Chapter 31
IT WAS April rain which visited Timbuktu in the course of that night: warm and irregular, evaporating almost as soon as it touched the hot earth, the drifting sand, the baked clay carapaces of airless, intimate chambers.
The April rain fell, too, on Madeira, but in token of a moist and sluggish retreat: the mild, wet season was ending, and flowers were springing again from the bottomless tilth: orchids and lilies, brooms and buttercups, the carpets of white and gold immortals and rose-coloured groundsel; the new green of cane plants and vines. Gregorio sometimes thought, if you thrust a toe into the soil here, a foot would grow, and a calf and a knee. Only he, lying hearing the rain, was solitary and sterile.
Towards the end of the month, he rode, as he often did, to the sea cliff at Câmara de Lobos and gazed south. Four months ago he had looked and seen the great ragged sails of the roundship Ghost, beating her laborious way into home waters, and had ridden to Funchal to meet her, with the results he had tried to send to Nicholas.
The roundship had arrived empty, because – so they said – her master had been entitled to deliver, but not to buy merchandise. Gregorio didn’t believe it. No one, familiar with the way Nicholas worked, would take that for anything but a stratagem. But if it was, where was the money they were desperately waiting for?
No word came, from the Ghost’s master Ochoa, or Nicholas. The ship, positively identified as the Doria by a dozen experts sent by de Ribérac, had been first impounded, and then dispatched with its whole crew to Lisbon. Ochoa had never set foot on shore and Gregorio, daily fearing a charge against Nicholas, had not dared to insist on boarding and seeing him. When the Ghost sailed, and the experts left, and no one had accused Nicholas of anything, Gregorio felt illogically convinced that something was finally wrong. At that point, he had sent off his message.
He had no idea whether Nicholas had received it; or if he was alive. They said the San Niccolò had touched at the Canary Islands; had called at Arguim; had unloaded horses at the Senagana. After that, she had turned south. No one seemed to know who had sailed with her, although reports spoke of a priest and white women.
Gregorio knew the Niccolò had carried Bel of Cuthilgurdy, and that Gelis, expecting to join her, had instead embarked with the men on the Ghost. He couldn’t understand, even yet, why she had done it, or how Nicholas had come to allow her. For a time, with each Portuguese vessel that came, Gregorio looked to find her a passenger. Then had come the Ghost, with nothing and no one.
So, today, he sat his horse on the cliff and held himself harshly in hand when, far towards the south-western horizon, there appeared, small and clear, the three masts of a ship rigged with triangular sails: sails that could only belong to a caravel, winning its way skilfully north against oncoming winds.
He waited until he saw her paintwork, which was blue, and not black. Then he rode to Funchal, but with dignity, for he had some calls to make, and there was no need to appear anxious or excited. Even though, on a long voyage, ships suffered damage, and sometimes altered their colour. Even though this might be the San Niccolò, and the battle to shore up the quinta might be over.
It was not, of course, the San Niccolò, but her rival. Weighted down to the load-line with pepper and elephants’ teeth, dyes and gums, ostrich feathers and civet and a few modest packets of gold, the Fortado sailed into the harbour at Funchal six months almost to the day after she had left it; and, hearing her triumphant cannon, the colonists poured down to meet her, led by Zarco, the captain, and by Urbano and Baptista Lomellini and their families.
It was only when they stood on the wharf that they noticed how clumsily she lowered her sails and moved to her anchorage. And then, that her flags were flying at half-mast. Gregorio, waiting behind the welcoming throng, heard the news the customs vessel brought back.
‘The ship has brought in a fortune. The Lomellini and the Scotsman are rich. But only ten men have returned, whereas they sailed with twenty-five. The sailing-master is there. But Raffaelo Doria is dead.’
‘God’s mercy! How?’
‘Killed by natives. And eaten, most likely.’ Everyone except Gregorio crossed himself.
He knew by now who the sailing-master was: everyone did. But Nicholas had left without learning that the Fortado had hired Michael Crackbene. Crackbene, who had once been employed by Raffaelo’s kinsman Pagano Doria. Crackbene, who had helped kidnap Diniz from Cyprus, and whom Nicholas had punished for it in Sanlúcar. Punished, and stupidly freed. He who spares his enemy, ran the saying, dies at his hand. And now here was Crackbene, but where was Nicholas?
