, and had been recaptured and salvaged by Nicholas, who now claimed it as his own.
The court of Trebizond, where all that had happened, had gone. Tobie was there to speak to it, and Astorre, and Godscalc and Julius as well as himself. But he had no independent witness except one.
‘Where is Crackbene?’ said Simon de St Pol. ‘Is this his writing? And if it is, what of it anyway? A man who will change his tune for a fee is worth nothing.’
‘He is in Bruges,’ Nicholas said. ‘He will tell you how we tricked the Turks and brought the Doria home. I shall find for you, if I must, some of the merchants we saved.’
‘What would they know? Only what you cared to tell them. The truth everyone knows,’ Simon said, ‘is that you killed Pagano Doria and stole the ship. And stole it again, when it was in service against the Muslims in Ceuta.’
‘And that’s a lie,’ Julius said. He had interrupted a great deal, not always successfully.
‘It is a lie,’ Godscalc said. ‘I can tell you now that what Nicholas says is the truth.’
‘How strange,’ Simon said. ‘One might almost say you had identical reasons for favouring Nicholas. A share in his wealthy Bank, could it be?’
‘There is another fragment of evidence,’ Nicholas said. ‘I should rather not use it. But it’s there. You may like to see it.’
‘Written by another member of your Bank?’ David de Salmeton said. ‘My dear Nicholas, it is all rather incestuous.’
‘You may think this even more so,’ Nicholas said. ‘I think it is rather brave. She wrote it out for me herself, and signed it. An account by Catherine de Charetty of how Pagano Doria died, and what happened afterwards.’
He didn’t look at Godscalc, for Godscalc had brought it to him. The only help Catherine could give him, and the most painful for her. For she had sailed on the Doria to Trebizond, and had thought, to the end, that Pagano Doria loved her, and had made her his wife.
‘Poor child,’ said David de Salmeton. ‘The sister, is she not, of your fiancée, Senhor Diniz? A brave lie indeed. But it is still true, is it not, that you purloined the Doria from Ceuta, and changed her name to the Ghost? It is also true that she attacked the Fortado, and engaged in illicit trade. I feel for you. I should like to be lenient on your wedding day, but I am afraid that I, too, see no evidence that would hold up in court.’
‘One might, perhaps, point out some contradictions,’ Nicholas said. ‘I did take the Doria from Ceuta, but I took what was my own: that is not theft. I did deprive the garrison of her services, but on the other hand I was risking my life to find gold for the Church, and take a mission to Ethiopia. The King of Portugal found no fault with that, nor the Order of Christ, nor the Pope. And what illicit acts did she perform? Crackbene will tell you that she made no attack on the Fortado – he is quite positive, I find, on that score. And trading? She sold horses in Grand Canary and took supplies to the Cape Verde islands, after which she returned wholly empty. You have seen that verified for yourselves.’
‘There is no case,’ said Gilles Lomellini. ‘I have listened. There is no evidence to prove you own the Ghost.’
‘You think not?’ Nicholas said. ‘Then I shall have to concentrate, shall I not, on the case against the Fortado? And that, my dear sirs, is a different matter.’
It was. It depended, he knew, on the professions of Michael Crackbene and the boy. It depended on Melchiorre’s evidence – but the very scars on his body would speak for Melchiorre. The other evidence had to come from themselves. But there were seven of them still alive and accessible who had been caught in Raffaelo Doria’s trap in a hut on the Gambia, and among them was Gelis, and Bel.
He was aware, as he told the story, that Julius was silent at last, and so were all those who had not been there. Gelis, as she had all along, let him unfold the case in his own way. He ended by describing how Raffaelo Doria had died.
‘He was greedy,’ Nicholas said. ‘So were some of my own men. Gold is a cruel master. But he was ready to kill, even women. I cannot let that pass. He is dead, but you, all three of you, stand responsible for what he did. And the selling of arms is a hanging matter.’
Gilles Lomellini said, ‘I do not wish this brought to court.’
