Scales of Gold (20 page)

Along the wall, someone spoke. Against the deep blue of the night and the black rounded chain of the hills, nothing moved. Nicholas added tranquilly, ‘It wasn’t serious. I couldn’t afford it. It was only to slow matters down. But for some reason Simon has left, and she has the decision to make.’

Diniz said, ‘You think I should go back.’

And Nicholas said, ‘I think Jordan thinks you should go back. He paid Simon, I’m told, to get out of Portugal. And that leaves only you.’

‘I won’t be coerced,’ Diniz said.

‘No,’ said Nicholas.

Silence fell. Instead of the irritations and tedium of the campaign, Diniz found his mind invaded again by the fear his grandfather inspired; the angry pity for Lucia his mother; his disillusionment with Simon, that flower of chivalry her brother. He knew he ought to go back, and that he wouldn’t. Not even for Nicholas, who had searched him out to tell him. Searched him out, incongruously dressed as a ship’s clerk from a galley.
I had a call to make anyway
.

Diniz said, for the second time, and much more abruptly, ‘Why are you here?’

Then Nicholas stirred. He wrinkled his nose like a dog and sat the eyeglasses on it again. ‘Guess,’ he said.

Further along the walls, out of sight, someone was whistling. Below in the town, a donkey brayed, and a dog began to bark, and broke off with a squeal. A scent of incense floated up from the mosques turned into churches, together with the smells of humanity and of the sea. In the bay, the lanterns of the fleet that had brought the Burgundians festooned the darkness and, by their interrupted reflections, gave substance to the host of small boats that also littered the water.

Nicholas had sailed in the supply ship that had come in from Lagos today; a great galley of Florentine build that had seen long and hard service. He knew what ships Nicholas had. This one fitted all he knew of the
Ciaretti
, which had stayed with the Bank all the time that Nicholas had been in Cyprus.

He had watched her come in, flying the Portuguese flag. He had watched the fuss she made, seeking a berth, before settling next to one of the troopships. Diniz had paid little attention. Otherwise he would have realised sooner that he recognised the roundship beside her, because he had sailed in that same ship from Cyprus. She was the
Doria
, the vessel which Jordan and Crackbene had stolen. Diniz said, without explanation or context, ‘You can’t!’ His breath caught.

He felt Nicholas move. Nicholas said, ‘I hope the garrison can manage without it. Wouldn’t you think so?’

Diniz boiled with frustration. ‘You can’t. How can you?’

He heard, rather than saw, Nicholas give a smile. Nicholas said, ‘It wasn’t hard to arrange. There’s only a watchman aboard, and a roundship doesn’t need much of a crew. We’ll transfer twenty-five mariners, and they’ll take her over to Spain before daylight.’

‘And then where?’ Diniz said. ‘Jordan leased her to Portugal for a year.’

‘She wasn’t Jordan’s to lease,’ Nicholas said. ‘You don’t mind? By the time she lifts anchor, you won’t be on watch.’

He had thought of everything. Diniz said, ‘You’re going with her?’

‘Great God no,’ Nicholas said. ‘Triadano and I have to stay behind, expressing sympathy and completing our business.’

‘Of course,’ Diniz said. ‘And then to Venice, picking up the rescued roundship on the way.’ It was neat, and successful, and brilliant. He said, his eyes damp, ‘I don’t suppose you need an able dyeworks apprentice?’ Then he said, ‘It’s all right. I didn’t mean it.’

Nicholas said, ‘I know you didn’t. I asked you if you were taking the Cross?’

Diniz’ head ached. He said with sudden conviction, ‘No. I don’t belong here.’ He stopped. He said, ‘I suppose I should go back to Lagos.’

‘Only you can decide,’ Nicholas said. ‘But if you want, I can carry you. I have to take the
Ciaretti
back to load cargo. She does sail back to Venice, but I have to stay and make money. The Bank and the Charetty company are in need of funds. I told you, I think, that I couldn’t really afford to bid for your company.’

He didn’t believe it. He said, ‘How? What has happened?’

‘The Vatachino,’ Nicholas said. ‘Among other things. So I’m taking Ludovico da Bologna’s advice, and launching my own private crusade into the African interior. That’s why I need the
Doria
. She’ll load at Sanlúcar, and meet me off the African coast at Madeira.’

‘How will you get there?’ said Diniz.

‘By caravel, licensed by Portugal. I shall have to pay for it.’

‘With African gold,’ Diniz said.

‘I have to redeem the Bank,’ Nicholas said. It was all he said. He wasn’t like Jordan. He didn’t coerce. He presented the facts, and then waited.

