Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [215]
He had no idea whether Nicholas had received it; or if he was alive. They said the San Niccolò had touched at the Canary Islands; had called at Arguim; had unloaded horses at the Senagana. After that, she had turned south. No one seemed to know who had sailed with her, although reports spoke of a priest and white women.
Gregorio knew the Niccolò had carried Bel of Cuthilgurdy, and that Gelis, expecting to join her, had instead embarked with the men on the Ghost. He couldn’t understand, even yet, why she had done it, or how Nicholas had come to allow her. For a time, with each Portuguese vessel that came, Gregorio looked to find her a passenger. Then had come the Ghost, with nothing and no one.
So, today, he sat his horse on the cliff and held himself harshly in hand when, far towards the south-western horizon, there appeared, small and clear, the three masts of a ship rigged with triangular sails: sails that could only belong to a caravel, winning its way skilfully north against oncoming winds.
He waited until he saw her paintwork, which was blue, and not black. Then he rode to Funchal, but with dignity, for he had some calls to make, and there was no need to appear anxious or excited. Even though, on a long voyage, ships suffered damage, and sometimes altered their colour. Even though this might be the San Niccolò, and the battle to shore up the quinta might be over.
It was not, of course, the San Niccolò, but her rival. Weighted down to the load-line with pepper and elephants’ teeth, dyes and gums, ostrich feathers and civet and a few modest packets of gold, the Fortado sailed into the harbour at Funchal six months almost to the day after she had left it; and, hearing her triumphant cannon, the colonists poured down to meet her, led by Zarco, the captain, and by Urbano and Baptista Lomellini and their families.
It was only when they stood on the wharf that they noticed how clumsily she lowered her sails and moved to her anchorage. And then, that her flags were flying at half-mast. Gregorio, waiting behind the welcoming throng, heard the news the customs vessel brought back.
‘The ship has brought in a fortune. The Lomellini and the Scotsman are rich. But only ten men have returned, whereas they sailed with twenty-five. The sailing-master is there. But Raffaelo Doria is dead.’
‘God’s mercy! How?’
‘Killed by natives. And eaten, most likely.’ Everyone except Gregorio crossed himself.
He knew by now who the sailing-master was: everyone did. But Nicholas had left without learning that the Fortado had hired Michael Crackbene. Crackbene, who had once been employed by Raffaelo’s kinsman Pagano Doria. Crackbene, who had helped kidnap Diniz from Cyprus, and whom Nicholas had punished for it in Sanlúcar. Punished, and stupidly freed. He who spares his enemy, ran the saying, dies at his hand. And now here was Crackbene, but where was Nicholas?
It was the Lomellini who supplied the answer: the Lomellini who invited Gregorio to their merchants’ residence in Funchal to celebrate their good fortune for, of course, the Lomellini acted for the Duchess of Burgundy and her secretary Sir João Vasquez in Bruges, and knew all about Master Gregorio of Asti.
Over the past six months, Urbano and Baptista Lomellini had shown a kindly sympathy towards Gregorio’s trials at the Vasquez plantation – a sympathy he received without gratitude, since the estate wouldn’t be split if the Lomellini hadn’t let Simon sell them half of it.
It helped to know they’d cheated Simon as well. They hadn’t mentioned to Simon that the Vatachino had a share in their venture. They hadn’t mentioned that the voyage of the Fortado, if successful, would not only benefit him, but would fill the coffers of his greatest competitor.