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

by Dorothy Dunnett

  None of the slaves, dead or alive, had been baptised, which had been another bone of contention. He was not a witch doctor, saving souls with a sprinkle of water. There was more to baptism than that, whatever the Order of Christ might expect. Instead he gave them his care and his time, those who were left; and Loppe stayed with them if they would have him. Most of them distrusted Loppe, and had no use for a priest. The person they welcomed was Bel.

  This morning she had spent in another place, with the girl. The uncharacteristic outburst of yesterday had proved to have a common physical reason, as Godscalc had privately suspected. Its immediate handling had also been physical. Faced with an overwrought girl, Nicholas, the best-served apprentice in Bruges, had known what to do better than Godscalc. Godscalc wondered how he had decided to exploit it.

  He found out soon, for the girl came up before noon to see the Fortado. Everyone came from time to time; even Diniz, leaving his horses. Diniz was here, Godscalc now comprehended, partly because of Simon’s treachery; partly to redeem his mother’s fortune; and partly, there was no doubt, because of Nicholas, alternately friendly and alienating. Godscalc wished from the depths of his heart that Gregorio and not Diniz had been allowed to come on this voyage. He had no doubt at all that it had fallen out according to plan. Loppe, of course, had suspected. And the Vatachino had been sure.

  Nicholas had not, however, expected Gelis van Borselen to persist. Godscalc would have wished her safe at home too; growing to womanhood, setting the fate of her sister behind her. As it was, her obsession fed on itself. She risked her life for no good except the one she least wanted: that she might unwittingly bring Nicholas to his senses.

  It seemed unlikely she would. Loppe had been given a free rein in this terrible experiment for a reason. For all Nicholas might claim, this so-called Christian expedition to Ethiopia was concerned wholly with gold, and depended upon the advice of someone who knew about gold. And for all he further claimed, the gold was not for his Bank or for Diniz, but to salve his own pride and the scars of his dreadful and personal losses. His very real losses; of course one gave Nicholas that. One understood much about Nicholas, but one could not excuse.

  Godscalc was silent therefore when Gelis climbed the steps to the deck, Bel behind her, and after a word with the master joined Diniz at the rail looking aft. She said, ‘Is that the Fortado? The blue ship?’

  ‘You can see it’s blue?’ Diniz said. ‘No one could, early this morning. It got a better wind for a bit, and gained on us. You could see where the spar came down, if she was nearer. You could see where we shot right across her midships. Nicc– They say she must have carried out her own repairs. She can’t have stayed long at Arguim; just for stores. She can’t beat us, though.’

  ‘Who says?’ said Gelis.

  ‘Nicc– Everyone does,’ Diniz said. He had flushed. ‘Are you feeling better?’

  ‘Yes. Where is Nicc-everyone?’ she asked.

  ‘Behind you,’ said Nicholas. ‘Diniz is embarrassed, and so is his conscience. We are none of us particularly pleased with ourselves, if you’ll believe it.’

  Gelis said, ‘My beliefs can’t matter very much at the moment. I wished to say that however right I was, and am, I chose the wrong time and place to say it, and for that I apologise. I have said as much to Lopez.’

  ‘Then you are braver than I am,’ said Nicholas. ‘But I’m glad you did it. You know we are putting off all but six at the Senagana? The Sanhaja have to find their way back up the coast, but speak Arabic, and will probably manage. Some of the blacks are Jalofos and swear they know where they’re going. The rest seem to be saying the same, but we don’t know their language. They may be killed. The alternative is to put them all in chains and take them to Portugal.’

  ‘You would do that?’ she said. She was wearing another gown. For a moment, her face looked different, too.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Nicholas. ‘It would be cruel past bearing. But if they’re still about when the Fortado arrives, some may be recaptured and auctioned by the Jalofos. Do we buy them in a second time, or do we let them go to the Fortado for a Christian employer in Portugal? I’ll do whatever you say. There are three girls and an eight-year-old boy with no skin on. Lázaro thought he could rub the black off.’

  ‘Nicholas,’ Godscalc said.

  ‘You don’t have to stop him,’ said Gelis. ‘I tore his hand, and I haven’t apologised. Nor am I going to. Yes. If they’re recaptured, I think the Fortado should have them.’

  ‘Diniz?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘She doesn’t mean it. She’s thinking it over,’ said Diniz.

