Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
Recovered, he would be allowed to take boat for shore. He would certainly notice, in daylight, the absence of the
Ghost
, and hence the loss of his chance to delay Nicholas. As soon as he physically could, he would order the
Fortado
to sea. But by then, Nicholas hoped, the
San Niccolò
herself would be away.
He had come to African waters apprehensive of many things. He had not expected a race.
It went smoothly. He spoke aside to the master, and went below to see Bel and her patient, and held a conversation with Loppe. He found Father Godscalc and told him most of his plans, and advised him to sleep while he could. By then his boat was ready, on the lee side. He waited until Godscalc had gone, and then ran down the side and got in. A wave passed under his keel, and all the little boats rocked at their moorings. It came from the
Ghost
, her masts moving silently in the dark as she slipped her cable, and was towed out of harbour.
He knew, on shore, where to hire a horse, and they found him a guide very quickly. It was only twenty-five miles to Ponta do Sol on a path that went clear down the coast, but he couldn’t risk missing his way. Diniz would be at Ponta do Sol, and he must reach him soon. Before, distraught at the news of his uncle, the boy thought of taking horse east, and attempting to reboard the caravel.
If I were free
, he had said. Well, he was now.
Even without the guide, Nicholas would have known he was approaching the estate of Tristão Vasquez by the smells beaten into the grindstones: the dense vinous breath of the presses, and the aroma he could never forget, the herbal sweetness that still steamed, he hoped, from his copper vats by the temple at Kouklia.
It had not been a talkative journey. The track was only the width of a wagon, and soft and pitted with use: another aspect of the moist balmy climate that produced the tropical profusion of flower and foliage he could only sense, and the darting, bustling life of the undergrowth. His guide possessed a flambeau, but had not needed to light it. The night had cleared, and the starlight and the strange reflected light of the sea on his left-hand side were enough. He rode, for the moment enveloped again in the tranquil detachment he had gained, and then lost, in the solitary months after Marian’s death, and had found again only in Cyprus, on his way to and from Kouklia.
He met no one on the road: no frantic boy spurring back, bereaved, adrift and now pauperised by the golden uncle whom his father, out of generosity, had made his partner in a fine, growing business. He was going to be in time.
Before the guide spoke, the rush of the stream told him he was coming towards Diniz’ patrimony. The limits of the tilled land were not easy to define in the darkness, but he saw a bridge and a mill and a collection of cabins, and further off a stockade within which appeared a number of roofs, mostly thatched, and all of them illuminated by the glowing lamps in the windows of a much larger residence whose upper storey he could discern.
The gates to the stockade stood open, sign of perturbation enough, and as he and the guide dismounted and went in, a brace of dogs began to bark wildly, causing a baby somewhere to cry. A man’s voice shouted an enquiry, and Nicholas stopped in a pool of light.
The central house of two storeys was lit along its full length, the windows neither shuttered nor covered with muslin, and its walls thick with vines. A man, fully clothed, came out on the balcony, and Nicholas took off his hat to show his face. He said, ‘Nicholas
vander Poele of Venice. I hoped to see Senhor Diniz.’ It was halfway through the night.
‘Wait,’ said the man. Against the light he was broad-built but not young, and his voice had a ring of authority. He could be no one but the factor.
Nicholas waited, hearing a confused sound of voices through the open window. Then almost immediately the door below burst open and Diniz came out and stopped. The slanting light sharpened the hollows of cheekbone and eye and his hair, uncovered, hung in rough strands. There was no trace left of the tight-lipped hauteur of his leaving. He said, ‘I knew you would come.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Nicholas.
‘Yes. So am I,’ Diniz said. ‘We’re not – You must be tired. Come upstairs.’ The man from the balcony came out at his back, inclined his head and, walking past Nicholas, went to speak to his guide. Diniz said, ‘He’s my father’s … he’s the Vasquez factor, Jaime, who lives here. He has seven children.’
The implications of the news, then, had already made themselves apparent. Nicholas said, ‘We’ll talk about it inside.’ Following the boy up to the first floor, he saw how pale he was, and dirty, as if he had forgotten to wash after his journey. In the white-walled family room, there were moths round every lamp but no one present, although he noticed a wooden hobbyhorse lying, and a woman’s sewing thrown on a chair. Diniz stopped in the middle and turned.
