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

by Dorothy Dunnett

  She said, ‘What would it be, but animal pleasure? You should want more than that. So, I suppose, some day shall I.’

  ‘If you know who you are,’ Nicholas said. ‘But with me, you will. You said it yourself. I am like Godscalc and Diniz, the other half of your life. The other half of your mould. I don’t even ask that you try to complete mine.’

  She rose. It was late. There were lamps here and there on the staircase: the doorkeeper was awake, and no doubt there were servants and pages. But he was a guest of the house, and had only been holding converse in a library. It would be easy enough to make an exit.

  Gelis said, ‘There is a way into the new wing they are building. My room is near there. I am afraid it has books in it.’ Now she stood, he could see her skirts trembling.

  Nicholas said, ‘If someone sees?’

  ‘I am a van Borselen,’ Gelis said. ‘In the wrong bed, I am invisible.’ Her voice came from the door.

  He opened his eyes, and walked after her, quickly and quietly, through many corridors. ‘I wish,’ he said, ‘that I had been born a van Borselen. Which door? Go in. I’ll wait to see if it’s all right, and follow.’

  He did wait, but no one had seen them. He saw, while he waited, the moon hanging yellow as cheese over the roof-tops, and heard a distant bell, and a dog bark, and a solitary horse ambling by somewhere. From the church of Our Lady came a rumour of plainsong. His body had begun to take charge. He felt sick.

  When he opened the door, Gelis’s room was in darkness. Taken with his present cataclysmic absence of peace, it was enough to make his throat close. He had told her himself how to hurt him.

  Then he moved, and touched a European woman’s long hair, which led his palms down to a smooth neck, and two naked breasts, and a supple waist with a gown half unfastened below it.

  He said, ‘That’s no way to undress,’ in an uneven way. And then didn’t say very much more, for his own finery was receiving its quittance from eight methodical fingers and two sundering thumbs.

  Chapter 40

  SCHOOLED BY THE DESERT, Nicholas had learned the lesson if not the habit of moderation. It was not likely – indeed, it was impossible – that he could be temperate in any room with Gelis van Borselen, but at least he could so manage this time that he stayed with her only an hour, and did not allow a night-long sequence of the kind they had shared once before.

  That night had come about for many reasons, the best of which still existed. It was a precipitate and sensual union; she had seen that clearly enough. It was perhaps unusual in those terms: close in age but unequal in experience, they possessed a physical match he had rarely, if ever, found before. It was a matter perhaps of simple energy, or of empathy, or even of a kind of imagination he had not suspected. He experienced in her an extreme of joy, and knew, accomplished as he was in this at least, that he had brought her the same.

  The best of reasons was not that, it was what they had spoken of: an act of more than bodily fusion. Apart, they were indelibly marked by the year-long travail they had lived through together, and what they had also borne on their own. He carried, for life, the imprint of his journey with Godscalc, and of the two years that followed. She, in turn, had in his absence faced and conquered an alien city, and had single-handed fought her way back to the Gambia with Godscalc, sick and suffering, and brought him successfully home.

  Even now, it was not perhaps enough to make the union they should have had, but for Katelina. Tonight he had said nothing of the future; had not wanted to speak; nor had she. She had not wanted to disengage either, holding him with a kind of ferocity before suddenly letting him go.

  He had said, ‘Gelis? It’s your cousin’s house. We don’t know what we want ourselves yet.’

  And she had risen as she was, and lit the lamp and, taking a brush, drawn it slowly down the length of her hair. She was different from Katelina. And everywhere, she was fair.

  He said, ‘Come to Spangnaerts Street tomorrow, and see Godscalc. We can talk.’ He was half dressed.

  The brush moved slowly down. She said, ‘I have to go to Scotland next month.’ The long strands lay between her breasts, and outside them. She held the ends of her hair in one hand.

  Nicholas said, ‘Don’t make it difficult.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Gelis. She was still brushing, when he opened the door, and held it, and went out.

  It was not so late, and he should, perhaps, have expected that Godscalc’s lamp would be lit when he returned, and that Gregorio would still be sitting by the priest’s bed, relating all that had happened. They had heard him at the gate, and greeted him, smiling, when he joined them. Godscalc said, ‘You have had a great reception, I hear. You deserve what you have had.’

