Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [281]
Diniz said, ‘Senhor!’ He had flushed.
His uncle looked at him, and then at Nicholas. He said, ‘I am sorry, Diniz. You told me in confidence, but there is no one here but ourselves. It is of importance to the marriage.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Nicholas said. ‘Anyone who wished could find it out. Sophie de Fleury was my mother.’
‘That is the lady of whom we speak? The first wife of Simon my brother-in-law? And your father?’
‘I told you –’ said Diniz. He stood up.
‘You told me,’ said João Vasquez, ‘that this gentleman, regarded – forgive me – as illegitimate, might not be so; might in fact be the legitimate son of Simon and his wife. If that were to be publicly proved, it would constitute a second and much stronger link. We should then require, I believe, a dispensation before you could marry.’
He looked from Nicholas up to his nephew. He was a soft-spoken man, black-haired as his brother had been, but with the extra bloom, the extra craft of the courtier. ‘Sit down, Diniz,’ he said. ‘As you see, Ser Niccolò is not disturbed. We shall reach conclusions perfectly well, and nothing need be said of it outside this room unless we wish it. Ser Niccolò: is it probable that you will in time pursue this contention of yours, and that you will succeed?’
In the desert, what mattered was friendship, not consanguinity. Friendship; and truth, where it could be spoken without causing harm. Nicholas said, ‘If there ever was such a claim, I do not mean to renew it. Regard me as the natural son of Sophie de Fleury. If I require a family, or a cousin, I shall choose one.’ And he sent a smile, full of reassurance, to Diniz.
He made the rest of the encounter as brief as he could, but, on leaving, could not prevent Diniz walking with him towards the gate in the garden, or giving voice to his tumbling apologies. Eventually Nicholas stopped and turned. ‘I didn’t bind you to silence over my mother. Many people know who she was. I hope Tilde does, and that if she doesn’t, you’ll tell her. What I believe or believed about my father can be forgotten about.’
‘Not by me,’ Diniz said. ‘I saw your son in Madeira.’
They were in a small orchard. There was no one else there. Nicholas said, ‘That is not something you should ever say.’
‘I know,’ Diniz said. ‘You don’t need to speak. I guessed. Gregorio doesn’t know. I won’t tell anyone else. I realised in Famagusta. Simon himself doesn’t know, does he? He brought the boy to Madeira to watch you die at his hand. Nicholas!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’m not going to admit to any of that. Henry is Simon’s son.’
‘I know. He has to be,’ Diniz said. ‘I suppose you’ve given him up. I suppose there’s nothing you can do about it; I see that. But Nicholas – he is the image of Simon.’
‘Then he must be Simon’s son,’ Nicholas said. ‘Goodbye, Diniz.’
Nicholas left without looking back, but conscious that the boy was standing still, staring after him. Now it was over, he experienced a great relief, of the kind he had felt in the presence of Umar. He had already decided to rid himself of this burden, and now it was done.
He remembered, then, that Gelis was coming, and thought that, for once, self-abnegation was about to receive its reward.
She came in the evening, as he hoped she would. The time between, he occupied with his own business: with Gregorio and his staff in the Banco di Niccolò, studying the ledgers and reading the reports sent back by Julius. He saw, through Margot’s eyes, the change in Gregorio: the assurance of Venice added to the personal labour, the heart-felt pioneering of Madeira, coupled with a burning sense of injustice. Gregorio would not readily allow the Lomellini, the Vatachino or Simon de St Pol to escape their deserts.
After that, Nicholas had gone to the Charetty, and talked to Cristoffels and let Tilde and Catherine show him what they had done. Tilde, large-eyed and blushing, had held him back at the end, his hand in both of hers. ‘You like him, too?’
And he had put back her hair and held her face with his hands: the face