Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
He was invited to the Princenhof, where the Duke wanted to see him and commend his service with his sons Antony and young Baudouin in Ceuta, and enquire closely about his experiences in Guinea. He met Ernoul de Lalaing again. He had a private audience, somewhat fraught, with the Duchess Isabella, sister to the late Prince Henry of Portugal, who consequently knew as much as he did about trade, and whose secretary was his uncle. Briefed beforehand by Gregorio, he said, he hoped, no more than he should.
Others were anxious to hear of his experiences. He was invited to all the clubs: the White Bear gave him a feast; and Anselm Adorne arranged a gathering of friends at the Hôtel Jerusalem from which the Lomellini alone begged to excuse themselves. Louis de Bruges, seigneur de Gruuthuse, entertained him, and so did the Hanse merchants and the English, led by their Master and Governor William.
Diniz Vasquez was not an innocent: he knew very well that every man in Bruges – in all trading Europe – would be affected in one way or another by what Nicholas had done. He was being invited for his own sake, but also because he was young, and might let fall something that Gregorio wouldn’t.
The serious work in Bruges was being done by Gregorio who, during the two weeks of his stay, was invited out even more than was Diniz, but who chose very carefully where he went. The Duke, the Duke’s controller, the Scots at the Metteneye hostel, Adorne himself, and the Spanish merchants all received his attention, and he spent perhaps longest of all with Tommaso Portinari. Sometimes he took Diniz with him.
Always, Gregorio spent some time each day with Diniz, explaining what he was doing. In some ways, it was the most exciting part of the homecoming: those sessions with Gregorio and Jannekin Bonkle, the friend of Nicholas who, appointed by Gregorio, ran the Bruges bureau of the Banco di Niccolò.
Gregorio lived on the office premises, as did Bonkle, and sometimes Diniz made a bed for himself beside them so that, whatever the argument was, he could stay and engage in it. The bureau was hardly palatial: two rooms leased from the Charetty mansion and warehouse in Spangnaerts Street which Gregorio ought to know well, having worked there for Marian de Charetty.
Venetian merchants called there, from the families of the Corner or the Bembo. Sometimes Cristoffels, the Charetty manager, would slip in of an evening and join them, and once or twice the older Charetty girl came with him, and took a cup of wine, and asked questions.
One of the first things Diniz had had to do, along with Gregorio, was to have a formal supper with the Charetty girls, and answer their queries about Nicholas. It was what you would expect, since Nicholas had been husband to their late mother – although from what Diniz had heard, neither girl had approved of the marriage.
It astonished Diniz, all the same, to find that their very pertinent questions were directed to the intentions of Nicholas
vis-à-vis
trade, rather than to the adventures he wished to relate to them. Tilde, the elder, put him through an inquisition as thorough as the
one he had faced at the White Bear, and made one or two points he found hard to parry.
Emerging, he found himself unexpectedly sorry for Tilde and Catherine. They were astute enough, for young girls, but the business wasn’t what it should be for its size. He hoped, if the gold came, and if Nicholas was giving them any, that he would devote some thought to the Charetty company. Cristoffels was excellent, as a notary. But he hadn’t personally worked among dyes.
By November, they had taken the straps from his limbs, and Nicholas was presuming to walk. His progress was slow, but quite measurable. He had excellent physicians.
He knew, of course, that Gelis and Godscalc had gone, and the gold with them. He had not been in his senses at the time, although he could recall their faces in short, vivid flashes which seemed to indicate that he had not been wholly unconscious. Once they were out of reach, he had found himself awake most of the time. It had been a doubtful blessing. The one constant, for so long as he could remember, was pain.
He had no other complaints. His bed was soft. Day and night, the sweat was smoothed from his skin; the torrid air was perpetually stirred by black, solemn children with fans. When he began to awake, and experience the full, awful weight of what had happened, there had appeared a sequence of quiet, respectful youths bearing books, who had bowed, seated themselves on the ground, and proceeded to read.
The early days of his recovery were shaped, distorted, made hectically lyrical by sweet voices reading in Arabic. The words, flowing on, drew him into no deep current of thought, but described light romances, heroic adventures, mystical Odysseys. He found them soporific.
Then, expecting them one day, he had opened his eyes to the dry voice of the imam Katib Musa. ‘It pleases my lord, to listen to stories for children?’