Diniz said, ‘When does my mother decide? About selling the business?’

‘Why?’ said Nicholas.

‘Because surely she should inspect the plantations first? See her managers?’

‘What are you asking?’ Nicholas said.

Diniz said, ‘Take us both to Madeira. I’ll come with you to Lagos and persuade her.’

‘She may have sold,’ Nicholas said. ‘I told you who was there.’

‘Yes,’ Diniz said. ‘Gelis van Borselen.’

Nicholas said, ‘I won’t involve her. Neither should you.’

‘She is involved,’ said Diniz. ‘She drives my mother wild, but she listens to her. I think she won’t let her sell. I think she might persuade my mother to go to Madeira.’

‘On my ship?’ Nicholas said. ‘After the death of your father? Don’t expect it. She may be troubled enough that you turned back from Ceuta.’

The sharpness of the words cut, and a deeper anguish welled up. ‘They weren’t starving,’ said Diniz.

‘It isn’t a sin,’ Nicholas said.

It was not, perhaps, quite as easy as Nicholas had made out to man Jordan’s roundship and sail it out of harbour, and when it was finally done, she had to deceive the fast ships Ceuta sent off to locate her. But she had a good start, and when daylight came they were still casting about. By the time they got as far as Sanlúcar the
Doria
was drawn up in dock draped with matting and her name had been changed. She had been there for two weeks, said the Spanish authorities. The Venetian consul in Seville was Antonio da Ca’ da Mosto.

Behind in Ceuta, there was an eruption of charge, counter-charge and horror over the purloining of the roundship
Doria
, but the blame, it was finally concluded, lay with pirates and renegades who, stealing through in the night, had manned and taken her for their own illicit purposes. The officer in charge of the watch was, fortuitously, of such a high degree that no punishment could be inflicted.

A letter of explanation was dictated to be sent to His Sacred Majesty, and another to the lord vicomte de Ribérac, who had leased the ship to Portugal for the highest of motives. Both letters stressed the hardships being suffered in Ceuta, the loss of gallant young lives, and the consequent exhaustion of the rest of the garrison. The governor also mentioned that his pay was eighteen months in arrears, and the amount of supplies just unloaded had been rather less than he asked for.

This was true, since a third of it lay safely locked in Sanlúcar. The rest, however, exactly matched the bill of lading handed over (and written) by the clerk of the
Ciaretti
. The
Ciaretti
also, naturally, carried both letters back to Lagos, along with young Senhor Vasquez, who had been recalled to deal with his widowed mother’s affairs.

His release had not been hard to procure. Autumn was here. The Moorish offensive against Ceuta was over. If the Bastard of Burgundy were to fulfil his vow in a greater arena, he should be proceeding immediately to the Pope’s side. Or at the worst, wintering in some port in Europe where he could be reached from his father’s bier or bedside in Brussels.

Throughout it all, the young Senhor Diniz saw nothing of
Nicholas in Ceuta, and very little on the voyage to Lagos, on a ship encumbered with returning officials. Nicholas, on the other hand, saw rather more of him than Diniz knew. Landed at Lagos, he let the passengers go ashore, and then had Diniz brought to his cabin. He took his eyeglasses off.

Physically, the boy had matured. The hollow-cheeked, bloodless youngster of Famagusta was a man of middle height who would never be broad, but who now had the shoulders, the neck and the forearms of a soldier. He looked his father’s son, except for the shape of his eyes and something about the set of his back, which came from his half-Scottish blood. Nicholas said, ‘Are you sorry?’

‘No,’ said Diniz. His eyes were bright. He said, ‘You’ll come to the house with me?’

‘I think that would be a remarkably bad idea,’ Nicholas said. ‘No. It’s your own affair, what you and your people decide. Anyway, I’m supposed to be out of town. Send and tell me tomorrow what happened.’

Diniz said, ‘I thought I’d tell them …’

Nicholas rose. He said, ‘Diniz, I don’t want to know. You’ve had time to think. It’s your business. If your mother wants, I’ll take her to Madeira. But I shan’t take you without her.’

The boy’s skin darkened. Then he said, ‘Of course not,’ and left.

Nicholas went ashore in disguise, and passed the hours until sunset in the house Gregorio had taken, for ostensibly he had spent the last days in Lisbon, not Ceuta, and was not due to return until evening. He used the time to talk to his companions in residence, among them Jorge da Silves, now installed to supervise the commissioning of the vessel whose master he would be.