  Godscalc looked at him, seeing to his surprise the soldier whom Nicholas had found, fighting at Ceuta. Perhaps Gelis van Borselen saw the same thing. There was a moment of stillness. Then she said, ‘You’re right. I don’t mean it. It is too late for that.’

  ‘It’s for you to say,’ Nicholas said. ‘And for me to buy them, of course. You thought Mistress Bel might open her purse-strings.’ It was impossible to tell whether he was surprised or annoyed or simply weary. All you could say was that he had been sufficiently moved to uproot the whole situation and throw it into their faces. Soon after that, the girl went below.

  The remaining time was spent devising a plan. The Fortado sailed like a bird but, failing disaster, would reach the Senagana half a day after them. They nearly had a disaster: striking blind into a circus of dolphins driving a shoal of yellow mullet on shore. The rudder kicked and, heavy as she was, the caravel rocked before she fought her way through without damage. ‘It happens here,’ Jorge said. ‘The mullet spawn: the heathens call in the dolphins to help them.’

  ‘Call the dolphins?’ said Bel. ‘By name, or do they come in by numbers?’

  ‘The fishermen smack the water with the flat of their paddles, and the dolphin respond. Let us hope the Fortado also has trouble,’ Jorge said. He knew the coast. He had not ranged the seas in the manner of Ochoa, until his joints swelled and his gums released the stumps of his teeth; but he knew what to expect from the Senagana. Except at time of flood, nothing could traverse the bars of the great double estuary. The factor’s mud house, reports said, had been hastily built on an island; the Niccolò, anchoring outside the river, a mile wide at its mouth, would send a party ashore and, according to the factor’s advice, land their cargo and find their way to the market.

  There were no warehouses as yet in Senagana. The trading was done away from the coast, as in Ca’ da Mosta’s time ten years before, at a village of the Jalofo King of the region. Nicholas and Jorge would lead, with the first mate and Godscalc and Loppe. And, naturally, the groom for the horses.

  ‘And me,’ said Diniz.

  ‘If you wish, of course,’ Nicholas said. ‘But that would leave the ladies alone on the Niccolò when Mick Crackbene comes in. I thought you wanted to meet Mick Crackbene again. You might get yourself invited on board the Fortado.’

  ‘So I might,’ said Diniz slowly; and gave a laugh that caused Father Godscalc to look at Nicholas sharply. But Nicholas merely looked stupid.

  Chapter 18

  HALFWAY THROUGH the next morning, when the heat had driven everyone except the lookout under awnings, the Portuguese caravel Fortado furled her mainsail and bumped through the currents to drop anchor beside her pristine twin the San Niccolò, rocking sleepily off the African coast at the swampy mouth of the Senagana river. The surf-boats which had earlier surrounded the latter, obedient as dolphins, reappeared lurching over the breakers to greet the latest arrival with struggling chickens and baskets of pepper and catches of mullet, and armfuls of black and brown berries.

  The oarsmen were of all races, from the half-naked blacks to the brown hazel-eyed Tuareg with their headcloths and skin shirts and breeches. And as the races were mixed, so the landscape showed a mingling of grass-covered dunes and low scrub and groves of coconut palms which was half Sahara and half something else. It was the edge of the Sahel, beyond which lay the interior, the green woodlands an
d grazings and bushes watered by the Senagana during its seeping, long-delayed summer flood, and giving life to bird and beast and to living communities. The dead, scorching breath of the desert had gone. Ripe smells, animal smells, reached out and seemed to sink heavily into the water. The smell of Africa, at long last.

  The floating market was an immediate success with the Fortado, starved of proper provisioning since Funchal. Diniz, leaning languidly over the rail of the Niccolò, observed the summary nature of the transactions and deduced that the vendors were well aware that the factor had been absent since daybreak, while the buyers were not. This view was confirmed by a hail which presently reached him from across the water. Messer Raffaelo Doria presented his compliments, and would be honoured to speak to the gentleman Niccolò vander Poele, whom he believed to be on board. The language he used was Portuguese.

  It had begun. Diniz, removing his gaze from a pleased scrutiny of certain patches and scars on the flanks of the neighbouring ship, peered at the speaker, who looked like a comito. ‘The gentleman?’ observed Diniz, after a while.