  There was a benignity in his smile, and in Gregorio’s. Nicholas wondered, not for the first time, what sixth sense men possessed that enabled them to detect this particular activity even when, as now, its level was markedly wanting. He supposed they guessed who his partner had been.

  Godscalc had so far talked little of Gelis, beyond praising her devotion on the voyage. There had been no pastoral admonitions. Gelis and Nicholas were being trusted to reach their own decisions uninfluenced. That there were decisions to be made must have been obvious.

  Nicholas said, ‘The Gruuthuse family did me great honour. I think perhaps I have found a niche for Astorre and the army, from what I hear of Duke Charles. And I saw Gelis. She is returning to Scotland.’

  ‘Before the Duke’s wedding. The postponement has thrown everything out,’ Godscalc said. ‘Gelis seems to enjoy the young Scottish princess’s household. Wolfaert’s niece. The girl is only sixteen, and already married a year.’

  ‘And we are to have a wedding here?’ Gregorio said. ‘Diniz has returned to his chaste bed at his uncle’s, but not before he and Tilde told us all. I am glad you agreed.’

  ‘It was a difficult decision,’ Nicholas said. He let himself down on a stool and, leaning back on the wall, stretched his legs. ‘They don’t want to marry until Lucia comes. They’ve sent to tell her.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ Godscalc said. Since Nicholas came, he had been smiling most of the time.

  ‘She was coming anyway,’ Gregorio said. ‘For the ducal wedding. The Vasquez connection. All the Scots who trade in Flanders are coming. I’ve also written to the Vatachino and Simon. But you don’t want to talk business.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Nicholas said. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps. I want to hear what you’ve done in Madeira; and what Simon said when he saw Diniz was alive, and he had to hand back half the business. And what he did when he found he was sharing the profits of the Fortado with David de Salmeton. I wish I’d been there.’

  ‘It was quite a satisfying experience,’ Gregorio said. ‘He is, I fear, a vain, naughty man. And his son Henry, I can tell you, is his unpleasant mirror.’

  Nicholas remained leaning back, without blinking. Godscalc said, ‘Children grow up. This Henry is young. Why don’t you make Nicholas wretched with the rest of the news? Tell him about the two ships.’

  ‘Simon’s son was in Madeira?’ Nicholas said. ‘Why?’

  ‘To see you executed, principally,’ Gregorio said. ‘As a treat. The child should have been put down at birth. He cut Bel’s shins to ribbons when she wouldn’t do what he demanded. And angelic, withal. All the wonderful looks of his father.’

  ‘Bel took him north,’ Godscalc said. ‘He is only a child. The problem, as I understand it, is that ownership of the Ghost may be harder to prove than we thought. Even with Tobie and ourselves to swear to what happened. Jordan says he gave Simon the ship, and you killed his factor and stole it in Trebizond. Everybody else who knew the true facts is dead.’

  ‘How awkward,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘You don’t want to know. It’s late,’ Gregorio said. ‘We’ll fight it, of course. But the other difficulty is the lost cargo. You see, even if we won our claim for the ship, we still couldn’t admit she’d been trading. There is no way we can claim the lost
gold if we found it. And as for the Fortado …’

  ‘Spare him the Fortado,’ Godscalc said. ‘At least – you might as well know that absolutely no uninterested spectator will depone that the Fortado’s crew slighted your ship or your men on the Gambia. The survivors all swear the crimes were committed by natives. Have we spoiled your day for you?’ His smile was not really a smile.

  Nicholas said, ‘I think it’s spoiled for Gregorio rather than for me: he’s the man whose work is being frustrated. I don’t know if I mind.’

  Gregorio sat up. He said, ‘That’s tonight. You’ll feel differently tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’ve felt much the same about it ever since I came back. But if you think you can get anywhere, go on with it.’

  ‘You don’t want the Ghost?’ Gregorio said.

  ‘I should quite like it. I don’t need it. There are other things to be done. The Charetty business to be properly integrated. The Bank. I think,’ Nicholas said, ‘we have perhaps paid too much attention to Simon.’