It was the Lomellini who supplied the answer: the Lomellini who invited Gregorio to their merchants’ residence in Funchal to celebrate their good fortune for, of course, the Lomellini acted for the Duchess of Burgundy and her secretary Sir João Vasquez in Bruges, and knew all about Master Gregorio of Asti.
Over the past six months, Urbano and Baptista Lomellini had shown a kindly sympathy towards Gregorio’s trials at the Vasquez plantation – a sympathy he received without gratitude, since the estate wouldn’t be split if the Lomellini hadn’t let Simon sell them half of it.
It helped to know they’d cheated Simon as well. They hadn’t mentioned to Simon that the Vatachino had a share in their venture. They hadn’t mentioned that the voyage of the Fortado, if successful, would not only benefit him, but would fill the coffers of his greatest competitor.
Gregorio would have enjoyed personally enlightening Simon de St Pol about that, but the bastard hadn’t chosen to come to Madeira. His sister Lucia had arrived, yelling and screaming, but he hadn’t wanted to tell her. It was bad enough making excuses for the desertion of Diniz. Then he’d had to tell her what Simon had done to the company. He’d had to get a sick-nurse to calm her, and had seen her sail back to Lagos with both exasperation and pity.
None of this, he discovered, appeared to affect the pleasure the Lomellini took in his society. Business was business, and friendly rivalry need not (it seemed) upset personal relationships. He was reminded of other Genoese with similar attitudes. With the Genoese, it paid to be vigilant.
The reception was a lavish one, as was to be expected, but to his surprise he had hardly entered the room when his host Urbano seized him. ‘My friend. Signor Gregorio. I have something to tell you before it becomes public knowledge. Come into my office.’
Gregorio stood still. He had not brought Jaime with him. He had no one with him but his groom. He said, ‘It is bad news.’
‘Come in. Sit down,’ said the Genoese; and placing him on a board stool, sat opposite. He said, ‘Yes. It is bad news. It is from the Fortado. I shall break it swiftly. Diniz Vasquez is dead, killed in a dispute over gold. I have told you first, because you manage his business. I cannot tell you how sorry I am for you, and for his poor mother, widowed so recently.’
‘How did it happen?’ said Gregorio. ‘On the San Niccolò? Did the San Niccolò arrive in the Gambia?’
‘She arrived, but met with the greatest misfortune: an attack, it seems, by murdering natives which left her boats smashed, her seaman mostly injured or dead and her cargo carried off. A tragedy. You have my profound condolences.’
‘There were women on board,’ Gregorio said. ‘And, of course, Niccolò vander Poele who led the voyage.’
‘They survived. Let me pour you some wine. It is shocking news. There are implications also, of course. We shall think of these, you and I, some time soon, for I must leave you to see to my guests. But no, the ladies and vander Poele survived, and so did the boy Diniz, at that stage. It was later, when travelling to the goldfields, that the boy lost his life. And Jorge da Silves, the master. You will hear the details. I have asked Master Crackbene to relate them to you. Ah yes, here he is.’
The door had started to open. Urbano Lomellini rose, distress firmly fixed on his face. Presumably, he knew perfectly well what lay between Crackbene and Nicholas. Presumably he judged that, in such a case, it had lost its significance. Probably
he was right. Gregorio thanked Lomellini and stood watching as he walked to the door and passed the man standing there. Then Gregorio allowed himself to look at Crackbene.
Last autumn, haled from prison in Castile, the sailing-master, although battered, had still been recognisable as the large and powerful man who had joined the service of Nicholas after Trebizond. Now as he entered the room, placing his feet like a man long at sea, Gregorio saw the change in Michael Crackbene: his fair hair whitened and thinned, his skin patched like a leper’s, his whole frame shrunken and light. He looked as other seamen did, coming back from the Senagana and Arguim: his sight pitched to some horizon, his body worn out with flux and fever and stress.
Gregorio thought of the women, and cursed Nicholas under his breath, and himself. He said, ‘What happened?’
