Scales of Gold (87 page)

‘Met by whom?’ Gregorio said.

‘Are you blind?’ Julius said. ‘All the challengers are being met by the Bastard Antony.’

‘He’s forty-seven,’ Tobie said. ‘I don’t see him lasting the pace.’

‘He’s not bad,’ Diniz said.

‘Where is he?’ Gelis asked.

An immense yellow pavilion rolled on to the lists, propelled by six sweating pages and followed by wild-eyed horses covered with purple velvet and bells. The tent opened, and the Bastard of Burgundy leaped from it, fully armed, on the back of a horse.

‘You don’t mind,’ Nicholas said, ‘if I don’t actually watch this? I’m expecting some guests.’

Gregorio got up, and so did Diniz and Godscalc. Julius and Astorre and Tobie were already standing.

‘Who?’ said Gelis sharply.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Nicholas said. ‘It’s a sort of wedding present, in a way. A capitulation. An armistice, anyway. Shall we go?’

The door opened as he spoke. Simon de St Pol stood in the entrance. He said, ‘I understand you had something to say to me. Some words of apology, might it be?’

‘You never know,’ Nicholas said. ‘I kept a room below. I thought we might talk.’

‘Talk?’ Simon said. He looked amused, glancing at Gelis.

‘Discuss something,’ Nicholas said. ‘I thought we might get out of the way the whole business of the
Ghost
and the
Fortado.
’

Gelis rose.

‘Today? Now?’ Simon said. ‘What a very silly idea. A proper tribunal will be held in due course. I am quite willing to wait for it. At the moment, I rather think we are expected to celebrate the ducal nuptials. Yours, I prefer not to think of. I hope you will excuse me.’

‘I don’t mind,’ Nicholas said. ‘Would you like to take Crackbene’s deposition with you? And the boy’s? I have copies for Gilles Lomellini and de Salmeton. As a matter of fact, it could be settled in my favour immediately. Save some money, I thought.’

‘Crackbene’s?’ Simon said. He had reopened the door.

‘And Filipe, the boy’s. They confirm the
Fortado
was selling arms to the black tribes, and attacked my crew and my ship in the Gambia. We all have something to say about the
Doria
as well. The
Ribérac
, I should say. Or the
Ghost.
’

‘I don’t want to hear,’ Simon said. He said it slowly.

‘Of course not,’ said Nicholas. Outside, to the applause of the crowd, Adolf of Cleves and the Bastard of Burgundy were driving lances at each other. A giant sand-glass on the judge’s tribune was half empty.

Nicholas said, ‘Of course you don’t want to miss all the excitement. I can talk it over quite easily with Lomellini and de Salmeton instead. They should be downstairs by now.’

Simon said, ‘You asked them as well?’ His gaze lingered on Gelis.

‘My wife,’ Nicholas said. ‘You have met? Yes, I asked them as well. Perhaps you want to come, after all.’

‘Why don’t we all go?’ Gelis said.

The others were waiting below. Summoning them, Nicholas had counted on this: that once they knew their partners were coming, they would prefer not to refuse. In any case, the Lomellini and the Vatachino were allies. Gilles Lomellini, acting for his cousins, rose formally when Nicholas entered the room, but David de Salmeton jumped up smiling and came towards Gelis with his two hands outstretched. ‘The bride! My dear, you are blooming!’

In fact she wore the look, alert and somewhat censorious, that Nicholas always liked, and had always mistrusted. She said, ‘It’s the rain. Have you heard what Nicholas has done?’

‘Apart from marrying you?’ Smiling still, the long-lashed eyes were observing Simon de St Pol among the group who were entering the room. David de Salmeton said softly, ‘What else has he done?’

‘Found Michael Crackbene,’ Nicholas said. ‘Among other things. That’s his written statement. Now tell me I don’t own the
Ghost.
’

During the hour that they talked, they could have heard, through closed windows, the blare of the trumpets and clarions; the signal that the half-hour of the sand-glass had run; the pause to rearm; the further fanfares and tattoos that announced the next stage of the contest. Within, no one listened, for they were fighting with words.

Nicholas had never thought it would be easy. The
Ghost
had begun life as a ship of Jordan de Ribérac’s purloined by Simon, but without Jordan no one could prove it. It had been sailed to Trebizond by Simon’s agent and had been captured by the Turks, and had been recaptured and salvaged by Nicholas, who now claimed it as his own.

