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

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘But not to be repeated,’ he said. ‘Now you have –’ He broke off.

  ‘Failed?’ she suggested.

  He didn’t answer.

  She said, ‘Nothing is as simple as that.’

  ‘No. You gave me solace,’ he said. ‘You meant to do that, too, I think. It doesn’t matter what else you gave me. Unless …’

  ‘What?’ They were sitting two yards apart, in her chamber.

  ‘Unless you know,’ he said. ‘Unless you received it as well. There is broken cullet, and crystal. You don’t throw away crystal.’

  ‘No,’ said Gelis. ‘It breaks easily enough, of its own accord.’ She kept her eyes on his face. ‘What are you trying to say? That we should continue as lovers?’

  ‘That would be … No,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Then what?’ she asked. The ache had turned into something much worse. She said, ‘We want each other. We have a priest. Is that what you are hoping I’ll say?’

  ‘Oh, dear heaven,’ he said. ‘Over Katelina’s dead body?’

  ‘You didn’t say,’ she said, ‘if you thought of her last night.’

  He made to move, and then didn’t, his eyes fixed on her face. He said, ‘Do you think if I had, I could have …’ He broke off again. He said, ‘I didn’t ask you that question.’

  ‘You asked me one about cullet and crystal. It was the same one,’ she said. ‘Do I want a lover? If I take one, it will be you and no other. Do I want marriage? Not to you. My sister gave birth to your son. And yes, I thought of Katelina when I came to your room. It began with cullet.’

  ‘And now?’ he said.

  ‘Now you are going to Ethiopia, and there is time to reflect.’ She shifted, easing her shoulders. ‘We have exchanged a gift, that is all, that neither of us quite intended. Put it down to the heat of the furnace.’

  She remembered the words, standing on the wharf at Kabara to see him leave with Father Godscalc, in his trough-canoe crowded with bearers. She did not weep, and he did not touch her, although he was silent, for Nicholas.

  She had given him a present, if of a curious kind. In place of self-hatred, self-doubt; in place of distrust, an abiding puzzlement, combined with an emotion which now could not be shown, far less released, for fear it might destroy his resolution to leave her.

  She knew what it was, for it lived with her, too, every night. One could not call it love. The name for it was longing.

  Because he had not sailed on the San Niccolò, Nicholas was a long way from arriving in Madeira that spring. At the time Jaime’s wife made her confident prediction, he and Godscalc were travelling eastwards along the great river which had changed its name from the Joliba to the Gher Nigheren. Rock-strewn and powerful, it sometimes allowed them to travel precariously on its waters, but more often required them to unload their belongings yet again, and place them on the heads of their porters, and follow them on camelback, if they were lucky, or more often on foot.

  The porters were grudging and surly. All the fishing huts on the river were occupied by Songhai Muslims, who were unaccustomed to any other colour in mankind but red-brown and black, and who knew nothing of other beliefs except those of the medicine man. Father Godscalc had found no use, yet, for his portable altar except as a bulwark of his own faith.

  A good-hearted, outgoing man who got on well with soldiers, and had fought in a few wars of his own, Godscalc found the journey an ordeal – not just because of the dangers and the discomfort, which soon became extreme – but because he knew it meant nothing to Nicholas.

  Nicholas was here for Godscalc’s protection. He had not tried to pretend that he longed to see Prester John, or open the way for a Crusade of the Church. In order to reach Timbuktu, he had been willing to accept this as part of his duty. Perhaps, had there been no other profit, he would have felt some requirement, on his own account, to pursue the River of Jewels, to track down the other treasures of legend.

  But long before now, they had heard enough first-hand reports to understand that they were risking their lives for an aim that could never be realised. Even for a troop of well-provisioned men, travelling with the consent of the tribes of the country, the journey from Timbuktu to Ethiopia was impossible in the six months they had given themselves, and was probably so on any terms. All they could do was attempt it and die, or attempt it and bring back their account of the failure.

  They had to follow the bend of the river to Gao, the black Songhai capital. From there, as the Gher Nigheren plunged south, they must strike east and south, exchanging rocks and bushes for the steaming terrain of the wetlands. There, as here, men would be afraid of them, and their guides would be ignorant and avaricious, and speak no language they knew.

