Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [224]
Simon stood, preparing to advance to the steps. Gregorio, rising in the same moment, said, ‘I beg your pardon,’ and, using both elbows, plunged on to the ladder instead. When Simon snatched at his doublet, he kicked. Then he clambered as fast as he could to the top.
The man in damask was Melchiorre, the Florentine who had sailed on the Ciaretti. He looked ghastly, but his face was blazing with happiness. He said, ‘Signor Gregorio!’ and held out his arms.
Gregorio seized him. He said, ‘I’ve got a man behind, Simon, who wants to have Nicholas arrested and killed. Tell Nicholas quickly. Tell him to get away. Help me delay them.’
‘I thought you might do something like that,’ said Simon’s voice sweetly behind him. ‘There is another boat waiting behind, just in case. Do you know you kicked me just now? What a great athlete you are, to be sure.’
He had already drawn back his arm. Gregorio tried to avoid it, but the caravel swayed, and he stumbled. Another hand caught Simon’s fist and held it. Gregorio saw who it was.
Simon did not. Simon saw a young man, thinned by privation, but still hard-muscled and tough, and enveloped in the same strange blue damask robe as the man at the head of the companionway. He wore a twist of the identical stuff as a hat, and beneath it his eyes were deep-set, and black as a Negro’s. He said, ‘Goro. Are you all right?’
‘Now I am,’ Gregorio said. His sight was suddenly blurred.
‘Nicholas isn’t here,’ said the young man. ‘But he’s all right. He’s all right.’
‘And who are you?’ said Simon de St Pol, and tore his hand free. It didn’t come easily. The score of a nail showed suddenly red on his wrist as he laid his palm on the hilt of his sword.
The young man made no effort to draw his, although he was wearing one. He glanced at Gregorio, and then, his expression changing, back to Simon de St Pol. The young man said, ‘Who am I? A man who admired you for upholding the family honour, but now does not.’
‘Because of Claes?’ Simon said. The soldiers, climbing aboard, had begun to spread through the ship. They were armed. His eyes followed them, and returned to the young man. ‘Whatever Claes has said, it’s a lie. He is no kin of mine. If he were, I should do this no differently. He has spilled blood, and must pay for it.’
‘Claes? Nicholas?’ the young man said. ‘I was speaking of the way you treated your sister. You found her widowed, and sold off your half of the partnership, you cowardly, self-seeking, conceited goat.’
He had spoken quite softly. Gregorio heard, and Urbano Lomellini beside him. Simon looked as if he had not heard. His sword, sliding out of its sheath, seemed to come very slowly. He said, ‘I don’t think I caught what you said.’ The sword rose. Gregorio shivered.
The young man said, ‘And would you kill me for it if you had? Even though it was true? Even though I am your kin, uncle?’ He waited, ignoring the arrested swordpoint, submitting with dispassionate calm to the scrutiny – dangerous, uncertain, shocked – of the swordsman.
Simon said, ‘Diniz!’
‘Yes,’ said Diniz Vasquez. He pushed his uncle’s sword down with one finger. He had made no move at all towards his own. He said, ‘Nicholas isn’t here. He thought he would wait until the autumn, as there was too much gold for one ship to carry. If there is nothing else, perhaps you would call your soldiers off? We are rather busy, and Bel might object.’
‘She’s here?’ Gregorio said. His voice was hoarse. ‘And Gelis? Godscalc?’
‘They waited,’ said the young man, without looking round. Simon of Kilmirren was sheathing his sword.
Urbano Lomellini said, ‘Excuse me. Who is this?’
It was Gregorio’s moment. He stepped forward. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is Diniz Vasquez, owner of the Vasquez plantation at Ponta do Sol which, against all informed advice, his uncle has just tried to sell to you. I am afraid, as Senhor Diniz’ lawyer, I shall have to initiate