‘They say the transaction can’t be reversed. Jaime was forced to supply all the figures and documents, and although my father’s notary went to Funchal and objected, it seemed my uncle was free to dispose of his share. The notary said there were more lawyers for the Lomellini than he knew ever existed. He begged St Pol to wait, but he wouldn’t.’
‘Did he give a reason?’ Nicholas said.
Tonight, stunned by the enormity of his idol’s conduct, Diniz had lost all constraint. He said, ‘My uncle told them I was weak, and under your influence, and would give you anything that you wanted once you got here. That was why it had to be drawn up so quickly.’
The factor had entered the room and was standing quietly by the door. Something about the way he stood reminded Nicholas of Jorge da Silves. Diniz said, ‘You have to let me come with you.’
The factor spoke, his voice lighter than might have been expected. ‘That would not be wise.’
Nicholas said, ‘It might be very wise, if you were an impediment to your family. Since you’re not, stay and fight.’
‘What with?’ Diniz said. ‘You have no money, you told me. Otherwise you could take my share now.’
‘Thank you,’ Nicholas said. ‘All I need is a loss-making venture. Senhor Jaime, I have ridden a long way, but not to rob you or Diniz. Might we sit? I have a proposal to make.’
They hesitated, but they sat. He took the cushioned box that remained and, setting his hands on either side, looked from one to the other. The factor’s face, broad and parched as a fig, returned the look with a steady attention. Nicholas said, ‘I have no money to offer, but I have a man of exceptional skills, who has managed my Bank in Venice for almost three years and who could tell you, in a matter of weeks, whether this estate could be made to support you. He is in Funchal at the moment. If you and your lawyer approved, I could lend him to you, at no cost at all to yourselves.’
‘But he would expect a share in the business?’ said the factor.
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘If I bring back Guinea gold, we may talk. Even then, there is no obligation. And as well as Gregorio, you would have Gelis van Borselen to help you. There might be more hope than you think.’
The factor pondered. Protruding from his rolled sleeves were arms scarred and knotted with labour, and his face at this moment worked to produce a deeply ruminative sniff. Then he said, ‘I will get my wife. Senhor Diniz should eat. I must think of this.’
‘Of course,’ Nicholas said. ‘Now is not the time. But I shall leave you the name of the man, and a note for him. And I am sorry – I have already eaten. I didn’t mean to delay your own supper.’
The boy fell asleep before the food came, comforted by the promise of help and by the sound of earnest voices in congress. The factor’s wife, arriving with soup, curtseyed to Nicholas and poured him a bowl, but laid another by the boy’s side without waking him. She murmured, ‘Fatherless child!’ She had been in bed, and wore a rough mantle bundled about her and her hair thrust somehow into a cloth. Nicholas reflected, without envy, that he was only five or six years older than Diniz but was more used to suspicion than compassion. And was not fatherless. That was the trouble.
He sighed, and ate the soup, and some bread, and continued his low conversation with Senhor Jaime. A good man, he suspected, doing the work of two people out of the fondness he had had for Senhor Tristão.
What he learned was not encouraging, although he didn’t say so. The little estate, shorn of its other half, could provide a living perhaps for a year. Until he came back. If he didn’t, it would be Gregorio’s problem. Along with the Bank and the Charetty.
The boy slept. Nicholas said, ‘I must leave him a letter. And write one for you to give to Gregorio, if you have a desk I might use. I have to go fairly soon.’
The man looked up. His wife said, ‘There’s a bed. I’ve put sheets on it.’
‘I hope you ask me again,’ Nicholas said. ‘And offer me soup. But I have to go, and it would be best before he wakes and asks questions.’
They made no more effort to stop him. The factor led him to a small writing room, its walls covered with bits of string and spiked papers and hasty reminders in charcoal, and accommodating a stool, a box and a counter. There was a pot of quills, and an inkwell and a knife, and the factor got him some paper and wax. He had his own seal, the sight of which would alarm Gregorio immediately. He knew Gregorio would never forgive him.
He was heating the wax for the letter when he lifted his head, hearing the thud of distant hooves over the murmur and pop of his lamp. He let the wax drop and, pressing his seal in the blister, rose quickly, the letter with its superscription laid on the desk. It was to be expected that a fit man like de Salmeton would quickly recover, and further to be expected that, once on shore, he would make all the trouble he could, even to commanding a string of the Captain’s best horsemen. But at least the
Ghost
would have gone.
