Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
And they were. They virtually were. He would have stayed longer, except that his looks and his youth attracted attention. He let the traders dismount, and walk to meet their fellows ahead of him. He was setting off quietly home when he was stopped by a hand on his reins.
It belonged to a soldier whose blue headcloth concealed all but the bridge of his nose and his eyes – not one of the bodyguard of the Timbuktu-Koy, but a man of the Tuareg chief Akil ag Malwal. There were four of them, and their master rode up before them, his knives at his knee, his gazelle shield slung behind by his quiver.
The commander Akil said, ‘So modest, lord! One would think – we are honoured – that you wished to be taken for one of us. May I assist you?’ His moustached and pitted face was unveiled.
There was no interpreter, but the man had used simple Arabic. Aided by anger, Diniz scraped together what fragments he had. He said, ‘When one trades, one wears the dress of a trader. I am here only for pleasure. I wished to see a sight unique in the world.’
Akil replied with elaborate courtesy. ‘I hear you, but alas, my poor brain cannot distinguish your words. Is your master, who speaks Tamashagh, not here to interpret?’
‘I am my own master,’ said Diniz. ‘My lord Niccolò, if you seek him, is at his lodging.’
‘No doubt. It was Umar ibn Muhammad I spoke of,’ said Akil blandly. ‘But now, as I recall, he claimed to have no control over you either. The girl pleases you?’
Diniz stared.
‘I sent you a girl, and another to the lord Niccolò. The Timbuktu-Koy requested it. He has many daughters to protect, and soldiers’ whores make good slaves. But I detain you. I have a packet for you, addressed to the lord Niccolò. Perhaps you will convey it to him, with my compliments? It came with the caravan.’
‘With … A missive from the north, for the lord Niccolò?’ Diniz said. He began by speaking quickly, and slowed. A soldier was unpacking a satchel.
The parcel he took out was thick, and rolled many times in waxed cloth, and then sewn. It was addressed, in unknown writing, to Niccolò. The commander, God rot him, took and held it. ‘You were expecting some goods? Jewels, perhaps? There is a tax due.’
‘These are only letters,’ Diniz said. It was obvious.
‘I do not doubt you are right,’ said Akil ag Malwal. ‘But it is easy to prove. Open it.’
There was nothing Diniz could do. Akil could read. With what languages would he be familiar? None, surely, but for Arabic in its various dialects. He would not know Portuguese, or Spanish or Tuscan, but there might be scholars in the Sankore who had lived in Europe. The only safe language to hope for was Flemish.
The packet was untied and fell open. The contents ran to many pages, written over and crossed. The language was Flemish.
Diniz Vasquez belonged to a family intimately connected with Bruges, and from childhood had been taught that tongue among others. He read the first words and felt the blood leave his stomach. The commander Akil said, ‘Why did I doubt it? There is nothing here but a letter. It contains good news, I trust. Your sisters have had sons in your absence, your property flourishes, your lord has granted you many and valuable offices? I see by your face it is good news. I send you homeward rejoicing. May Allah bless you.’
‘May God shorten your life,’ Diniz said. He said it in Flemish.
Nicholas was not there when, breathing hoarsely, Diniz strode into the house, and neither were Godscalc and the women. A message had come from Umar ibn Muhammad, supplicating their presence at his betrothal feast. The house of Umar’s cousins, where he lived, was to the north, in the quarter he had just left. Diniz remounted and fled there.
He hadn’t changed his attire. He was made aware of it as soon as he was admitted through the great doors and led through corridors to the courtyard, hung with silks and lit with sweet fuming lamps, where Umar’s remote, vestigial family were holding festival in honour of his betrothal.
Umar himself came out to greet him, tall and shining and black
and dressed in crimson damask collared with gold. He said, ‘I am so happy. They said you had gone, and I was concerned for you.’
Diniz said, ‘I am sorry.’
His voice, it seemed, was enough. Lopez – Umar – said, ‘You have news. It is bad?’
‘Nothing to disturb you,’ said Diniz. ‘A letter for Nicholas. I am sorry. I meant only that I should have come sooner.’
‘What letter?’ said Umar. ‘Wait. I shall call Nicholas.’
‘No!’ Diniz said, but too late. He stood under the arch, looking upon shifting colours and flowers and light, and listening to music and laughter. Nicholas said, ‘What is it?’ Umar was behind him, and Godscalc and Gelis.
Diniz said, ‘I have a letter for you from Gregorio. It came with the caravan.’
