Race of Scorpions - Dorothy Dunnett [79]
‘What is he called?’ Nicholas said. He was sure. It was as well to make perfectly sure.
‘Diniz. A pretty name. Senhor Tristão, Senhor Diniz, let me present a Flemish gentleman, Messer Niccolò vander Poele.’
It was too late to stop her from mentioning his name. There was little point anyway. There was a chance, a slight chance, they had never heard his full name, had never noticed a dyeworks apprentice. Nicholas waited, keeping still. The older man gave a slight bow and a smile. The younger lost his smile and held out his hand, which was dirty. Nicholas shook it while his eyes, despite himself, searched the boy’s face. The father said, ‘Forgive us: we Portuguese are farmers at heart, and spend all our time in the open. Niccolò is not a Flemish name?’
They didn’t know who he was. The man spoke in French, the language Primaflora had used, and with no more than a native reserve. He was dark-skinned and dark-eyed, and the boy took after him. ‘I am a merchant,’ Nicholas said, ‘and spend a great deal of time in Italian cities. You are going to Rhodes?’
‘If a ship will come to take me,’ said the other man.
‘You would look far for a better island to live in. I hope to go there myself, for a visit.’
‘Oh, mine is purely a visit,’ the man Tristão said. ‘I have some small company business to execute. A business colleague is waiting on Rhodes to assist me. By the spring we all expect to go home.’
‘But with some connection to bring you back, or your son, or your partner? All men of spirit should have some reason for sailing east. Or will you join the family business in Portugal?’ He turned to the boy, who reddened and looked at his father.
The father said, ‘Diniz would prefer not to go home. What young man would not? But we shall see. And now, what can we show you? If I may usurp the privilege of the brethren, perhaps I may take you to see something of their estates?’
‘I should like that,’ said Nicholas. ‘If the lady will excuse me. She must have seen it a thousand times. Or perhaps Diniz would keep her company?’
He caught, before he turned away, the flash of delight on the boy’s face, and smiled at him. After a moment, the young man smiled back. Walking beside him, the father said, ‘He is young.’
Nicholas said, ‘I can vouch for the lady’s good manners. He need not think of me as a rival. You have never been to Flanders, then?’
‘I lived there once,’ the Portuguese said. ‘With the Duchess of Burgundy’s household. It was where I met the lady my wife. But that was a long time ago, as you may tell from the age of my son, and I have seldom returned. And you? You have been long away?’
‘Long enough,’ Nicholas said. ‘If there is time, why don’t we walk towards Limassol?’ He kept his voice free of anxiety, wishing, for several reasons, to hear if Vasquez would excuse himself. Instead the other man agreed, and made no counter-suggestions. The walk they took was not long, considering its repercussions. Nicholas was able, for example, to see what he had been curious to see. And as they went, he and the Portuguese chatted. The name of Senhor Tristão’s company, he learned, was St Pol & Vasquez. It had formed an interest in Madeira, developing vineyards and sugar fields there. It was a supplier to the Duchess Isabelle of Burgundy, whose brother Dom Henry had begun the Madeira plantations. And the Scottish lord Simon, brother of Senhor Tristão’s wife, was working personally with the company. ‘In Portugal?’ Nicholas asked. ‘Or do you both stay in Madeira?’
‘We have homes in both places,’ said Tristão Vasquez. ‘My wife prefers Portugal, as I think does the lady Katelina, the wife of her brother. It is more congenial, when we are both away, as at present.’
‘You sail with your own goods?’ Nicholas said. He wore his clown’s face, feeling it stiffening.
‘Sometimes,’ the Portuguese answered. ‘Sometimes, as now, we travel to test out a market for something new we plan to export. That is our purpose on this journey, although Simon has travelled