The dogs began barking as he blew out the lamp and began to pick his way through the house to find some lesser exit that would serve him. His horse was in the stable. He would have to saddle it, too, unless he managed to get hold of one of those coming in, however blown. He only needed to cover twelve miles. He heard the horses clatter over the bridge – not so many of them – and thought he smelled fresh air from a passage. Then as he turned a corner, the brilliant light of a lamp came to blind him, carried by the factor with Diniz stumbling sleepily after him. Diniz said, ‘Who is it?’ and saw him.
Until Diniz seized his arm, he still thought he might escape. After that, there was nothing he could immediately do but appear not to be dragged to the portal. Standing within the crowded front door, he saw a small troop had ridden into the courtyard. It was led by a person he knew; whose name, indeed, he had just finished writing. Behind it was a cloaked figure mounted side-saddle. It was not David de Salmeton. For a violent moment, he wished that it were. Then Gregorio, dismounting, was saying, in a voice hoarse with tiredness, ‘The
quinta
of the family Vasquez?
Nicholas, are you here?
’
And after Gregorio’s, there spoke a familiar feminine voice. ‘We know he is here. It is what he is doing here that rivets us.’
Gelis van Borselen, how? Through some tell-tale spy on shore, he deduced, or the man who had hired him his hackney. She was here, with Gregorio.
Diniz dropped his grasp and ran into the yard. Gregorio waited for him, looking uneasy. Gelis, standing beside him, was the epitome of a fine, pale malevolence. In a matter of seconds, she would notice him. Nicholas backed into the shadows, turned, and sprinted.
He found, at speed, the side exit. He raced amid some unwanted yapping and braying to the stables. He found and saddled his horse, all the time hearing the voice of Diniz, now angry, and the cold voice of Gelis, and the weary mutter of Gregorio. A drowsy Portuguese voice at his elbow said, ‘My lord returns? Allow his servant.’ The guide had been asleep in the straw.
‘Go back to sleep,’ Nicholas said. ‘I have no need of you.’ He mounted.
‘My lord!’ said the guide. ‘It is dark! One may stumble or drown!’
‘I have no need of you,’ Nicholas repeated. He remembered, with sorrow, how very highly he had rewarded the fellow.
‘My lord!’ said the man; and ran out after him.
‘There he is!’ Gelis cried.
They caught him just over the bridge, and he had time to wish that he had waited, in a dignified fashion. Diniz said, ‘You were leaving!’
‘I have to go,’ Nicholas said.
‘After what?’ said Gelis van Borselen. Apart from the circles under her eyes, she was quite unaltered. ‘What have you got him to promise you?’
‘Diniz? Nothing,’ said Nicholas. ‘I have to go.’
‘Where?’
He paused. ‘Funchal,’ he said warily.
‘And why?’ said Gelis van Borselen.
Gregorio said, ‘Nicholas. The
San Niccolò
has sailed out of harbour.’
‘With David de Salmeton?’ said Nicholas recklessly.
‘No. As soon as he left. So what are you doing here?’
‘Leaving,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’m expected by friends. Gregorio, I’ve left you a letter. Senhor Jaime, I have to thank you and your lady. Diniz, goodbye.’
It was Gregorio who held his reins and bodily stopped him: Gregorio, who, he would have thought, even more than the girl or the factor would have wanted him parted from Diniz. Gregorio said, ‘Where are you going? You owe it to us to tell us.’
Nicholas said, ‘I’m going to Câmara de Lobos. Help them. It’s all in the letter, for Christ’s sake.’
‘I am going with you,’ said Diniz.
‘No, you are not,’ said the girl, and brought her foot hard down on his, while snapping over her shoulder, ‘Let him
go
, damn you.’
‘What?’ said Gregorio. He slackened his grip. Nicholas tore his reins free and dug his spurs into his horse. It jibbed resentfully, then bounded as he collected the reins and did it again. He heard stumbling footsteps beside him, and then a sudden, desperate drag on his saddle and girth. Diniz was mounting behind him.
The horse faltered. Clawing, the boy got into place and once there, grasped Nicholas in both hands. He was sobbing for breath. He said, ‘Go. For my father’s sake.’ Nicholas lifted his whip. Gelis van Borselen, on her own horse, appeared suddenly at his side. She said, ‘It is your father’s name, Diniz.’