  Gregorio said, ‘This is new.’

  ‘Then let it keep until tomorrow. Or later today. Shouldn’t you be in bed?’

  These days, Gregorio needed little persuading. He left. Nicholas remained, sitting over the brazier, the poker in his hands. He said, without looking at Godscalc, ‘I gave Tobie a paper to give or send to you. Did he?’

  ‘What was in it?’ said the priest.

  ‘A deposition,’ Nicholas said. ‘Signed by Katelina in Cyprus. A statement that Henry de St Pol is my son.’

  ‘It has not reached me,’ Godscalc said. ‘But if it does, what do you want? You cannot claim the child, Nicholas.’

  ‘No. I know that.’

  ‘Then shall I destroy it?’

  ‘No!’ said Nicholas. ‘That was not why I spoke.’

  Godscalc looked at him. He said, ‘You may have other children. What then?’

  ‘You know the truth,’ Nicholas said, ‘and can swear to it. And Tobie. And my wife, if I have one. I should like the paper to be kept. Not for myself, but for the boy, in case he needs to claim me.’

  He saw Godscalc consider his words. The priest said, ‘In case, you are saying, Simon were to turn against the boy? Or in case Simon died destitute?’

  ‘Both are possible. And against the day, too, when both Simon and I shall be dead. I have something to leave now,’ said Nicholas. He rose. ‘But there is no need for Gregorio to know who the child is, and be sorry. I’ve alarmed him enough, without that.’ He paused at the door. ‘Sleep well. Gelis is coming to see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Indeed!’ said Father Godscalc with gentle irony. ‘Today, life is full of surprises.’

  It was a short night. The first call Nicholas made in the morning was to the house of João Vasquez, to ratify the betrothal between his step-daughter and Diniz. The marriage already had João’s blessing: Diniz had assured him of that yesterday morning. There would be no dispute, Nicholas knew, over the conditions. He hoped he would be forgiven for announcing it so precipitately. Seeing Jordan, he had suddenly felt impelled to have the union made unassailably public.

  Now, he was relieved to find himself welcomed by the family into which Simon’s sister had married. None of Simon’s accusations seemed to have taken root here; or if they had ever been entertained, Diniz had dispelled them. When Tristão his father had died, it was at the hand of another assassin.

  He would be meeting the Duchess’s secretary again, when the Duke and Duchess received him in due course at the Princenhof. As they had wished to question and entertain Diniz, so the nobles and merchants of Bruges wished, with far deeper purpose, to assess the older man who, with no evident guidance or patronage, appeared to be making such arbitrary business alliances – with the Venetians, with the Portuguese, with (but it had come to nothing, thank God) even the Pope.

  Nicholas knew what lay behind the invitations which, by herald or secretary or porter, poured each day into the Charetty-Niccolò mansion. He had a bank, and connections. He was too powerful, now, to be left to do as he pleased.

  None of that was overtly referred to in the house of João Vasquez, but even so, Nicholas found himself surprised twice.

  On the first occasion, Nicholas himself had brought up the name of the caravel Fortado, whose joint shareholders he was taking to court. Diniz was with him.

  ‘I know of this,’ João had said. ‘I think Raffaelo Doria was a man not to be trusted, and I am prepared to believe that he did as you say. If it can be proved, it is right that the shareholders who employed him should be penalised. The fact that one of them is Simon my brother-in-law should have no effect on this marriage. The king of Portugal has his due from the cargo, and that is all that interests my country. Further, I take it that your own challenge expects restitution in ducats? You have no desire to possess the Fortado yourself?’

  ‘I have no wish for another caravel,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘That is as well,’ said João Vasquez, ‘since I have to tell you that the Fortado no longer exists. She came to grief between Madeira and England, when charged by me with a cargo of sugar.’ He paused. ‘I fail to remember, Diniz, if I told you I had taken the ship when she ended her Guinea trip? The patron and the insurers, of course, have had some cause for distress. She was heavily insured.’

  No one spoke. ‘With whom?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Let me see. A Genoese called Jacques Doria, I believe. And the patron was Alfonse Martinez. The name is very similar to another one hears. I trust they are of the same family.’

