Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [274]
Representing Florence, Tommaso Portinari, fine-featured, black-haired and gorgeous, who spread out hands whose rings this time were genuine and kissed him on both cheeks, exclaiming, ‘Dear Nicholas! Such good fortune! I have been trading in that area myself – you will have heard. You and I have so much to talk about. I shall send my secretary to bring you to supper. You know where I am? The old Bladelin building?’
‘Tommaso,’ Nicholas said. ‘Everyone knows where you are.’
The Genoese, represented by one named Doria and by the person of Genoese birth who had become, by descent, an aristocrat also of Bruges. Anselm Adorne said, ‘Margriet wept when she heard you were safe, and I swallowed a lump, I confess. Godscalc has told us something of what happened. You are a noble man, Nicholas.’
‘Persistent, rather,’ said Nicholas. ‘You have been kind to Catherine and Tilde. I have to thank you for that, among other things.’
‘Come and see us,’ said Margriet, and held her cheek to be kissed.
He would, in time. He had married Marian in the Adornes’ church of Jerusalem. Here, in this room, Nicholas had stood beside Marian and listened to the voice of Simon de St Pol shouting at him in public. Here in this room he had learned for the first time that Katelina was pregnant, and that, rather than tell him, she had married Simon and passed the child off as his. Henry. Henry was not here, or Simon. Or Katelina.
A voice he knew said, ‘It has all been too much. The excitement. The unaccustomed weight of the jewels. What on earth, my dear sir, is the extraordinary chain you are wearing? Some man-eating order of chivalry?’
Nicholas emerged from his thoughts. Before him, last to present themselves, was the van Borselen family of Veere. The noble lord Henry, after whom his own son was named. Wolfaert, son of Henry and cousin of Gelis and Katelina. And Gelis herself.
He saw her; registered the elaborate veil, the jewelled collar, the pale, precisely drawn eyes before he dragged his own to the seated man who had spoken. Massive in magnificent velvet, it was Jordan, vicomte de Ribérac, Simon’s father.
How old would Jordan be now? Sixty, at least. The scar Nicholas himself bore on his cheek was thin and white now; it was more than eight years since Jordan’s ring had incised it. It was four years since, under the most terrible of pretexts, Jordan had abducted his young grandson Diniz, from Cyprus. Yet he was not greatly changed: the bulk as impressive; the jowls clean-shaven and heavy, the eyes bold.
Nicholas said, ‘My badge? It is the Knightly Order of Cyprus. They gave it me for not stealing anything. Have you decided to give up the Ghost? It would delight us.’
‘My dear, the natives have sharpened your wits. I am amused. But let me turn to something even more unexpected. This is the first view I have had of my grandson. Come here, Diniz.’
‘Of course, Grandfather,’ said Diniz. He stepped forward; moderate in height, deeply tanned, the well-made doublet displaying the slender waist and deep chest of a soldier. He said, ‘They may not have told you that I have been in Bruges for two years? I must express regret that we are to take you to law, but one must uphold justice.’
‘If one can recognise it, of course. And this we of yours, child? You have ascended the throne? You should have told me.’
‘Diniz and I are to be in association, monseigneur,’ Nicholas said. ‘Since he is to take to wife Tilde de Charetty, one