The blue, Scandinavian eyes gazed at him with little expression. With the same erratic gait, Crackbene walked slowly over the room to the wash-stand, from which he lifted the ewer of water, and stood, as if judging its weight. Then he poured a little into the basin, and set both palms downwards into the liquid. ‘We had a successful voyage,’ he said.
Gregorio looked at the back of his neck. He said, ‘I suppose it was hard, bringing her home with only ten of you. But you chose to go.’
‘Nine, really,’ Crackbene said. ‘The boy was useless. Yes, I chose to go. I was offered the post.’
‘And you could take your revenge,’ Gregorio said.
‘You think so?’ said Crackbene. He had a curious accent, part Flemish, part northern. He had never been anyone’s man but his own. He said, ‘I didn’t deserve the thrashing vander Poele gave me. But he got me out of jail. The Genoese would have liked us both killed. I’d rather have sailed with vander Poele than Doria. Or I thought so then.’
‘But not now? Why?’
‘Because I don’t like what he did,’ Crackbene said. He turned, and taking a towel from the stand, dried his hands slowly, rolling the soft linen over each of his big-jointed fingers. He said, ‘Vander Poele killed the Portuguese boy. And murdered da Silves.’ He looked up.
‘What Portuguese boy?’ said Gregorio stupidly.
The big man threw the towel down. ‘Diniz Vasquez. The youngster I brought back from Cyprus. The lad ran back to vander Poele, sailed with him, and then fell out with him over gold. You heard how the Niccolò was attacked?’
‘Yes,’ said Gregorio.
‘Well, vander Poele left a small crew on board, and he and the rest set off by canoe and by land for the gold marts. Only Jorge da Silves and a few others had grown a bit tired, it seemed, of my lord Niccolò’s high-handed ways and thought they’d feel safer with the gold in their own hands. He followed, and killed them.’
‘You saw it?’
‘I heard it from someone who saw it.’
‘And you believe it?’
‘You don’t?’ Crackbene said.
‘Never,’ Gregorio said. ‘A quarrel with da Silves, perhaps: men get greedy; there might have been a struggle. But the boy, never. You’d be spreading a lie, if you say so.’
The big man shrugged. ‘It isn’t my lie.’ He spoke without venom and almost without interest. Gregorio believed him. Crackbene had brought the Fortado home, and he was half-dead of it.
Gregorio said, ‘I have a cup of wine I don’t want.’ And when Crackbene had taken it, Gregorio added, ‘So where is he? Vander Poele? And the ladies?’
The other man emptied the cup. He sat down, nursing it, and looked at Gregorio as if for the first time. ‘You don’t know how good that was. Vander Poele took the two women up-country with him. The dame and the van Borselen girl. The old woman was ill. They all got as far as the place where Doria was murdered, near the Joliba. I wouldn’t have blamed vander Poele, mind you, if he had killed that bastard Doria, but the Berbers got there before him. I don’t know if he went on any further. The San Niccolò was to wait in the river until the third week in April, and then come home. If she does, she’ll be here in a month or just over. If there are enough left to sail her.’
‘Where were they going?’ said Gregorio.
‘The vander Poele party? To look for more gold, I was told. And to visit Ethiopia, if it seemed to be easy. There’s a place on the way there where the caravans come down through the Sahara.’
‘I know. They take messages. I’ve tried to send one,’ Gregorio said. ‘To say the Ghost arrived empty.’
‘I heard. Well, he deserved that,’ said Crackbene. ‘Not but what it was ingenious. They gave the Fortado a spot of trouble, that ship, and it wasn’t all Ochoa’s idea. I have to give him that. Nicholas vander Poele is nobody’s fool.’
He sounded admiring. Gregorio said, ‘How was he ingenious?’
Crackbene lifted his lids with an effort. ‘What?’
‘You said Nicholas had been too ingenious, and deserved what happened to the Ghost.’
‘They impounded her,’ Crackbene said. His eyes had opened.
‘I know. But you wouldn’t expect her to be empty.’
‘I don’t know,’ Crackbene said. ‘She hadn’t a licence to trade. Not even the caravels always bring back a cargo. We were lucky, but your San Niccolò ended up in the Gambia with nothing. And if those who killed Doria decide to do the same to your party, that’s what your caravel will turn up with this summer.’
‘The same as the Ghost,’ Gregorio said.