  ‘Uncle!’ said Diniz.

  ‘Unless you think that unchristian?’ said João Vasquez.

  The other matter was different. The final matter raised in that quiet panelled room with its small, high windows forced to a close something that should have been closed long ago, and arose so suddenly it took Nicholas unawares.

  They were talking of consanguinity: a marital link between Tilde’s aunt and the first wife of Diniz’ uncle which, they had already agreed, was too remote to impede the coming marriage. ‘Unless,’ added João Vasquez, ‘undue emphasis comes to be laid on it publicly because of the closer connection. Diniz tells me, Ser Niccolò, that you are yourself related to the first wife of Simon de St Pol.’

  Diniz said, ‘Senhor!’ He had flushed.

  His uncle looked at him, and then at Nicholas. He said, ‘I am sorry, Diniz. You told me in confidence, but there is no one here but ourselves. It is of importance to the marriage.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Nicholas said. ‘Anyone who wished could find it out. Sophie de Fleury was my mother.’

  ‘That is the lady of whom we speak? The first wife of Simon my brother-in-law? And your father?’

  ‘I told you –’ said Diniz. He stood up.

  ‘You told me,’ said João Vasquez, ‘that this gentleman, regarded – forgive me – as illegitimate, might not be so; might in fact be the legitimate son of Simon and his wife. If that were to be publicly proved, it would constitute a second and much stronger link. We should then require, I believe, a dispensation before you could marry.’

  He looked from Nicholas up to his nephew. He was a soft-spoken man, black-haired as his brother had been, but with the extra bloom, the extra craft of the courtier. ‘Sit down, Diniz,’ he said. ‘As you see, Ser Niccolò is not disturbed. We shall reach conclusions perfectly well, and nothing need be said of it outside this room unless we wish it. Ser Niccolò: is it probable that you will in time pursue this contention of yours, and that you will succeed?’

  In the desert, what mattered was friendship, not consanguinity. Friendship; and truth, where it could be spoken without causing harm. Nicholas said, ‘If there ever was such a claim, I do not mean to renew it. Regard me as the natural son of Sophie de Fleury. If I require a family, or a cousin, I shall choose one.’ And he sent a smile, full of reassurance, to Diniz.

  He made the rest of the encounter as brief as he could, but, on leaving, could not prevent Diniz
walking with him towards the gate in the garden, or giving voice to his tumbling apologies. Eventually Nicholas stopped and turned. ‘I didn’t bind you to silence over my mother. Many people know who she was. I hope Tilde does, and that if she doesn’t, you’ll tell her. What I believe or believed about my father can be forgotten about.’

  ‘Not by me,’ Diniz said. ‘I saw your son in Madeira.’

  They were in a small orchard. There was no one else there. Nicholas said, ‘That is not something you should ever say.’

  ‘I know,’ Diniz said. ‘You don’t need to speak. I guessed. Gregorio doesn’t know. I won’t tell anyone else. I realised in Famagusta. Simon himself doesn’t know, does he? He brought the boy to Madeira to watch you die at his hand. Nicholas!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’m not going to admit to any of that. Henry is Simon’s son.’

  ‘I know. He has to be,’ Diniz said. ‘I suppose you’ve given him up. I suppose there’s nothing you can do about it; I see that. But Nicholas – he is the image of Simon.’

  ‘Then he must be Simon’s son,’ Nicholas said. ‘Goodbye, Diniz.’

  Nicholas left without looking back, but conscious that the boy was standing still, staring after him. Now it was over, he experienced a great relief, of the kind he had felt in the presence of Umar. He had already decided to rid himself of this burden, and now it was done.

  He remembered, then, that Gelis was coming, and thought that, for once, self-abnegation was about to receive its reward.

  She came in the evening, as he hoped she would. The time between, he occupied with his own business: with Gregorio and his staff in the Banco di Niccolò, studying the ledgers and reading the reports sent back by Julius. He saw, through Margot’s eyes, the change in Gregorio: the assurance of Venice added to the personal labour, the heart-felt pioneering of Madeira, coupled with a burning sense of injustice. Gregorio would not readily allow the Lomellini, the Vatachino or Simon de St Pol to escape their deserts.