‘You have read it?’ Nicholas said.
For once, he was too desperate to be frightened of Nicholas. Diniz said, ‘Akil made me open it, but couldn’t make out the Flemish.’
‘But you did. Who is dead?’ Nicholas said.
‘No one. No one’s dead,’ said Diniz in anguish. ‘Nicholas, we’ve lost the
Ghost
and everything in her.’
As if rubbed with a slicker, the face of Nicholas became smooth: smooth as a mud wall in rain. Then he said, ‘I understand. Well, nothing we can do now will change it, and there is something here much more important. You see the exquisite young lady over there? She is Zuhra, Umar’s future wife. Come. Come quickly.’
Umar said, ‘Nicholas!’ in distress, and then fell silent. Nicholas put his hand on his shoulder. ‘There will be time later,’ he said.
The girl was exquisite. Her ears and neck were circled with gold; her robe was the colour of soap films. Black and shining and slender, she had the same stout-boned face as Umar, the straight nose and large eyes and pretty lips that were part Arab, part Negro, part Berber. If not a full cousin, she was of his house, it was certain. Diniz kissed her, as was the custom, and made himself known to those relatives he had already met, and to those who were strangers. He ate, and drank, and clapped in time to the drums, and watched the performers, and listened silently with the rest when the marabout came to sit in the flower-filled spray and tell them his stories. He saw the strain on Godscalc’s face, and Nicholas smiling.
Gelis said, ‘Does it mean nothing? The end of his Bank, the ruin of Diniz and his mother, perhaps?’
‘He is acting,’ Godscalc said. ‘And he loves Umar.’
‘You would think-’ said Gelis, and stopped.
‘If you do, you don’t know Nicholas,’ Godscalc said. ‘It is Umar you must be sorry for.’
Late that night, having read Gregorio’s letter to the end, Nicholas brought them all to his chamber – Gelis and Bel, Godscalc and Diniz, and told them what was in it. He had thrown off his robe and sat on the sill in his shirt, for tonight the great drop into coolness had not occurred, and it was breathlessly hot. Outside in the courtyard the moon silvered the palms and caught the spray of the fountain, while moths pattered against the night veils that protected the unshuttered windows and doors. It was very quiet, and he showed, now, the marks of his illness.
He said, ‘If there’s any blame, it is mine. I knew the risks when I sent the gold north with Ochoa, and I should do it again – it was the only chance that we had. It isn’t entirely clear, even yet, what has happened: I can only tell you what Gregorio says. The
Ghost
arrived in Madeira and was met by a team of experts who identified her as the roundship stolen from Ceuta, and had her seized and impounded. The Lomellini also took part.’
‘When?’ said Godscalc.
‘At the end of December. That is the date of this letter. Gregorio says he hasn’t protested, since he doesn’t want a link’ between me and Ceuta, or between the
San Niccolò
and illegal trading. He has, however, suggested an enquiry into the early history of the
Ghost
to establish its proper ownership. If it takes place, and if I am there to answer it, we may possibly win. It wouldn’t be hard for a good lawyer to prove that neither Simon nor Jordan his father can claim her.’
‘What are you saying?’ said Gelis. ‘The ship is nothing; all that counts is the gold. They surely can’t lay claim to that?’
‘There is no gold,’ Nicholas said.
Diniz was silent. Bel looked at him, and away. Gelis pushed back her veils and a coil of hair fell unpinned. With sudden irritation she dragged it all free. Nicholas said, ‘When the
Ghost
arrived in Madeira, she carried no cargo. The Lomellini signed papers to that effect, and so did the customs searchers who boarded her. Ochoa confirmed it. He said she had been unable to trade, being unlicensed, and had therefore been sent back home empty. Gregorio tried to get hold of Ochoa, but found that he’d been spirited away from the island, together with all the seamen he had sailed with. He also tried to quiz a Portuguese patrol vessel about some tale of a clash between the Lomellini’s
Fortado
and a roundship of uncertain colouring. The master avoided him. He got nothing either, out of a Portuguese from the Senagana.’
‘So who has it?’ said Godscalc. ‘Someone who can pay for silence, it seems. So you can rule out Ochoa.’
‘Can you?’ said Gelis. ‘Aren’t there two separate things: the loss of the gold, and the rivalry of the
San Niccolò
and the
Fortado
? The silence may be to protect the
Fortado
, not the thief of the gold. That could still be Ochoa.’