The court of Trebizond, where all that had happened, had gone. Tobie was there to speak to it, and Astorre, and Godscalc and Julius as well as himself. But he had no independent witness except one.

‘Where is Crackbene?’ said Simon de St Pol. ‘Is this his writing? And if it is, what of it anyway? A man who will change his tune for a fee is worth nothing.’

‘He is in Bruges,’ Nicholas said. ‘He will tell you how we tricked the Turks and brought the
Doria
home. I shall find for you, if I must, some of the merchants we saved.’

‘What would they know? Only what you cared to tell them. The truth everyone knows,’ Simon said, ‘is that you killed Pagano
Doria and stole the ship. And stole it again, when it was in service against the Muslims in Ceuta.’

‘And that’s a lie,’ Julius said. He had interrupted a great deal, not always successfully.

‘It is a lie,’ Godscalc said. ‘I can tell you now that what Nicholas says is the truth.’

‘How strange,’ Simon said. ‘One might almost say you had identical reasons for favouring Nicholas. A share in his wealthy Bank, could it be?’

‘There is another fragment of evidence,’ Nicholas said. ‘I should rather not use it. But it’s there. You may like to see it.’

‘Written by another member of your Bank?’ David de Salmeton said. ‘My dear Nicholas, it is all rather incestuous.’

‘You may think this even more so,’ Nicholas said. ‘I think it is rather brave. She wrote it out for me herself, and signed it. An account by Catherine de Charetty of how Pagano Doria died, and what happened afterwards.’

He didn’t look at Godscalc, for Godscalc had brought it to him. The only help Catherine could give him, and the most painful for her. For she had sailed on the
Doria
to Trebizond, and had thought, to the end, that Pagano Doria loved her, and had made her his wife.

‘Poor child,’ said David de Salmeton. ‘The sister, is she not, of your fiancée, Senhor Diniz? A brave lie indeed. But it is still true, is it not, that you purloined the
Doria
from Ceuta, and changed her name to the
Ghost
? It is also true that she attacked the
Fortado
, and engaged in illicit trade. I feel for you. I should like to be lenient on your wedding day, but I am afraid that I, too, see no evidence that would hold up in court.’

‘One might, perhaps, point out some contradictions,’ Nicholas said. ‘I did take the
Doria
from Ceuta, but I took what was my own: that is not theft. I did deprive the garrison of her services, but on the other hand I was risking my life to find gold for the Church, and take a mission to Ethiopia. The King of Portugal found no fault with that, nor the Order of Christ, nor the Pope. And what illicit acts did she perform? Crackbene will tell you that she made no attack on the
Fortado
– he is quite positive, I find, on that score. And trading? She sold horses in Grand Canary and took supplies to the Cape Verde islands, after which she returned wholly empty. You have seen that verified for yourselves.’

‘There is no case,’ said Gilles Lomellini. ‘I have listened. There is no evidence to prove you own the
Ghost.
’

‘You think not?’ Nicholas said. ‘Then I shall have to concentrate,
shall I not, on the case against the
Fortado
? And that, my dear sirs, is a different matter.’

It was. It depended, he knew, on the professions of Michael Crackbene and the boy. It depended on Melchiorre’s evidence – but the very scars on his body would speak for Melchiorre. The other evidence had to come from themselves. But there were seven of them still alive and accessible who had been caught in Raffaelo Doria’s trap in a hut on the Gambia, and among them was Gelis, and Bel.

He was aware, as he told the story, that Julius was silent at last, and so were all those who had not been there. Gelis, as she had all along, let him unfold the case in his own way. He ended by describing how Raffaelo Doria had died.

‘He was greedy,’ Nicholas said. ‘So were some of my own men. Gold is a cruel master. But he was ready to kill, even women. I cannot let that pass. He is dead, but you, all three of you, stand responsible for what he did. And the selling of arms is a hanging matter.’

Gilles Lomellini said, ‘I do not wish this brought to court.’

Simon flushed. ‘What say do you have? Your cousins preferred secret partners. It is for me to say what we do.’

‘It is for all of us to say,’ said David de Salmeton. ‘Messer Simon, you wish to go to law to justify your possession of the
Ghost
, and there I agree with you heartily. If the
Ghost
belongs to the charming Ser Niccolò, then the Vatachino must return his insurance money.’

‘So we go to court,’ Simon said.

‘But,’ said David de Salmeton, ‘it is not, is it, merely a matter of money? I do not care for what I hear of Raffaelo Doria.’

