Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [155]
‘– what is more, if you lose all chance of redemption by perpetrating what you seem to have in mind, you will suffer for it on this earth as well. The pillars will fall about you, as strong men pull down your false edifice. And do not think you can blame the Mandinguas. Men will come. They will find crossbow bolts in our bodies.’ In his vehemence, he had delivered part of his harangue in Flemish, as Nicholas had already done.
‘They may even find lead balls from new handguns,’ Doria said. ‘For it seems that some vile trader has recently armed the Mandinguas. Bati Mansa will hang, and Gnumi Mansa will take over his territory. What could be neater?’
He rose to his feet and stood breathing strongly, a little grease on his chin, his naked swordpoint teasing the priest’s matted chest. Godscalc clenched his fists. Nicholas, sitting limply, appeared to be looking up at them both. In fact, Bel observed, his gaze was focused prayerfully rather above them. She heard herself make a sound, and Gelis looked at her. Raffaelo Doria scratched with the point of his sword, lightly, and then turned the blade towards Nicholas.
‘I think it is time. Get up. Walk out. And we’ll have no more Flemish.’
‘All of us,’ Nicholas said. It was between a plea and a statement.
‘You. Of your own will, or not. They have their orders not to kill you. You might find yourself with one arm.’
Doria’s men ringed the hut, rope in their hands. The seamen from the San Niccolò and the two slaves lay in the corner. ‘The women?’ said Nicholas. He got up suddenly, unfolding the neat-jointed, powerful frame, so at odds with the comedian’s face. Godscalc watched him, visibly anguished. Diniz stood as well, but quietly, as a young brother might. All through the voyage they had been at odds, these three. Only now, her mind busy, did Bel see confirmed the truth of it. And the dawning horror on the face of Jorge da Silves.
‘Everyone will stay,’ said Doria. ‘Everyone but you. Out. And no Flemish.’
‘No,’ Nicholas agreed. Side by side with Doria, he walked to the edge of the hut, about to leave; about to abandon them all. At the very last he turned, the light from the two lamps bright on his unconcerned face. He said caressingly, ‘Date stones.’
Doria took it, perhaps, for an obscenity. Gelis lifted her fist. The nearest lamp shot spinning over the carpet and overturning into the dirt floor, extinguished itself. Sprawling full length, she got a grip of the other and smothered it. Darkness fell in two stages. Doria’s sword flashed, and the swords of his men, their bows useless. Where Nicholas had been was the paler black of outdoors, and the sound of his voice, and the sound of Diniz, replying, taken up by many voices.
Bel, rising, found herself buffeted by many bodies, some mailed and some not. The space under the millet was filled with shouting and the thudding of feet; with the clash of steel and the smack of flesh meeting flesh; with grunts of endeavour and anger. Someone screamed. Someone fell. She felt her arm grasped and realised that she was being dragged running out of the hut along with Gelis: Godscalc’s voice in her ear said, ‘Stay there.’ She slid on the grass, and saw his big shape in the faint starlight, running back to the hut. She heard Diniz shouting somewhere and voices replying: gasping voices from outside the hut where figures struggled, some dimly sparkling with mail, others shirted.
The crew. The crew somehow were free, and slowly pushing Doria’s men inside the building. The clash of arms became muffled. She heard the voice of Nicholas, calling names, and being answered. Then she saw, a blur in the darkness, that between the encircling pillars every figure was white: the building was ringed by linked men as by chain. Then Nicholas shouted.
‘Heave!’ he yelled.
Afterwards, Bel thought she had heard the panting groans of endeavour, the stamping feet, the first creaking and grinding, the startled screams of apprehension. At the time, she was aware of little