Scales of Gold (66 page)

‘So no crime has been committed,’ said Lomellini. ‘How fortunate that vander Poele was not here, or we might have found fraud compounded with murder.’

He was looking at Diniz. Diniz said, ‘You asked who I was.’

‘I am Urbano Lomellini, Senhor Diniz, merchant of this island, and a wiser and less trusting man than I was a few minutes ago. I hope, in our dealings, we shall not be harsh with one another.’

‘Of the
Fortado
?’ Diniz said. ‘The family with the stake in the
Fortado
? Did she arrive?’

‘A month ago,’ Gregorio said. He felt weak with anticipation.

‘With her cargo?’

‘With a very fine cargo,’ said Gregorio. ‘The family Lomellini and my lord Simon have profited greatly.’

‘And, one assumes, the Vatachino,’ said Diniz.

The face of Urbano Lomellini returned his gaze stolidly. Simon said, ‘The Vatachino?’ with irritation.

The eyes of Diniz, moving round, rested on Gregorio’s face, and one of them flickered. He said, ‘In view of their majority stake in the
Fortado
. In view of the shares Signor Urbano allowed the Vatachino to have. Three-quarters, I believe, of all the Lomellini holding in the
Fortado
’s excellent cargo? The success of the voyage must have delighted David de Salmeton.’

Simon said, ‘This is not, of course, true?’ He spoke to Lomellini, who hesitated.

‘I am afraid it is,’ Gregorio said. ‘It is another matter you may wish to take up with Signor Urbano on shore. Meanwhile –’

‘Wait,’ said Urbano Lomellini harshly. He was deeply flushed. ‘Wait. The Vatachino are rivals of the Banco di Niccolò as well. You knew – Nicholas vander Poele knew they helped finance the
Fortado
. So how did Raffaelo Doria meet his death?’

‘Killed by traders,’ said a comfortable Scots voice from behind them.

Bel of Cuthilgurdy, emerged from the cabin, toiled towards them. She wore the uniform robe of blue damask wrapped round something much less than her former rotundity. Nevertheless the smile under the fresh linen headcloth was wider, trained on Gregorio, than it had ever been, and the eyes above the hollow cheeks and blotched skin sparkled naughtily. If she saw Simon, her gaze slid calmly past him.

She said, ‘They’re having a terrible job with the chests, getting them unlocked and put by for the searchers. Diniz, I think ye’ll need to give them a hand; all that gold’s a fair scunner. Did ye tell them how much we were suing them for?’

No one spoke. Diniz said, ‘I haven’t had time. They were just asking about Raffaelo Doria.’

‘Well, I’m glad they realise,’ Bel said. ‘D’ye like the robes? It was the best I could do: we got the bolts off a man in the Canary. I’m glad they realise what Doria and his men did to us. Luring us to our deaths, pretending to be King Bati’s natives. Attacking the
San Niccolò
in the river, and killing every last man except Melchiorre there, before persuading the blacks to ransack her. There’ll be a great cause to be pleaded for that, with costs and compensation. Diniz, ye ought to come, if these gentlemen will excuse us.’

‘Bel!’ said Simon de St Pol. To do him justice, he had composed himself. His shoulders straight, his face rather pale, he looked no older than the handsome man who nearly five years before had married Katelina van Borselen. He said, ‘You forget what you’re saying. Any nonsense like this will harm Lucia.’

Bel turned. ‘I don’t see how,’ she said. ‘Ye said you and she had separate businesses. That was when ye sold your half of the partnership. So I don’t see how she’ll be harmed by anything a St Pol has to forfeit. Forbye,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘if it damages you, it’ll also gie a wee flecht to the Vatachino. Now. Doesna that make ye feel better?’

Simon said, ‘I find all this hard to believe. Claes – vander Poele is not on board?’ One of the soldiers shook his head. They had gathered at the ladder to wait for him.

‘Then,’ said Simon, ‘I suppose Signor Urbano and I should – should leave for the moment.’ He paused, clearly confronting for the first time the practicalities of what was now threatening him. He said, ‘Do I take it that it is your intention, all of you, to stay at the
quinta
?’

Gregorio looked at Diniz, and smiled. He said, ‘I hope so. Although there is rather less space than I’d wish for. Perhaps, if you have friends in Funchal who could accommodate you …?’

Simon’s eyes were on Bel. He said, ‘You would throw the boy out?’

‘The boy?’ she said. The glint in her eyes had quite vanished.

‘Henry is with me,’ said Simon. ‘I brought him. I rather wished vander Poele to set eyes on him. Now, of course, it must wait.’