  ‘Niccolò vander Poele. The Fleming.’

  Gelis van Borselen, her crown heaped with sun-silvered ringlets, appeared beside Diniz and smiled dazzlingly over the water. The distant comito bowed. Diniz also sent him a smile. The comito, after a pause, repeated, ‘The Fleming?’

  ‘I am a Fleming,’ said Gelis. ‘And shall be happy to speak for my race. You have some matter to raise?’

  ‘Yes. That is, no. That is, senhora, your servant. It is a gentleman I seek.’

  Diniz threw back his shoulders. ‘I am a gentleman,’ he said. ‘Is there some doubt?’

  ‘A Flemish gentleman,’ said the comito. ‘Named Niccolò vander Poele.’

  ‘There is no such gentleman,’ said Diniz. ‘You are misinformed.’

  ‘But –’ said the comito, his voice rising.

  ‘That will do,’ said another voice, the voice of authority. It was not, as Diniz had hoped, the voice of Michael Crackbene. It came from a well-built gentleman in a doublet and hat almost worthy of Ochoa de Marchena, except that as well as expensive, his clothing was tasteful. Also his accent was not Spanish but Genoese, and his language, when he took the other’s place at the rail, was not Portuguese but Italian.

  He said, ‘I am Raffaelo Doria, commander of the Fortado. Do we misunderstand you? You must certainly have on board your licence-holder, a Flemish gentleman of the name you have heard. Or is the San Niccolò no longer trading?’

  ‘Ah!’ said the new, dulcet Gelis. ‘But sir, as Senhor Vasquez tried to tell you, you have been misinformed. There is no gentleman here of that name. The former gentleman of that name is now a Knight of the Order of the Sword. He is properly Ser Niccolò at the very least.’

  The commander, who had placed his gloved hands on the rail, now removed them. He said, ‘I apologise for my mistake. I should like to speak to Ser Niccolò. Indeed, I am astonished that he has not heard our exchange, or our entry. We fired our cannon.’

  ‘We took it,’ said Gelis in surprise, ‘that you wished to buy fish. Although, of course, all purchases should be made through the factor. Are you having a lucrative trip? Have you collected some very fine cargo?’

  ‘Is he on board?’ said her victim, flatly and finally.

  Diniz considered. ‘To tell the truth, no,’ he said at length. ‘Although we expect him quite soon. Indeed, I should invite you to come and await him, except that I have no authority.’

  ‘You should invite them,’ said Gelis suddenly and pettishly. ‘I am tired of dull company.’

  Diniz frowned at her. He repeated, ‘I have no authority.’

  ‘Then,’ declaimed the masterful voice from over the water, ‘perhaps the demoiselle would care to be the guest of the Fortado for an hour? When Messer – Ser Niccolò comes, he might join us.’

  ‘Myself, alone?’ said Gelis, stepping back. ‘I am afraid not.’

  ‘Of course, no. With Messer – Ser Vasquez, if he would do us the honour.’

  ‘I am afraid,’ said Gelis van Borselen, turning sideways, ‘I go nowhere without female companionship. I shall stay with Mistress Bel.’

  ‘But bring Mistress Bel!’ cried the commander.

  To the uninitiated, the deck of the Fortado appeared in good order: it was clean and trim, its awnings in decent repair, and the flask of wine produced for Diniz and the ladies was a good one, and very likely, thought Diniz, one of their last. He had a feeling the crew were below decks with a skin of Baobab juice. He wondered how many crew there still were. Raffaelo Doria said, ‘You are interested, Senhor Vasquez, in our repairs?’

  ‘You have had some damage, monseigneur?’ said Diniz. ‘We ran aground on a sandbank ourselves. It is easily done.’

  ‘There’s a tassel off their shades,’ said Mistress Bel. ‘When I’m more myself, I’d be pleased to bring over my needle.’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ said Raffaelo Doria. ‘We are not in parade order, I fear. We were attacked – you didn’t know? – and had to resort to some patching. Fortunately, we had a veteran of such matters aboard. You know him, I believe?’ He waved his hand. A head appeared above the forward hatch and a big, thick-built man with fair hair emerged with composure and approached, rolling slightly with the tilt of the deck.