By then he could move his head, and his arms. Nicholas said, ‘I cannot praise them sufficiently. They have been charmingly, tirelessly read.’
‘They are our youngest scholars,’ said Katib Musa. ‘Unfortunately, it is no longer safe to send them. Here are some books, perhaps more suitable for a grown man.’
He was strong enough, now, to hold another man’s gaze. ‘Why is it no longer safe?’ Nicholas said.
The imam made a small gesture. He was of middle years, and not imposing, but possessed a cold, still authority. ‘You know this
city. When the power of the Timbuktu-Koy is low, then that of Akil ag Malwal shows itself. The commander is at the gates, with his army. He knows you have paid your tax to the Koy, and will try to wrest most of it from him.’
Nicholas said, ‘But the Timbuktu-Koy, also, has a bodyguard.’
‘He had one,’ said the imam. ‘But, alas, it is on the Gambia at this moment, protecting your friends and your gold. Forgive me. There is nothing you can do. But it seemed to me that the time had come to distance yourself from children’s stories.’
Umar had tried to smooth it away. ‘It is Akil’s way. It is no fault of yours. There is always some excuse to enter the city and claim more of its wealth than he merits. It is how the city is run.’
‘It should not be so,’ Nicholas said, and read the books, thinking. When he could walk, he went to the imam, and to the Timbuktu-Koy, and to the house of And-Agh-Muhammed, and asked questions. And because he could not walk far, very often the scholars who heard of his questions came to visit him, and talked, and brought books from which they read portions. And these were not children’s books.
By then, he had confronted the central problem of his present life, and obtained from Umar an account of the departure of Gelis and Godscalc. He knew why Godscalc had gone, and was glad. He ought to have been able to guess – he, who was so good at guessing – why Gelis had not stayed, but there were too many imponderables. He asked Umar.
Umar said, ‘She did not give her reasons. I can only tell you that she took long thought before she decided to go. She may have thought it best to part. She may have wanted to draw you after her. She may have thought you would not survive, and she could serve you best by completing your task. I could not read her mind.’
He had paused. ‘All that is sure is that your task is complete. Father Godscalc has returned with the maps and news of Ethiopia which will save others from dying. And your Bank is preserved, and the Charetty company, and the Vasquez. You are free to do as you please.’
‘Tell that to my body,’ Nicholas had answered, smiling. His face, nearly healed, still felt stiff, and the blond beard, left to grow, hid his dimples. It didn’t matter. Here, he had no need of guile.
Umar said, ‘I could hardly make my way to your house, there have been so many meetings today. They wish to sink a well, and make some proper storage for millet, but no one can decide how it should be done.’
In February of the year 1466, the caravel
San Niccolò
completed
her voyage to Lisbon and handed to King Alfonso of Portugal his due fee of one quarter of the largest cargo of gold ever to come on a Portuguese vessel from Guinea. For another sum, already agreed, the caravel herself passed into the ownership of the Bank of Niccolò. The caravel then proceeded, with the remains of her cargo, to Bruges.
Gregorio was on board. Leaving Diniz in Bruges, he had made the long winter journey to Lisbon and had arrived there exhausted, but in time to see her arrive, the ship he had seen off from Lagos. It was apparent from the way she came in – the salvos of cannon, the drumming, the cries of trumpet and flute, the brilliant clothes and shouts of the seamen, the garlands of flowers and flags – that here came victory, and a joyous success. He had been first up the companionway.
At the top was the master, duly triumphant. They had found their way to the Gambia – with what adventures! They had made their way up the river – against what dangers! They had lain at Cantor – for far too long: wiser men would have left long before he did. But the cavalcade from the interior had arrived: he had unloaded his cargo; he had taken aboard – it was inconceivable the amount he had taken aboard. He had taken aboard four thousand pounds of pure gold.
‘And my lord Niccolò?’ Gregorio had said.
‘He is in Timbuktu,’ had said Gelis’s voice. ‘Gregorio? Father Godscalc would like to see you. We shall need a little help to take him ashore.’ And so, in the midst of all the euphoria, he was seized with alarm.
The worn, helpless man he found lying in the great cabin was only recognisable as Godscalc by the wild, greying hair and the steadfast eyes. He had smiled at Gregorio’s horror, and stirred a hand, crooked like a claw, towards Gelis. ‘That is the heroine. She and Umar led us all to the Gambia, and she has cared for me ever since. You know the gold is here? The Bank’s troubles are over.’
