Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [121]
He understood the anxiety to meet Nicholas. He understood Crackbene, who had followed Doria. Diniz remembered the guttural accent, applied equally to Italian or French. The sailing-master had made no attempt to take Diniz aside, or excuse himself, or utter threats against Nicholas. Presumably there was no need. Diniz was of little consequence. The war was between Nicholas and Crackbene’s masters, Jordan and Simon de St Pol.
The main deck was deserted. Diniz rose to join the rest at the side, and Gelis stayed only a moment, to settle Bel with her packets around her. Gelis said, ‘Are you eased?’ and touched her.
‘Debonair, my wren,’ said Bel of Cuthilgurdy. ‘Debonair and of sweet cheer forbye. Go you and watch.’ And Gelis, smiling again, crossed to Diniz.
Out of the shade, the sulphurous sun burned on the head and dazzled up from the water, thick with odours. Beside them the San Niccolò rolled in the swell: the spot they had chosen was too far out for perfect tranquillity. Since the last of the canoes had retreated, the estuary had filled with wildlife: flamingoes flew overhead, and pelicans stood on the sandbanks. The light glinted on the wings of familiar birds in the joy of their wintering, and the water was silver with fish. Sculling from between the marshy islands came a string of four boats, the first a pinnace full of armed men and flying the Portuguese flag.
‘The factor,’ said Raffaelo Doria. ‘About to visit your masterless ship. How surprised he will be. And behind him – praise the Universal Creator! – a royal almadia, with two full barges behind her. Have you ever seen, demoiselle, a more imperial vessel? Ignore the fact that it is scooped from the trunk of a tree, and the oarsmen who propel it are close to naked. Observe the painted sides and the gilding. Look at the baldachin with its crimson silk awning, and the carved chair within, worthy you would say, of the Pope. And look at the great black King himself, his robes, the gold on his chest, the great belt round his waist, the …’
Silence fell. ‘The spectacles on his nose?’ Diniz enquired.
Raffaelo Doria gazed over the water. Gelis, leaning closer, laid a hand on his arm. ‘And you are going to meet Nicholas after all,’ she said. ‘There he is, with the wives in the second boat. They all seem to be heading this way.’
Even a man made of iron (which Raffaelo Doria fortunately was) would have been depressed to see climbing aboard his fine caravel not only the Senagana representative of the Portuguese crown and his entourage but a coal-black Jalofo King of twenty stones’ weight and six feet six inches in height from his bare feet to the feathers in his intricately-pleated black hair, the monarch being followed by six of his wives and eight pantalooned attendants, armed with spears and round shields and bearing his chair and a carpet.
The noise on the packed deck was tremendous, emanating largely but not entirely from the carpetful of delightful matrons, who were as black as the lord they surrounded, and wrapped from their armpits to their calves in brilliant Málaga silks, bright as parrots. Their necks, their arms and their ankles clacked with thick burnished gold and their teeth sparkled white as they exclaimed and chattered and shrieked.
It was true, Diniz saw, what was said. Of all the races known in these lands, the Jalofos were the most handsome, the most black and the most garrulous. The factor, attempting to make introductions, was overwhelmed by the mellow exuberance of his glittering guest who simply seized and embraced each white individual approaching the throne, and then passed him or her to his wives and officials in the manner of a parcel of food, to be stroked and pinched and laughed over.
Diniz, emerging giggling and breathless from the experience, sat on a hatchcover at the edge of the carpet and watched the scene with delight. You could see that Doria had endured it before and was almost able to hide his disgust. Crackbene made light