Time now was precious. Heat and rain were the enemy: every voyage to and from the African coast had to be made between September and May. In three weeks the ship had to be ready, to the last detail of equipment, provisions and crew. On this, the first day of his return, Nicholas mastered the reports, read the lists, and discussed the last fitting-out of the caravel. It had a name.

‘The
what
!’ Nicholas said.

‘The
San Niccolò,
’ Gregorio said. ‘We had to call the ship something. What are you going to use for the other one? The
Doria
, the
Ribérac
, or just
Future Trouble
? Stolen, unlicensed, and trading where anyone can blow her out of the water? Who’s going to sail her?’

‘No one reputable, you may be sure,’ Nicholas said. He didn’t want to upset anyone, yet. He didn’t particularly want a ship named after himself either, but knew well enough when to recognise a gesture. He said, ‘I wonder whom Jordan insured her with?’

By the time he went to bed that night he had seen over his completed ship, now afloat. After the
Ciaretti
, the caravel felt like a fishing-boat. Half the length, three-masted, beamy, she answered to twenty-five mariners, as the slender
Ciaretti
answered to two hundred or more, and had room in her stout pinewood belly for food and water and cargo; and a rig and a rudder to take her anywhere her captain had heart to go. Still warm from the sun, she was so new she smelt like a banquet, and shone in the lamplight like satin. The pain he felt this time, unwisely, was joy.

Next day, he was arguing over some drawings of collapsable boats when Bel of Cuthilgurdy was announced, and for a moment he couldn’t recall who she was. Then she came in, upholstered from neck to floor like a tent and wearing a linen towel on her head, bunched heavily over each ear. She was not carrying a hackbut. She said, ‘Aye. And are ye sober today?’

Simon’s sister’s companion. He said, ‘You need to come very early for that,’ and smiled at her, and got rid of the others who fortunately didn’t speak Scots. He found her a cushioned stool and some wine. When she sat, all the stool and part of the floor disappeared. He sat down opposite. ‘Now, about sodomy,’ she began.

‘… Yes?’ said Nicholas.

‘Oh, ye can cackle,’ said the woman. Her eyes were brown as two coppers. ‘But spoil that laddie’s good name, and I’ll have ye cold as a chine of boiled mutton. He’s for going to Madoora.’

‘Madeira,’ Nicholas said. ‘With his mother?’

‘Ye know Mistress Lucia?’ the woman said. ‘Well, you’ve cause to. She got three good dunts on ye afore we pulled her away.’

‘You had a hackbut,’ said Nicholas.

‘But I didna use it. No. Ye don’t want Mistress Lucia on Madoora.’

‘Worse than sodomy?’ Nicholas said.

‘You’re a cheeky young bastard,’ she said.

‘So I’m told,’ Nicholas said. He lost his inclination to laugh.

She said, ‘Aye. That’s you, then. Now listen. My wee lady doesna want to go to Madoora: she’s feared. But she’s just as feared the boy will escape her again. She’s not the one to stand up to bullying, Mistress Lucia. She’s seen ower muckle.’

She paused. He didn’t say anything. She went on, her voice dry. ‘There’s no doubt, my fine Master Niccolò, that she will lose her grip of the business if someone doesna go out to Madoora and fight for it. The boy’s willing. He’s better than naebody.’

‘He’s a good deal better than that,’ Nicholas said.

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said the woman. ‘His mother – you’ll
allow – is inordinate light in her humours, poor lass, and not sortable.’

Nicholas said, ‘He would be on my ship for three days. Presumably you have a good factor at Funchal? Or does he practise sodomy too?’

‘Oh, aye, you’re a clever hoor,’ said Bel of Cuthilgurdy, ‘and would lay that tongue of yours against anybody. But there’s never been cause to complain about Jaime, and the lad will be safe in his hands. Forbye, the girl will go, and me with her.’

‘The girl?’ But of course he remembered.

‘Gelis. Sister to Simon’s sorry young wife. The boy says ye tended the lass Katelina in Cyprus.’

‘Her sister doesn’t think so,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then the two of us, I take it, won’t be let go. And Diniz can’t go. And hence the company falls into your pooch? Supple tricks, Master Niccolò.’ Her consonants could have cut tin.

Gregorio opened the door, said, ‘Oh. Forgive me,’ and closed it. The hour-glass was empty. Nicholas stretched out his hand and reversed it. The drawings he had disputed so violently had rolled themselves up. They weren’t so bad: with one major change, they would give him the adjustable, the portable boats which were going to make all the difference. He had meant to ride to Sagres today, but it was getting late now to go visiting. He said, ‘Does Simon pay you? Or Jordan?’