Simon flushed. ‘What say do you have? Your cousins preferred secret partners. It is for me to say what we do.’
‘It is for all of us to say,’ said David de Salmeton. ‘Messer Simon, you wish to go to law to justify your possession of the Ghost, and there I agree with you heartily. If the Ghost belongs to the charming Ser Niccolò, then the Vatachino must return his insurance money.’
‘So we go to court,’ Simon said.
‘But,’ said David de Salmeton, ‘it is not, is it, merely a matter of money? I do not care for what I hear of Raffaelo Doria.’
‘They can’t prove it,’ said Simon.
‘But if they could?’ de Salmeton said. His eyes were on Nicholas. He said, very softly, ‘Messer Simon, I think someone would like you to take this to court. I would remind you that someone has already pointed out that the sale of arms to the natives of Guinea is punishable by death.’ He held Nicholas still with his eyes.
Far off, trumpets brayed in a fanfare. A remote voice spoke; there was a roar of acclaim. Music struck up. Gelis was looking at him, her eyes pale and wide.
Nicholas said, ‘I brought you here today to listen to you, and so that you could hear what I had to say. And so that, whatever conclusions we reached, they would still remain private to us, and capable of a private solution.’
‘A private solution?’ Simon said. He was frowning. Amid the vanity, the self-interest, perhaps he was coming to reason. Or perhaps not.
Nicholas said, ‘The Ghost is mine, but I may not be able to prove it in court. The crimes of the Fortado are yours, and can be shown to be so. Give me the Ghost in free ownership, and I shall absolve you from the deeds of Raffaelo Doria, and forget that you ever sold arms.’
Julius sighed. David de Salmeton said, ‘And the insurance money?’
‘Repayable to me,’ Nicholas said. ‘Your partners in the Fortado will, I am sure, be persuaded to help you. Gregorio?’
Gregorio rose. The papers he laid on the table were already drawn up, and there were copies for each man.
Nicholas said, ‘That is your statement accepting my account of the Ghost. And that is mine, absolving you from any harm the Fortado caused on that voyage. If you sign, you will hear nothing more.’ He didn’t add – it didn’t matter – that the Fortado had sunk.
They signed. Both his cases against them were in fact without flaw. He wondered if Simon would ever realise it.
He should have felt elated, when it was over, and de Salmeton and Lomellini had gone, followed after a moment by Simon who had stopped as if he would speak, and then, with a curious laugh, had departed. He was elated, after a bit.
Julius said, ‘What were you thinking of? You could have won both these suits!’
‘No. He did as he should. It was a day for lenience,’ Godscalc said.
‘I thought so,’ Nicholas said. ‘Why has everyone gone? The lists are empty! Have the
y all killed one another?’
‘Don’t get excited,’ said Tobie. ‘They had to stop the tournament to make time for the banquet. If we hurry, we can get there before they start eating. Gelis, how do you like receiving a ship for your morning-gift?’
‘It isn’t morning yet,’ said Nicholas complainingly.
‘So she’s got it without working for it. And my God,’ Tobie said, ‘it will be morning by the time they finish this banquet.’
It was three o’clock in the morning when the Duke’s wedding feast came to an end, and his guests rose from their places in the great timber hall at the Princenhof, brought there and lovingly laid on his tennis court through the practical labours of Nicholas.
Painted and draped in white and blue wool, hung with tapestries and furnished with cloth-of-gold tablecloths, it had been transformed. Piled with gold in the centre was a buffet containing half the Duke’s treasures; the effect, Nicholas thought, was much the same as the Timbuktu-Koy strove to attain. Among the singing, dancing, erupting artefacts had been a dromedary with a genuine black man on its back, dressed like a mountebank.
Gelis had watched it, and then turned. ‘Couldn’t you stop them doing that?’ Beneath a barmican of veiling, her face was pale and her lids extraordinarily heavy: she looked like a piece of elegant sculpture encased for some procession in tinsel. Her ring was so new it caught all the light.