  When, for the first of many times, their porters deserted them, and they had to bribe their way into a village, Godscalc had said, over the fire, ‘What have I done? I should never have brought you.’

  ‘You had no choice,’ Nicholas said. ‘I don’t mind you bringing me. If you said, “I should never have come,” that’s a different matter. Come on. You were going to draw maps. Where’s the cross-staff?’ Then after a moment, ‘What would it be worth if it were easy? I’ll give you something hard to do. Sit down here, throw a stick on the fire, and convert me.’

  They had always respected one another. On that journey was born something that was to last as long as they both lived, and do them both harm. For Godscalc, who had glimpsed the real danger, was too blinded by false hopes to scotch it.

  This time, as May drew to a close, Gregorio of Asti kept no vigils on the peaks of Madeira, and did not pause on the cliff between Ponta do Sol and Funchal. He was afraid to see the San Niccolò coming.

  Crackbene and the Fortado had gone, and news of that magnificent cargo would have spread very soon to the money markets in Bruges, and then Florence and Venice. So would the news that the San Niccolò too was on her way – perhaps also triumphant, and laden with gold and fabulous gifts from the Negus Prester John, but perhaps not. Already the rumours were spreading. The Vasquez boy had died. Who else of the land party had survived? Or, as on the Fortado, was there no one at all except a few seamen left on board a ship which, in this case, was empty?

  By now, Simon de St Pol would know he was rich, and might have had the grace to travel to Lagos and comfort his doubly-bereaved sister. No word had reached Gregorio from there.

  By now, Urbano and Baptista Lomellini had had the promised discussion with Gregorio, in which they had made a reasonable offer for the quinta at Ponta do Sol, and had asked him to convey it to Diniz’ sorrowing mother. Gregorio had not passed it on.

  He had heard nothing directly from the Vatachino, and was glad of it. David de Salmeton had left Madeira for Bruges in the autumn, although his hand, Gregorio knew, lay behind the concerted manoeuvre to have the Ghost waylaid on arrival and identified.

  His hand, too, lay behind the trouble that had erupted at Bruges. Gregorio heard only hints of it, and longed to be there, and occasionally wished that Julius could have remained in Bruges, instead of Cristoffels. But the Bank was more important than Bruges, and had first call on the best man. So Nicholas had ruled, with absolute and understandable finality.

  Nicholas could not have foreseen, all the same, that the Vatachino would continue to expand as they had done, opening offices, recruiting clerks, venturing into more and more fields as if their coffers were suddenly inexhaustible.

  Nicholas had recognised them, of course, as his rivals in Guinea. Even before he learned of their stake in the Fortado, he had suspected that the Vatachino wanted him to go to Guinea with Diniz, and find the gold, the mines, the wealth of the Negus. And then, when he and Diniz failed to come back, the gold, the ship, the Vasquez business would be easy to take.

  Half the Vatachino plan had succeeded. Of the two ships, the roundship had gone. Diniz was dead, and his quinta defenceless. The Fortado had brought back a full cargo, by whatever means. For the rest, the San Niccolò had to find her way home from the Gambia, an
d Nicholas himself had not been heard of since he reached what they called the Great River.

  But then, when had Nicholas not been able to extricate himself from the worst situations? Crackbene had patently not told all he knew, but even in his voice there had been respect for Nicholas and a kind of confidence, despite what he had said of the dangers. Nicholas always came back.

  By the end of May, Gregorio was still comforting himself with such thoughts when a ship came in from Lisbon, carrying passengers.

  He had been up in the mountains when it arrived. Normally, his was the paperwork, the planning, the visits to Funchal, the sending of orders and the leasing of cargo space on the ships that plied between Madeira and Portugal. The quinta had been kept in repair as much as was possible, so that the main house still looked trim and well cared for, and the yard was mended and swept, the stables watertight, the mills in good order, the cabins of all their workers solid and decently thatched. He had used his workers to do it, for now, with the St Pol estate gone, there were too many of them. Too many to house and feed and support, with all their increasing families, with so little coming in.