Gregorio, sitting, had set his hand on one twisted arm. ‘What happened?’
‘My Church is too demanding, and so am I,’ Godscalc said. ‘Nicholas came with me to Ethiopia, and we found together that it is legendary because it cannot be reached by two men, with only six months and their own strength to support them. We turned. We were within reach of the Great River when this happened. I was able to travel, but Nicholas was not.’
Gregorio lifted his eyes. ‘It must have been a hard choice,’ he said to Gelis.
She didn’t reply. Godscalc said gently, ‘He was very ill. Umar
has promised to bring him to the coast when he can travel. We thought he deserved peace.’
His eyes were still steady. Gregorio said, ‘You are saying that he might not recover?’
It was Gelis who answered – a changed Gelis also, he saw: her face fine-boned and sunken and frail, her body an outline of long, slender bones. She said, ‘They say he can heal, if he wants to.’
Which was the most frightening thing he had heard.
In Bruges, their triumphant arrival was repeated. The
San Niccolò
rowed into Sluys as, six and a half years before, the Venetian trading galleys had entered the harbour, with the Guinea slave Loppe aboard one of them. Now Loppe was home, and with him was Claes, the apprentice who had befriended him. Claes, now Nicholas vander Poele, a name known to all Bruges, and all Florence and all Venice. A name known in Lisbon, and Cyprus, and Constantinople, and even in Scotland. Perhaps especially in Scotland.
Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren was not at Sluys as he had been, those years before, to quarrel with his wife’s bastard and to initiate, by the accident of his nature, the feud which had taken hold of their lives. He had gone to Scotland, and his son had not been seen by his kinsfolk in Bruges; nor had Bel, the Scots companion of Simon’s sister.
Simon’s sister was there, though, on the quay, dragged by Diniz her son, although she needed little persuasion. With them was the whole staff of the Banco di Niccolò and the Charetty, including the two Charetty girls. The merchants of Bruges were there, every last one of them, including Anselm Adorne. And although her parents were dead, Gelis received her own welcome, from the comte de Veere her uncle himself, and from his son Wolfaert her cousin, and from Paul, Wolfaert’s son by his mistress.
Once, Paul would never have appeared at a ceremony, but Wolfaert no longer had either a wife or a legitimate son. The Scots princess and her son had both died, and the Scottish prince they were rearing had left. Small wonder the Borselen family longed to see Katelina’s four-year-old Henry: see him, bring him up, make him their own. It was why Simon hid him away.
They all came crowding on board. Gelis left Gregorio to tell the worst of the story: she saw Lucia’s eyes light up at the news of the gold; she saw Diniz bite his lip and, leaving, scramble below to kneel beside Godscalc; and Tilde de Charetty running to follow. She saw the smile on Adorne’s long, poet’s face alter to a look of concern. She saw all the expressions man’s face could hold of greed and envy, calculation and pleasure.
She saw dark, long-lashed eyes resting on hers, belonging to a man of middle height with loose dark hair, and fine jewels, and two beautiful hands, one of them stretched gracefully to gather one of her own, and raise it to his lips.
‘Unless you have been warned to avoid me?’ said David de Salmeton.
In Timbuktu, the Feast of St Nicholas came and went, such a celebration having no place in the Muslim calendar. If Nicholas felt rather more than a year older, he didn’t say so. He had, in any case, other things to occupy his attention.
In January, Umar’s first child was born. It was a son. By March, Zuhra was pregnant again. Nicholas felt only delight on Umar’s behalf. He himself had no yearnings as yet: his body had been too abused, too broken. If he did, he knew that some gentle child would find her way to his bed, not from Akil this time. He was not sure what he would do. He was not sure how he wanted to order his life, except that he needed to know more.
Now he could walk, he spent half his time with the imams; with the teachers, the thinkers of the Sankore Mosque; the judges who passed on their learning; the scholars attached to the other great mosques, the Sidi Yahya al-Tadulsi, the Jingerebir.
Latterly, the imams had allowed him to enter the Sankore, 120 feet long, eighty feet wide, with its five naves and forest of masts. Of columns. Of slender columns, like those of a caravel. He had been admitted, dressed as he always was now, in the loose robes that men found comfortable, with his hair bound with a scarf, rakishly knotted.