‘His name’s Jacob,’ Nicholas said. ‘He’s a baptised Mandingua and quite pleased with himself, as it happens; he’s never had so much food or attention. The other side of what Umar wanted to show us. The candelabra. What do you think of them?’
‘Do you really want to know?’ Gelis had said.
‘No. And the verse? You did approve of the verse?’
‘Of course I approved of the verse. It was the only time you stopped talking. Calm down,’ Gelis had said. ‘Don’t let go all at once.’ She sounded on edge.
It was good advice, he supposed. He further supposed that it was the sort of advice the bridegroom should be offering the bride, not the other way round. He had other things he was waiting to tell her. About the land and the pretty house he had bought, or Bonkle for him. About the plans for Spangnaerts Street. If she wished she could live with him in Cyprus. In Alexandria. In Damascus. In a single, small room, with a fountain playing outside. I want the teachers sprung of your line to help instruct the poor fools sprung of mine. I mean to match you, child for child …
It seemed that, once out of the hall, Tobie and Julius and Gregorio were waiting to escort them both home. Godscalc, less fit than the others, had ridden before them, with Tilde and her sister.
It was not far to go, and the sky above them was paling. They walked, and others walked with them, full of yawning and laughter, dropping aside at their doors with a final bawdy rejoinder. The Duke would be in bed soon, and so would he. They walked up Naalden Straate past the Hof Bladelin, and found themselves still attached to Tommaso Portinari, less than sober and profoundly desirous of company. After two ineffectual attempts to dispose of him, Julius and Tobie took him over, and walked him along to Spangnaerts Street between them.
Bel and Diniz had already gone. She had kissed Nicholas, and he had hugged her in return. In his arms she felt plump again now, and not at all the quiet, suffering woman he had carried to the Joliba. And Diniz, surprisingly, had kissed him as well; a cousinly kiss, full of affection. There was, Nicholas dimly reflected, a lot of affection about him. He was not really standing alone, nor was Gelis. They had been apart for eight weeks.
He began to want, very much, to be with Gelis; and smiled at her. She raised her hand; there was a glint from her ring. The silver stuff of her gown in the half-light looked like a mermaid, a mirage. He put his arm round her shoulders, and found he was shaking. He removed it. ‘Oh, Jesus!’ he said. ‘Don’t let go all at once. When we get to the house –’
‘Marching orders?’ she said. ‘When we get to the house, I shall go upstairs, and you will stay below and sing the lion’s song three times over. You remember the lion? Its song?’
‘Shall I ever forget it?’ he said. And proved it all along the last, short street to his house.
Bien vienne la belle bergére:
De qui la beauté et maniére …
Julius joined him, and then Tommaso, and Tobie, ending before his own gates.
C’est la source, c’est la miniére,
De nostre force grande et fiére.
C’est nostre paix et asseurance.
Dieu louans de telle aliance,
Crions, chantons, à lie chere,
Bien vienne.
Gelis went in.
‘I have to sing it twice more,’ Nicholas said, and began.
‘Three times,’ Tommaso said. They were trying to turn him round.
‘I’ve done it once,’ Nicholas said. ‘Oh, bring him in. Tobie, find him somewhere to sleep. Father Godscalc?’
They were, at least, inside the door. Godscalc, still in his best robes, said, ‘Bring him in. What are you doing?’
‘Singing under my breath,’ Nicholas said. ‘I have to do it once more. Well, twice.’
Godscalc laughed. He said, ‘You must wish you had less good a memory. Nicholas. That was well done, today.’
‘Which?’ Nicholas said. ‘The wedding, the Wedding, or the court case that wasn’t?’
‘The court case that wasn’t,’ Godscalc said. ‘You are a fine man when you want to be, Nicholas. And tonight, you deserve your reward.’
‘I’m on the last verse,’ Nicholas said. He was already elsewhere in spirit. No, not in spirit.
Tommaso said, ‘I owe you some money.’ They had let him down on the floor, which was clean.
‘Never mind,’ Nicholas said. ‘Tell me tomorrow. Today. Bien vienne, everybody. And its opposite.’