‘Your son Henry?’ said Diniz. Bel’s eyes went to his face.

Gregorio said curtly, ‘What do you wish to do? You are his father. He has a nursemaid.’ He had, a girl of seventeen with long, opulent hair.

‘Leave him,’ said Bel. ‘A child of four will make nothing of some fancy household in Funchal. Leave him. He knows me a little. Then I hope ye’ll settle your business and go. Scotland must be fair longing to welcome ye back.’

Gregorio stayed, and watched with the others as the pinnace left, with the rest of the party on board.

Diniz said, ‘Dear Gregorio.’ He looked pale. ‘Come and meet Vito and Melchiorre and the others again, and look at what we’ve brought. We have a lot to tell you.’

The essence, perhaps, was related in that moment. The detail had to wait until the next day when, in his bureau at Quinta do Sol, Gregorio listened to Diniz and Bel, refreshed by their first night’s rest on land.

By then, he knew what the
Ghost
had carried. He had heard how, coming north, the
San Niccolò
had called at all the places Ochoa might have visited. Nowhere had they heard even a rumour of the three mule-loads of gold, the cargo of gums and spices and dyes which had been transferred to the roundship at the Senagana.

At the Senagana itself, they had found only one Portuguese who had been at the post when the two ships were there. He said the
San Niccolò
had stuck in the estuary, and the
Ghost
had taken her cargo to lighten her. Once over the sandbar, the
Niccolò
had taken it back.

‘Crackbene knew they didn’t,’ Gregorio said. ‘He knew Nicholas had pulled off some trick, although he wouldn’t admit it. And Ochoa’s mouth had been shut by some bribe. So who has it? Who bribed them?’

‘Someone who waylaid the
Ghost
on her way north,’ Diniz said. ‘We tried to find out who. Every ship has to put into port at some stage. We asked in every harbour for a list of the ships passing through at that time, but they were all routine, and harmless. Whoever did this was rich. If he could bribe Ochoa, he could bribe some sweating, half-crazed harbour official.’

Diniz paused. ‘If you hadn’t sent your message, we couldn’t
have done even that. We shouldn’t have known that had happened. And they probably counted, anyway, on our never returning.’

‘Especially,’ Gregorio said, ‘if the Vatachino had a hand in it. But now we know what the
Ghost
had on board. Isn’t it time to make the theft public? You would have a powerful ally. If it’s the
San Niccolò
’s cargo, a quarter of it belongs to King Alfonso.’

The blue damask in which Bel was encased stirred. She said, ‘Do you want to link the
San Niccolò
and the
Ghost
?’

The men looked at one another.

‘Also,’ she said, ‘there’s a faint glimmer – a wee glisk of a chance, is there not, that yon Ochoa has packed it off somewhere? And if we find it, we keep it, and don’t even lose a quarter to the excellent monarch of Portugal? I’d recommend ye do nothing until the ownership of the
Ghost
has been proved. Nothing but hunt for it, that’s to say.’

‘She’s right,’ Diniz said. Looking at him, Gregorio wondered again what school Nicholas had sent him to, that produced this toughened, confident man. Diniz said, ‘We’ll need that gold, if the rest of our plans don’t succeed. But meanwhile there’s quite enough to buy the land you want for the
quinta
, and solve the worst of the problems at Venice. And I have to go to Bruges.’

‘I thought –’ Gregorio said. From what they said, it had seemed all their troubles were over.

‘Instructions,’ Diniz said, smiling. ‘Twenty-five pages of them, written in letters of iron by Nicholas. I told you, we found no gold on the Joliba, and all we could bring was the moderate amount they had in store in the city. However, it pays to exaggerate.’

‘But there is more coming?’ Gregorio said. ‘Nicholas is setting out with the rest in the autumn?’

‘That is what we are saying,’ said Diniz. The smile had gone, so that the lines of strain and privation could be seen again. Whatever the school had been, Crackbene also had known it.

‘But it isn’t true?’ said Gregorio sharply. They had talked of Nicholas; of Godscalc’s work with King Gnumi; of the large, busy city they had discovered on the edge of the desert, into which Gelis had settled without apparent discomfort. He had deduced, without much time to consider it, that Nicholas had made his peace with the girl, and was glad. So long as it didn’t go further. With Nicholas, one never knew. It worried him, that Gelis had stayed.

It worried him, also, that Loppe had brought them to Timbuktu so indirectly, concealing his interest, and leading Raffaelo Doria, there was no doubt, to his death. Most of all, it worried him that there might be some doubt about Nicholas. Not because of the gold, but in terms of his safety. He realised that silence had fallen. Behind several doors, a child was screaming in temper.

