Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [109]
‘I’m not one to contradict you,’ said Bel of Cuthilgurdy. ‘And you’ve pleased the Father, no doubt; but how will Jorge da Silves and the impecunious Nicholas see it? There’s the Ghost, empty but for her travel-sore nags, and here’s the San Niccolò piled high with slaves and their dinners instead of a full load of pepper. If you let half the slaves go, there’s nothing left but heavenly credit, and not so much of that if you think of the converts you’ve lost. Added to which, the Order of Christ takes a religious interest in money. So excuse me if I ask: is that all the help you promised Jorge da Silves and Nicholas?’
Startled out of his bewilderment, Godscalc gazed at her. Loppe said, ‘There is a box beside you, mistress. Lift the lid.’
It was the patron’s chest, with a triple lock there had been no time to fasten. Bel of Cuthilgurdy leaned over, and heaved it open with her two sturdy arms. Godscalc rose and stood, the better to view it.
The box was full of gold. Between the fat bags of dust were piled collars and heavy gold bracelets. Loppe said, ‘It doesn’t take up much room. And there will be more, in the south.’
‘How much is there?’ Godscalc said.
‘In weight? Over forty pounds, I should think. It should fetch about six thousand ducats, less the King’s quarter at Lisbon. The price of forty horses, and seven hundred slaves.’
‘How could you afford it?’ said the woman. ‘As well as buying the blacks?’
Loppe moved across, and closing the chest knelt to lock it. ‘We sold all we had,’ he said. ‘The rest we paid for in cowrie shells. Ser – Nicholas brought them from Cyprus. They are the currency of the country, and light to carry when we move from the ships.’
‘So the other gold marts are inland,’ Godscalc said. ‘And you will be taking us there. Or perhaps to the source of the gold?’
‘No one knows the source of the gold,’ Loppe said.
Far behind on the Ghost, the same questions were asked and answered; but not until well after Arguim, when Ochoa had completed his excursions on shore and the Ghost’s water barricoes were all full, and she had some food and some hay for her livestock. That she carried horses had not been discovered.
Even then, she had to be careful, easing out of the weedy lagoon under the threatening eye of the patrol boat and setting a course further west than she wanted. Fortunately, there was another flurry of sand; the veils dropped, and it became safe to turn southwards again. She put on her best speed. Ahead was the San Niccolò with her cargo, and Nicholas wanted to catch her before anyone else did.
It was night therefore before he called Diniz and the girl to sit with him in the great cabin, crammed with their gear. Fashioned of fur and straw, feathers and velvet and ribbon, Ochoa’s hats yawed from their pegs as if grazing; suspended swords flashed; and from a wicker cage slung in a corner a dozen parrots screeched and fluttered and snapped.
No conversation on a ship could be private, but Nicholas had drawn the door-curtain back to deter eavesdroppers, and began by speaking in Flemish. He wondered what language Loppe had spoken in the inquisition he, too, must have faced across the twenty miles of dark sea that still separated them. Here, the boy was subdued, his eyes dark in the rolling swing of the lamplight. Gelis van Borselen looked a little drawn, perhaps with the heat. He knew the sea never made her unwell. She said, ‘An apologia?’
Nicholas said, ‘No. A school. You have made me your custodian. From time to time we shall meet like this, and I shall tell you my plans, and I shall also tell you the part I expect you to play in them. I shall listen if you object. I don’t promise to accept your objection. Do you understand this?’
‘On the principle of the oranges,’ the girl said. The parrots squawked.
‘On the principle, certainly, of a single command. Demoiselle?’ Nicholas said, and turned to her fully. For the first