‘For the message to Guinea,’ said Tommaso Portinari. ‘No need to send it.’
Nicholas turned. He said, ‘Oh, damnit, Tommaso. Hasn’t it gone?’
‘No need to send it,’ said Tommaso again. ‘Heard the news just this morning from Dei. Remember Dei? Going to Marseilles?’
‘What news?’ Nicholas said. He perched on the stairs. The others were lounging about. He felt, as yet, slightly puzzled, with only the merest thread of anxiety.
‘About the rising,’ said Tommaso Portinari. ‘You know those damned tribes are always rising? Well, some big black king of some tribe called the Sunny –’
‘Songhai,’ Nicholas said. No one else spoke.
‘– has marched into Timbuktu. Called in by the fool Timbuktu ruler to throw out somebody else. Hackle.’
‘Akil,’ said Godscalc softly. He came and knelt by the stairs.
‘But ended by taking over Timbuktu for himself, and murdering most of the scholars. Some of them escaped to Walata. Hackle helped them. The rest couldn’t ride camels.’
He sat, swaying slightly, and confused by the silence.
Nicholas said, ‘You didn’t send my message to Walata?’
‘Ibn Said’s all right,’ Tommaso said. ‘It’s the other one, the one you sent the message to. That one is dead. And his wife. And all but one of his children.’ He stopped swaying. ‘I’m sorry. You liked him.’
‘Umar?’ Nicholas said.
‘The one you call Umar. Loppe. The Negro you had. He’s dead,’ Tommaso said.
It was cold on the stairs. Tommaso had gone. Everyone had gone but Father Godscalc. Nicholas said, ‘He said he was going to Walata. He needed the camels. But they couldn’t have got out in time.’
Godscalc tightened his hand on his shoulder.
Nicholas said, ‘I told you. He sent me home.’
After a while, Godscalc said, ‘Go up to her.’
She had probably been in bed a long time. The silver stuff was properly folded: she must have dropped it at first; and then, when he didn’t come, she had got out and smoothed it. Her hair was loose, and her breasts were bare where the sheet crossed them, and he could see the line
of her body below. Her eyes were deep in shadow.
She had put the lamp out; he could smell warm oil, and the scent she liked to use best, and the smell of her skin. Of herself. The low light through the window was blue. He opened the casement.
She said, ‘Who was below?’ Her voice was hoarse.
He said, ‘No one. Tommaso.’
It was light enough to see, vaguely, the colour of the small, speckled bricks on the opposite wall, and the grey and purple and green of the slates on all the roof-tops beyond, and the red of the pantiles and even, somewhere, a flashing light reflected from water. It was fresher than yesterday, with no thunder anywhere. No lions. Bien vienne.
She said, ‘Come and sit.’
He would have to burden her with it. Of all people, she knew Umar; knew what he had done; what he was; what he meant. To be told was her due. He did not want, nor would she, words of comfort. He turned and, walking slowly, moved to the bed and sat on it.
She had turned the sheet down and lay, her fine hair spread about and around her. He let his eyes rest on her night-shadowed face, and wondered how tired she was, and how to tell her. He took her hands, which lay on her thighs, and were cold. She said, ‘Nicholas? Look at my belly.’
His thoughts, already in pieces, made no sense of that. She hadn’t smiled or made a luxurious movement, only surrendered her hands. He had not thought to look at her body from the moment he had brought himself to come in. He said, ‘Why?’
‘Because it is six weeks full of a child,’ Gelis said.
There was no alteration in her position or face; only her voice was still hoarse. ‘Ours?’ he said, because it would have been strange to say nothing.
‘Six weeks,’ she repeated. She said it tersely, as if he had annoyed her.
Then he brought all his thoughts together, and looked at her body.
The changes, so early, were small, but plain to a lover. He sat still, until he could breathe. ‘Whose?’ he said. Even then, his mind did not travel.
She said, ‘Guess. What would truly, truly, avenge Katelina and her son at long last?’
He gazed at her, and through her.
Scales of Gold: The Fourth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 68