  It was Michael Crackbene, once sailing-master to Nicholas, who had taken Jordan de Ribérac’s money and helped Jordan bring Diniz from Cyprus. For nine months, Diniz had hated Michael Crackbene, but of course he was old enough, now, not to show it. He said, ‘You found someone to give you a job.’

  ‘Is it all kinds of repairs?’ said Bel of Cuthilgurdy. ‘There’s a patch-stitch I’m fond of myself, but I’d rather not show you just now. I think it’s the shellfish.’

  ‘Master Nicholas isn’t with you?’ said Crackbene. He bowed to the company and, on Doria’s instruction, found a seat. His eyes, discovering Gelis, rested on her with something like amazement.

  ‘Happily not,’ said Gelis van Borselen. ‘Indeed, I think we too may have to relieve you of our company. From what Diniz tells me, I prefer not to stay in Master Crackbene’s vicinity.’

  ‘Why, I am sorry to hear that,’ said Raffaelo Doria. ‘Is it because of his appropriation of the Doria? You may not know that the ship belonged to Jordan de Ribérac in the first instance, and was annexed by your rash young knight Niccolò. After, I am sorry to say, causing the death of a distant cousin of mine, Pagano Doria. Am I right, Crackbene?’

  ‘To the letter, my lord,’ said Michael Crackbene. ‘That was when she changed her name to Doria from Ribérac. And is now known as the Ghost.’

  ‘There is a ship called the Ghost in these parts,’ Gelis said. ‘We saw her at Arguim. You mean that is the same ship as your Doria?’

  ‘Well, hardly,’ said Diniz. ‘If you mean the red roundship that started at Funchal. She’s nothing like the Doria, and I ought to know, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Raffaelo Doria thoughtfully. ‘Ships are easy to alter superficially. A look inside her would soon tell the truth.’

  ‘I’m fairly sure it was the shellfish,’ said his oldest guest. ‘Maybe a drop more of your Madeira?’

  Crackbene poured it. ‘Certainly, a look inside would be interesting. I, for example, am convinced that it was the Ghost and her guns which attacked us.’

  ‘You aren’t sure?’ Diniz said. ‘Why, was it at night? Then it probably wasn’t the Ghost. I told the agent at Arguim I saw a white roundship the previous day with some nasty armament on her.’

  ‘Indeed, Senhor Diniz?’ said Michael Crackbene. ‘It makes you wonder where she was provisioning. My difficulty is that the ship which attacked us appeared – I may be wrong – appeared to carry not only Master Nicholas, but your good self. With a hackbut.’

  ‘Crivens!’ said Mistress Bel. ‘Mind you, there’s a lot of them about. I’ve shot them myself, in my time. Gelis, I’ll need to excuse myself.’

  There was a wave of suppressed emba
rrassment. Gelis said, ‘I’ll come with you,’ and got up.

  The commander rose also. He said, ‘I am sorry. The lady feels herself unwell?’

  ‘It was the shellfish,’ said Gelis. ‘I don’t know where …’

  ‘I shall get someone to take her,’ said Raffaelo Doria. ‘Hey, Tati! Gahu!’

  The curtain of the poop cabin stirred, and a black Jalofo cherub in a white cotton chemise stood before them, hands modestly folded. Diniz, staring woodenly, identified it as a girl aged about twelve. The commander said, ‘Dafa fun ope. Biir day metti.’ And to Gelis, ‘Tati will take her below. There is no need for you to leave us.’ And as the child led Bel away – ‘But to return to what we were saying. Now I see you, I must confess that I would take you for the twin of the man who fired at our sails. Not knowing Ser Niccolò, I cannot say the same of him until I meet him. But Crackbene is amazingly sure.’

  ‘Then he was mistaken,’ said Gelis van Borselen, looking amused. ‘I am afraid I must tell you that both Diniz and Ser Niccolò sailed with me all the way from Funchal.’

  ‘On the San Niccolò?’

  ‘What else?’ said Gelis, transferring the smile to Mick Crackbene. She looked pretty. Diniz felt as thunderstruck as Michael Crackbene.

  ‘And yet you and Mistress Bel went ashore at Funchal?’ It was the commander again.

  ‘How interested you have been in our movements. Yes, we went ashore. We followed Senhor Diniz to his plantation, and after he had talked to his factor, we rejoined the San Niccolò at Câmara de Lobos. Signor Doria, are you accusing us of something? I believed we were here as your guests.’