Scales of Gold (65 page)

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

A
S
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.

And yet he watched her come with an aching pride, for she had won home; the lovely caravel which had left Lagos so bravely. And she was making a brave homecoming too: her flags flying, her cannon saluting the town. Far off, there carried the sound of a trumpet. And the flags that were flying were those of celebration: none was at half-mast. So Nicholas was alive and here, to face whatever awaited him.

Her sails came down and, as she took to her oars, Simon led his party into the pinnace to meet her. The vessels slowly converged, and they all saw the real state of the
San Niccolò
.

She was still painted black. They had bought paint, Gregorio guessed, at Arguim or Grand Canary, and it had been brushed over the great patches and scars in her planking, but roughly, as if there had been few men and little time for the operation. The way her sails had come down spoke, too, of a working crew as sparse as that of the
Fortado;
and, like her enemy, she lumbered, sluggish with weed.

The rest of her was a patchwork: the cannons half gone; the rails
mended with different woods – but the oars were new, and some of her spars pristine and gleaming. She was trailing two boats, one a stout skiff of the kind they used on Grand Canary and the other hacked out of some garish timber, and half full of water.

There were men running about on the deck. Gregorio glimpsed the oarsmen, but no one came to the side but a thin, dark man robed in expensive blue damask. The
Niccolò
let down her anchor. A moment later, the companion ladder came down, and the pinnace made fast to her side.

Simon stood, preparing to advance to the steps. Gregorio, rising in the same moment, said, ‘I beg your pardon,’ and, using both elbows, plunged on to the ladder instead. When Simon snatched at his doublet, he kicked. Then he clambered as fast as he could to the top.

The man in damask was Melchiorre, the Florentine who had sailed on the
Ciaretti
. He looked ghastly, but his face was blazing with happiness. He said, ‘Signor Gregorio!’ and held out his arms.

Gregorio seized him. He said, ‘I’ve got a man behind, Simon, who wants to have Nicholas arrested and killed. Tell Nicholas quickly. Tell him to get away. Help me delay them.’

‘I thought you might do something like that,’ said Simon’s voice sweetly behind him. ‘There is another boat waiting behind, just in case. Do you know you kicked me just now? What a great athlete you are, to be sure.’

He had already drawn back his arm. Gregorio tried to avoid it, but the caravel swayed, and he stumbled. Another hand caught Simon’s fist and held it. Gregorio saw who it was.

Simon did not. Simon saw a young man, thinned by privation, but still hard-muscled and tough, and enveloped in the same strange blue damask robe as the man at the head of the companionway. He wore a twist of the identical stuff as a hat, and beneath it his eyes were deep-set, and black as a Negro’s. He said, ‘Goro. Are you all right?’

‘Now I am,’ Gregorio said. His sight was suddenly blurred.

‘Nicholas isn’t here,’ said the young man. ‘But he’s all right. He’s all right.’

‘And who are you?’ said Simon de St Pol, and tore his hand free. It didn’t come easily. The score of a nail showed suddenly red on his wrist as he laid his palm on the hilt of his sword.

The young man made no effort to draw his, although he was wearing one. He glanced at Gregorio, and then, his expression changing, back to Simon de St Pol. The young man said, ‘Who am I? A man who admired you for upholding the family honour, but now does not.’

‘Because of Claes?’ Simon said. The soldiers, climbing aboard, had begun to spread through the ship. They were armed. His eyes followed them, and returned to the young man. ‘Whatever Claes has said, it’s a lie. He is no kin of mine. If he were, I should do this no differently. He has spilled blood, and must pay for it.’

‘Claes?
Nicholas?
’ the young man said. ‘I was speaking of the way you treated your sister. You found her widowed, and sold off your half of the partnership, you cowardly, self-seeking, conceited goat.’

He had spoken quite softly. Gregorio heard, and Urbano Lomellini beside him. Simon looked as if he had not heard. His sword, sliding out of its sheath, seemed to come very slowly. He said, ‘I don’t think I caught what you said.’ The sword rose. Gregorio shivered.

The young man said, ‘And would you kill me for it if you had? Even though it was true? Even though I
am
your kin, uncle?’ He waited, ignoring the arrested swordpoint, submitting with dispassionate calm to the scrutiny – dangerous, uncertain, shocked – of the swordsman.

Simon said, ‘Diniz!’

‘Yes,’ said Diniz Vasquez. He pushed his uncle’s sword down with one finger. He had made no move at all towards his own. He said, ‘Nicholas isn’t here. He thought he would wait until the autumn, as there was too much gold for one ship to carry. If there is nothing else, perhaps you would call your soldiers off? We are rather busy, and Bel might object.’

‘She’s here?’ Gregorio said. His voice was hoarse. ‘And Gelis? Godscalc?’

‘They waited,’ said the young man, without looking round. Simon of Kilmirren was sheathing his sword.

Urbano Lomellini said, ‘Excuse me. Who is this?’

It was Gregorio’s moment. He stepped forward. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is Diniz Vasquez, owner of the Vasquez plantation at Ponta do Sol which, against all informed advice, his uncle has just tried to sell to you. I am afraid, as Senhor Diniz’ lawyer, I shall have to initiate some serious claims for redress.’

Lomellini opened his mouth. ‘They said you were dead,’ Simon said.

‘Did they?’ said Diniz. ‘Well, I was left for dead at one point, but Nicholas saved me. Who said I was dead?’ His voice sharpened. ‘And who gave you leave to – Have you sold the
quinta
?’

‘To me,’ said Urbano Lomellini. ‘He said –’

‘Claes attacked you,’ Simon said quickly. ‘You wouldn’t know. You were close to death. Filipe saw it.’

‘Filipe
saw
it?’ said Diniz. ‘Filipe shot me.’

There was a silence. ‘You’re protecting Claes,’ Simon said. ‘Even now. That was why I broke up the partnership. Your infatuation for –’

‘His name is Nicholas,’ Diniz said. ‘And admiration is different from infatuation. I’m not surprised Filipe thought I was dead. I should have died if Nicholas hadn’t followed and found me. I had let him down: he had no call to, but he did. If you don’t believe me, Vito there tracked me down with him. And if you don’t believe either of us, ask Bel. She helped treat the wound. Is that proof enough?’