Bel said, ‘There will be a fortune in gold. We saw the salt come in, and Nicholas has arranged to buy most of what it fetches. So far as the world is concerned, he is waiting for it in Timbuktu, and will take it to Cantor to board the
Niccolò
in December. If he doesn’t do it, Gelis will. That’s why she stayed.’

‘Why shouldn’t he do it?’ Gregorio asked.

‘Because he has gone to keep his promise to Godscalc. He and the padre have gone to try and reach Prester John,’ Diniz said. ‘They know now it’s all but impossible. They know it’s further than anyone thought, and ten times as difficult, but they’ve gone. I don’t see that either of them will live to come back.’

The door opened then. Gregorio paid no attention, his eyes fixed on the other man. It was Bel who said, ‘Well, well: and who needs a trumpet with Henry de St Pol in the house? What ails my little man now?’

Children, to Gregorio, were an unknown country. He had supposed, over the last couple of days, that all behaved as this one did; and especially a child born of such a man as Simon de St Pol and such a wilful young woman as Katelina. A lover of beauty, he found himself distracted, yet again, by the child’s glorious hair, curling and yellow as corn; the open, dense blue of the eyes, the perfect lips, the carnation of the round, silken cheeks. In one of them was a dimple.

He said, ‘What is it, Henry?’ and then remembered, belatedly, who Diniz was, and that the two had not so far encountered each other. He said, ‘Henry, this is Diniz, your cousin.’

The screeching stopped. The blue eyes narrowed. ‘No,’ said Henry. ‘That’s a man. That’s his mother. His mother is Bel, my aunt Lucia’s servant. I have a nice coat. I have a sword and a dagger and a horse and three dogs. That man is dirty, and so is his mother.’

Below the suntan, Diniz had become very pale. Gregorio knelt. He said, ‘Haven’t you seen how the sun makes people brown? They’re wearing the only clothes they could bring back from Guinea. They’ve been to Guinea, where the black people live.’

‘I want my dinner,’ said Henry.

‘It isn’t time yet, my hinny,’ said Bel gently. ‘Ines told you.’ The mouth opened, became square.

Diniz stirred. He said, ‘The girl should – where is the girl?’

‘In Funchal,’ said Bel placidly. ‘Simon sent for something he wanted. It doesna matter. We shall manage perfectly well.’

Gregorio thought of Agnès, the capable Frenchwoman who had spoken lovingly of this her nursling in St Omer. Lovingly of the boy, and of Katelina his mother. He rose. He said, ‘Has the child no one else?’

Bel looked at him. ‘He has his father,’ she said. ‘Simon wishes the boy to grow up a man. He is training him himself.’

They were speaking over his head. The child walked over to Bel, and kicked her as hard as he could in the shins. ‘I want my dinner,’ he said. Then he screamed.

Diniz, gripping both arms, had lifted the boy off the floor and held him suspended. The childish boots flailed in the air. The child in its rage had turned scarlet, and whooping cries left its lips.

‘Don’t,’ said Bel. Gregorio was holding her, and there was blood on the Canary blue damask. ‘Don’t. You won’t cure it that way.’

‘How will you cure it?’ Diniz said. ‘Except by starting again, with a different father?’

Bel said, ‘No.’ Removing herself from Gregorio’s arm, she shuffled forward. She said, ‘No. Put him down. Henry, hurting people won’t get you your dinner. Your father has to stay in Funchal, to make the ducats to buy you all these coats. He’ll be back. Soon, you’ll have dinner together. Now, when Ines is ready, you can eat with her. Come. She has toys you haven’t seen yet.’

They went, the woman limping, the child sullen and frightened, hand in hand. Gregorio said, ‘She’s a saint, that unlikely small woman, but I think it’s too late. There goes a man born to the mould of his father.’

Diniz sat. He said, ‘He has his looks, too.’ He paused. He said, ‘I meant to ask you about something else. Do you – did you know that Nicholas was born to Simon’s first wife? And used to believe himself to be Simon’s son?’

‘You’ve heard that?’ Gregorio said. ‘It’s true that he maintained it, but there’s no proof that he is. Simon and his wife were living apart when Nicholas was born. The woman is dead, and Simon refused to have anything to do with the child. I gather Nicholas never importuned him over it, but always hoped for some kindness. Instead Simon took against him, as you see. A wretched business.’ He paused. ‘Does it worry you?’