‘They can’t prove it,’ said Simon.

‘But if they could?’ de Salmeton said. His eyes were on Nicholas. He said, very softly, ‘Messer Simon, I think someone would like you to take this to court. I would remind you that someone has already pointed out that the sale of arms to the natives of Guinea is punishable by death.’ He held Nicholas still with his eyes.

Far off, trumpets brayed in a fanfare. A remote voice spoke; there was a roar of acclaim. Music struck up. Gelis was looking at him, her eyes pale and wide.

Nicholas said, ‘I brought you here today to listen to you, and so that you could hear what I had to say. And so that, whatever conclusions we reached, they would still remain private to us, and capable of a private solution.’

‘A
private
solution?’ Simon said. He was frowning. Amid the vanity, the self-interest, perhaps he was coming to reason. Or perhaps not.

Nicholas said, ‘The
Ghost
is mine, but I may not be able to prove it in court. The crimes of the
Fortado
are yours, and can be shown to be so. Give me the
Ghost
in free ownership, and I shall absolve you from the deeds of Raffaelo Doria, and forget that you ever sold arms.’

Julius sighed. David de Salmeton said, ‘And the insurance money?’

‘Repayable to me,’ Nicholas said. ‘Your partners in the
Fortado
will, I am sure, be persuaded to help you. Gregorio?’

Gregorio rose. The papers he laid on the table were already drawn up, and there were copies for each man.

Nicholas said, ‘That is your statement accepting my account of the
Ghost
. And that is mine, absolving you from any harm the
Fortado
caused on that voyage. If you sign, you will hear nothing more.’ He didn’t add – it didn’t matter – that the
Fortado
had sunk.

They signed. Both his cases against them were in fact without flaw. He wondered if Simon would ever realise it.

He should have felt elated, when it was over, and de Salmeton and Lomellini had gone, followed after a moment by Simon who had stopped as if he would speak, and then, with a curious laugh, had departed. He
was
elated, after a bit.

Julius said, ‘What were you thinking of? You could have won both these suits!’

‘No. He did as he should. It was a day for lenience,’ Godscalc said.

‘I thought so,’ Nicholas said. ‘Why has everyone gone? The lists are empty! Have they all killed one another?’

‘Don’t get excited,’ said Tobie. ‘They had to stop the tournament to make time for the banquet. If we hurry, we can get there before they start eating. Gelis, how do you like receiving a ship for your morning-gift?’

‘It isn’t morning yet,’ said Nicholas complainingly.

‘So she’s got it without working for it. And my God,’ Tobie said, ‘it will be morning by the time they finish this banquet.’

It was three o’clock in the morning when the Duke’s wedding feast came to an end, and his guests rose from their places in the great timber hall at the Princenhof, brought there and lovingly laid on his tennis court through the practical labours of Nicholas.

Painted and draped in white and blue wool, hung with tapestries and furnished with cloth-of-gold tablecloths, it had been transformed. Piled with gold in the centre was a buffet containing half the Duke’s treasures; the effect, Nicholas thought, was much the same as the Timbuktu-Koy strove to attain. Among the singing, dancing, erupting artefacts had been a dromedary with a genuine black man on its back, dressed like a mountebank.

Gelis had watched it, and then turned. ‘Couldn’t you stop them
doing that?’ Beneath a barmican of veiling, her face was pale and her lids extraordinarily heavy: she looked like a piece of elegant sculpture encased for some procession in tinsel. Her ring was so new it caught all the light.

‘His name’s Jacob,’ Nicholas said. ‘He’s a baptised Mandingua and quite pleased with himself, as it happens; he’s never had so much food or attention. The other side of what Umar wanted to show us. The candelabra. What do you think of them?’

‘Do you really want to know?’ Gelis had said.

‘No. And the verse? You did approve of the verse?’

‘Of course I approved of the verse. It was the only time you stopped talking. Calm down,’ Gelis had said. ‘Don’t let go all at once.’ She sounded on edge.

It was good advice, he supposed. He further supposed that it was the sort of advice the bridegroom should be offering the bride, not the other way round. He had other things he was waiting to tell her. About the land and the pretty house he had bought, or Bonkle for him. About the plans for Spangnaerts Street. If she wished she could live with him in Cyprus. In Alexandria. In Damascus. In a single, small room, with a fountain playing outside.
I want the teachers sprung of your line to help instruct the poor fools sprung of mine. I mean to match you, child for child …