‘Yes. Christ, I’d better go back before I start sleeping.’
‘Yes. I suppose,’ Gregorio said, ‘you don’t owe us anything. I could wish this nonsense didn’t go further about Diniz. You can’t believe Nicholas brought about the lad’s death. And the mother will hear.’
‘Signor,’ said Crackbene. ‘Her son is dead. If vander Poele returns, he can vindicate himself. If he doesn’t return, does it matter? He has no family.’
‘He has friends,’ Gregorio said.
Later, in the quinta’s house with Jaime and his wife, Gregorio ceased talking and said, ‘One should break the news to Lucia de St Pol. Her son is dead, and there is no money, and none to come, very likely. Should I go?’
‘To Lagos?’ the factor said. He picked up a toy and examined it absently. The resentment he had shown at the arrival of some Flemish-Italian lawyer had long since gone. For six months, he had led, with Gregorio as partner, the life of a good manager, and had been given all the support there could be, without money.
He said, ‘Goro, what good would it do? The Fortado is sailing to Lagos, and the Lomellini will go with her. They’ll break the news to the mother. And besides, her brother is now a rich man. But you do not wish to be there when she begs Simon de St Pol to give her money?’
There was a silence, during which the Senhora Inês rose and retrieved the small toy from her husband’s restless fingers.
Gregorio said, ‘No. But you are thinking as I am. If there is no money to come, the lady Lucia may be best advised to sell what is left to the Lomellini, and hope that they might be generous. One could not influence her against that.’
‘No,’ said the factor. If that happened, he could find work nowhere else. He didn’t say so.
‘But of course,’ said Gregorio, ‘so far as we know, the San Niccolò will come back. She may have a cargo. Whatever the lady Lucia wishes to do, we must persuade her to wait until that happens. Or stay out of her reach, for she cannot sign papers without us. Yes. I will not go to Lagos.’
‘Vander Poele will come back,’ said Jaime’s wife unexpectedly. ‘In four weeks, or five, you will see him. What is the Land of the Blacks, to a young man, strong as he is? And you say he has his priest at his side, and his friend Lopez to help and protect him. What need a man fear, so long as he has friends?’
In Timbuktu, Gelis van Borselen lived in outward harmony with herself, the city and its inhabitants.
She had a new home. The morning after the storm, Umar had called on her and, sitting quietly before her, said, ‘I have spoken to Nicholas. He has not changed. He will go with the padre t
o Prester John.’
It was strange that when she received the news, it should be from Umar. The disappointment was so great that she couldn’t conceal it. At first, she turned her head away, and then did not. Umar said, ‘I am sorry,’ and she realised he had guessed.
He could not have known. Just before dawn, Nicholas had carried her back to her chamber and resisted her, but not willingly, when she tried to keep him there. She had not had to use artifice, virgin though she no longer was. Dear God, dear God, she had not had to pretend. The ache in her body this morning was not there because she had been misused or ravished. It was there because he was not.
Umar. Of course Umar would guess, if anyone did. She said, ‘I see. But you are not going with him? You mustn’t.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I was foolish.’
After a while she said, ‘Did he send you to tell me?’
‘No,’ said Umar. ‘But in delicate matters, the mind sometimes requires warning, or else the heart speaks. He is concerned for you. I have said I know of an establishment. Small; without great stables or compound, but large enough for your servants and friends. I shall take responsibility for the gold, until he comes back.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’ she said.
‘Then, this autumn, I shall take you and it to the Gambia,’ Umar said. ‘They will send back the San Niccolò. But, despite what you have said, you and he will be on board. And Godscalc, if Allah is willing.’
Later that day, Nicholas came and told her he had determined to leave. He spoke tranquilly, but his eyes were heavy and bright as a drunkard’s. He said, as Umar had done, ‘I am sorry.’
Once, she might have said, ‘There will be compensations.’ Or, ‘What little girls will you take with you this time?’ She said, ‘I understand. I have had a night of teaching.’
‘Too long a night,’ he said, and touched her wet cheek with his fingers.
He dropped them immediately. Even so, the blood flooded her face, and ran beating again through her body. She saw him respond, and try not to respond, and succeed. She said, ‘No. Never too long.’
Scales of Gold: The Fourth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 49