  He had done, too, what he could about that, leasing out the free time in his mills, using ground hitherto wasted to plant the herbs and roots that grew so freely in the rich soil, to eke out their food. And he had laid out some money on poor ground high on the slopes which came cheap because it had to be terraced – a job requiring many people – and irrigation channels had to be led.

  With the warm, rainless season approaching, there was need for haste, and Jaime spent his days with his men and their wives, hauling stones and laying them in neat ridges, and passing the nights with them as well, beside their rough withy shelters, singing and talking round the cooking-pots and sleeping under the stars.

  Gregorio, riding up one day alongside the cook’s daily mule-load of food-panniers, had dismounted and tied up his horse, unbuttoned his doublet and, taking his place at Jaime’s side, had worked with him till the sun set. Then he had sat on the bare earth in his shirt and hose and, taking someone’s fiddle, struck up a tune Margot used to sing to, when she presided over the Ca’ Niccolò and they had friends to sup.

  It would be a year, soon, since he had seen her. She knew now he was in Madeira: he had received three dog-eared packets, the first arriving in March. He was not a person who would seek consolation elsewhere for what he missed, and he knew she was the same. They each withstood the separation, but he knew that he had the better part of it, even though Nicholas hadn’t chosen to take him to Guinea. He slept well and even happily that night, rolled up in a blanket with the smell of pine and juniper and fresh earth in his nostrils. Then next day, he rode alone down to the quinta.

  He knew something had happened as soon as he came near the yard. First he heard the dogs barking. Then he saw two of the women servants standing in the yard as if at a loss, with strange boxes and baggage strewn on the ground about them. From the stables, usually quiet, there came the sound of horses trampling and men’s voices raised angrily, cursing. He had left no men. All the men were up in the mountains. He ignored the stables and walked towards the front door as it was flung open.

  Jaime’s wife stood in the opening, her face pale within its neat voile, her hands clasped below her plain girdle. She said, ‘Has Jaime come with you?’

  Gregorio said gently, ‘He will come later. I will deal with it. Inês?’

  ‘Deal with it? What a welcome!’ said an amused voice behind her.

  It came from an angel. It came from the most beautiful man in the world: blue-eyed, golden-haired, and dressed in pale, elegant, thickly jewelled damask. He stood in Jaime’s hall, exuding some remote, sensuous perfume, and one long-fingered hand rested on the shining gold head of a wonderful man-child, perhaps four years of age.

  The man said, ‘Henry? Do we wish to be dealt with? Surely not. Surely not by the little man who once – I am right? – tried his hand at swordsmanship with your father. Meester Gregorio, you may enter. You may tell this good woman that, since I have leave from the owners, I am entitled to spend this night and, indeed, as many more as I wish on these premises until the poor, sad San Niccolò stumbles into Funchal.

  ‘Henry, this is Gregorio of Asti, of the profession which, like vultures on carrion, feeds off the unfortunate of this earth: he is a lawyer. Meester Gregorio, as your scars may remind you, I am Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren, uncle of the late Diniz Vasquez and this (Stand straight, my son. Breeding requires courtesy, even in unusual places) – this is my son and heir, Henry.’

  Chapter 32

  AS IF CONJURED UP by catastrophe, the San Niccolò sailed into Funchal two days later, and Simon de St Pol proposed a party to take horse to meet her.

  The time between had been awesomely terrible. Feared, expected, prepared for during all the long voyage from Venice, the lord Simon had issued his smooth, written challenge and then failed to remain to meet Nicholas. He had stood aside, permitting the encounter between Lucia and Nicholas; allowing Diniz to be traced; abandoning Gelis to unimaginable danger – and had taken no action, except for the one which would ruin his sister and nephew. He had sold his half of the company to the firm Lomellini, and retired to safety in Scotland.

  And now, wealthy with the profits from the Fortado, he had returned, endured the screams, the entreaties, the tedious reproaches of his sister, and obtained her permission, without overmuch trouble, to sell the remaining Ponta do Sol estate to the brothers Lomellini, before or after he had avenged the family honour.

  He had clearly accepted, without question or even surprise, that Diniz was dead, and that Nicholas – Claes – vander Poele was responsible. He showed no sign of mourning. He gave his first attention, arriving in Funchal, to the matter of greater importance. He had interviewed the brothers Lomellini, and the sale of the Vasquez estate was concluded.