‘It is a possibility,’ Nicholas said. ‘He might have landed it somewhere beforehand. He might even have done it for our sakes: it may be lying somewhere waiting to be uplifted for us when he thinks that it’s safe. So let’s hope he doesn’t die. Or it may not be Ochoa at all: the Lomellini may have done away with it, and bribed Ochoa to lie. The Lomellini backed, of course, by David de Salmeton.’ A dimple appeared. ‘Sharp justice. We kill Doria, and the Vatachino get all our gold.’
‘Simon,’ Diniz said. He had spoken hardly at all, so great was his despair. ‘Simon doesn’t know the Vatachino are in league with the Genoese?’
‘With the Lomellini? No,’ Nicholas said. ‘Unless he has found out. Why? You think the Lomellini may have done this, and Simon has taken his share?’
‘If he has, I’ll kill him,’ Diniz said. He said it quite calmly. He added, ‘So we go home now. There’s no alternative, is there?’
Nicholas didn’t answer. Godscalc looked at him.
Diniz said, ‘We must. The gold we’ve got will save the Bank for a little. It may not be enough to do me much good. But we could send back the
Niccolò
. We could borrow enough to load up the
Niccolò
and send her back in the autumn for more. And meanwhile –’
‘Meanwhile we could kill your uncle,’ said Nicholas. ‘Or Ochoa. Or David de Salmeton or somebody. You have a very strong case.’
‘How soon can we leave?’ Gelis said. ‘The channels are drying. You have the gold spoken for. You need a boat, and a crew, and bearers for the stretch between the two rivers.’ She paused. ‘Bel? We’d take it gently.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Bel. ‘My outside hears ye, but my inside’s none too sure. And Nicholas there has a wabbit look to him yet.’
‘Thank you,’ said Nicholas. Two words only.
‘What?’ said Diniz. Fear and anger had turned his face old.
‘We didn’t consult him,’ said Gelis. In the lamplight, her eyes were enormous.
‘Yes, I like to be consulted,’ said Nicholas. He rose stiffly and wandered over the room. Godscalc looked up from his stool. ‘Don’t you?’ Nicholas said.
For a forceful man, Godscalc sat still, and spoke without emphasis. ‘No. My path in life is not yours. This is your decision.’
‘But you are staying,’ said Nicholas.
‘Yes,’ said the priest.
‘To go east?’
‘If I am spared.’
‘And you’re not going to persuade us to stay?’
‘No,’ said Godscalc. ‘I would preserve you from a vendetta. I should not preserve you from saving all those who depend on the Bank. It is your choice.’
‘I am glad you think so,’ said Nicholas. He had left his purse on a coffer. Now he turned and, opening it, took out a key and used it to unlock the coffer itself. When he straightened, he held a packet of papers. Some of them looked familiar.
‘Well?’ said Diniz.
Nicholas laid them in his lap. ‘When I fell ill, I made notes for Father Godscalc. Now I have amended them. They will tell you all that should be done when you get to Madeira; what you should say to Gregorio and how the gold should be used. It will also tell Gregorio what to do about Bruges and about Venice. If you leave now, the
San Niccolò
could take the ladies to Lagos by June, and be reloaded and ready to leave by October. By mid-December she should be back in the Gambia. We shall board her there.’
‘
We?
’ It was Gelis.
It was a weary clown’s face that smiled: the ridiculous eyes, the raised brows, the two appalling dimples. ‘Father Godscalc and I,’ Nicholas said.
Godscalc jumped up. ‘No.’
‘You’re not
staying
?’ said Diniz. ‘Nicholas, you fool, you’re not staying? Why are you staying?’
Nicholas was smiling at Godscalc. ‘To go to Ethiopia,’ he said.
‘And, of course, to take possession of the new season’s Wangara gold.’
Chapter 29
I
F, IN HEALTH
, Nicholas had a skill, it was to get his own way without confrontation. That night it failed him, largely through tiredness, and his friends and opponents, seeing their advantage, pursued it. He must go, and defend his right to the ship, and prosecute the recovery of its cargo. He must go to escort the women. He must go to redeem his damaged Bank, with the help of Gregorio and Julius and Cristoffels. For if he went to Ethiopia, he might never come back.
At one point, reasonable though he tried to be, his temper began to grow short. ‘And if Father Godscalc doesn’t return? You note you are all leaving him, too?’
And – ‘I don’t want you,’ Godscalc had said, his face lined with conflicting emotions. ‘I thought that I did, but I don’t.’
‘What a pity,’ said Nicholas. ‘Because you’ve got me, whether you want me or not.’