  The factor and his wife had no legal right to remain at the quinta where they had spent all their lives, beyond what hours or days the Lomellini (or Simon, their self-appointed agent) might allow them. Gregorio had no place there, nor had any of the men and women who, all unknowing, were still on the mountain, toiling for love of Jaime and their late lord and his son, the lad Diniz.

  Whatever hopes Nicholas might have had of Madeira, Simon had eradicated them, along with the hopes of his sister. And now he was prepared to stand to his challenge. The first thing Nicholas would see, arriving ragged and spent, with the Ghost lost, Diniz dead, the Madeira business destroyed, would be Simon de St Pol on the quay, his sword unsheathed in his hand, and his beautiful son at his side.

  Gregorio was not a man trained in chivalry, but he knew right from wrong, and spoke up for it; he possessed the scar Simon had spoken of to prove it. He drew on his lawyer’s training. He placed before Simon, or attempted to, the arguments he knew Nicholas would have brought to the meeting which Simon had avoided.

  He spoke to stone. Simon had no doubts about how his wife Katelina had died, and who had killed his sister’s husband Tristão, and who now had caused the debauchment and death of Diniz Vasquez. And however wild such a theory might be, it was based on a set of unfortunate facts. Around Nicholas lay the dead of his family; the fruits, anyone could say, of his vengeance. Anyone, that is, who knew (as Gregorio knew) that Nicholas was the son of Simon’s first wife. Anyone who believed (as Simon did) that Nicholas would commit any crime, in order to be accepted as heir, and legitimate.

  Gregorio tried to shatter the stone. He said, ‘He doesn’t care. Nicholas doesn’t care any longer. Why should he kill any one of your family? And it can be proved he nursed your wife, he didn’t harm her. Diniz will –’ And he had stopped.

  ‘But Diniz is dead,’ had said Simon, with his angelic smile. ‘And even when he was alive, so I hear, he was unable to convert Katelina’s sister. I don’t suppose Gelis will return. Unless she is quick with a knife. Quicker than Nicholas.’

  And at length Gregorio had said bitterly, ‘Then don’t you fear for the child
? If Nicholas is the cold-blooded murderer you imply, will Henry be safe?’

  ‘My dear Meester Gregorio,’ Simon had said. ‘I don’t mean to take Henry on board the San Niccolò. You and I and some of my servants will go. A posse of soldiers, already promised by Captain Zarco. But I propose to leave the child at the quinta until the lists have been set up. Then he will come to Funchal to see how his father bears arms. Gentleman against churl: it is not wholly suitable, but Zarco insisted. You know he has given me leave to execute the sentence against Claes myself?’

  ‘What sentence?’ said Gregorio. ‘For what crime? He hasn’t even arrived yet.’

  ‘For the death of Diniz,’ Simon said. ‘The San Niccolò will bring enough witnesses. And if that isn’t enough, we have the boy’s account. The boy who stood there and watched it.’

  ‘What boy?’ said Gregorio.

  ‘One of the grumetes,’ said Simon with patience. ‘Does it matter? A poor, frightened lad when I saw him last on the Fortado. His name was Filipe.’

  ‘Was it?’ said Gregorio slowly. ‘Then you have accepted the word of a liar, my lord. A thief and a liar. And I shall tell the captain so.’

  ‘You may if you wish,’ Simon said. ‘But of course, it will not affect trial by combat, which is what, in my magnanimity, I am offering. It may even last a little longer than once it did: Claes might know one end of a sword from the other. But of course, the outcome is not in doubt, as everyone present will see, including the child. I mean the child to be there. I should like Claes to look Henry de St Pol in the face. I should like Henry to see his head fall.’

  Waiting on the wharf at Funchal, Gregorio watched the San Niccolò sail slowly up from the south, and his gut twisted within him.

  He had done all he could to reverse what Simon had done. He had visited Zarco, pleaded with the Lomellini, made depositions. He had laid information as to the character of the boy Filipe, all to no effect. He had not slept for two nights. And now he stood with Simon and Urbano Lomellini and a pack of soldiers, waiting to embark on the pinnace that would lead the San Niccolò in. And then board her. And then take Nicholas off to his death.