Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [303]
‘For the message to Guinea,’ said Tommaso Portinari. ‘No need to send it.’
Nicholas turned. He said, ‘Oh, damnit, Tommaso. Hasn’t it gone?’
‘No need to send it,’ said Tommaso again. ‘Heard the news just this morning from Dei. Remember Dei? Going to Marseilles?’
‘What news?’ Nicholas said. He perched on the stairs. The others were lounging about. He felt, as yet, slightly puzzled, with only the merest thread of anxiety.
‘About the rising,’ said Tommaso Portinari. ‘You know those damned tribes are always rising? Well, some big black king of some tribe called the Sunny –’
‘Songhai,’ Nicholas said. No one else spoke.
‘– has marched into Timbuktu. Called in by the fool Timbuktu ruler to throw out somebody else. Hackle.’
‘Akil,’ said Godscalc softly. He came and knelt by the stairs.
‘But ended by taking over Timbuktu for himself, and murdering most of the scholars. Some of them escaped to Walata. Hackle helped them. The rest couldn’t ride camels.’
He sat, swaying slightly, and confused by the silence.
Nicholas said, ‘You didn’t send my message to Walata?’
‘Ibn Said’s all right,’ Tommaso said. ‘It’s the other one, the one you sent the message to. That one is dead. And his wife. And all but one of his children.’ He stopped swaying. ‘I’m sorry. You liked him.’
‘Umar?’ Nicholas said.
‘The one you call Umar. Loppe. The Negro you had. He’s dead,’ Tommaso said.
It was cold on the stairs. Tommaso had gone. Everyone had gone but Father Godscalc. Nicholas said, ‘He said he was going to Walata. He needed the camels. But they couldn’t have got out in time.’
Godscalc tightened his hand on his shoulder.
Nicholas said, ‘I told you. He sent me home.’
After a while, Godscalc said, ‘Go up to her.’
She had probably been in bed a long time. The silver stuff was properly folded: she must have dropped it at first; and then, when he didn’t come, she had got out and smoothed it. Her hair was loose, and her breasts were bare where the sheet crossed them, and he could see the line of her body below. Her eyes were deep in shadow.
She had put the lamp out; he could smell warm oil, and the scent she liked to use best, and the smell of her skin. Of herself. The low light through the window was blue. He opened the casement.
She said, ‘Who was below?’ Her voice was hoarse.
He said, ‘No one. Tommaso.’
It was light enough to see, vaguely, the colour of the small, speckled bricks on the opposite wall, and the grey and purple and green of the slates on all the roof-tops beyond, and the red of the pantiles and even, somewhere, a flashing light reflected from water. It was fresher than yesterday, with no thunder anywhere. No lions. Bien vienne.
She said, ‘Come and sit.’
He would have to burden her with it. Of all people, she knew Umar; knew what he had done; what he was; what he meant. To be told was her due. He did not want, nor would she, words of comfort. He turned and, walking slowly, moved to the bed and sat on it.
She had turned the sheet down and lay, her fine hair spread about and around her. He let his eyes rest on her night-shadowed face, and wondered how tired she was, and how to tell her. He took her hands, which lay on her thighs, and were cold. She said, ‘Nicholas? Look at my belly.’
His thoughts, already in pieces, made no sense of that. She hadn’t smiled or made a luxurious movement, only surrendered her hands. He had not thought to look at her body from the moment he had brought himself to come in. He said, ‘Why?’
‘Because it is six weeks full of a child,’ Gelis said.
There was no alteration in her position or face; only her voice was still hoarse. ‘Ours?’ he said, because it would have been strange to say nothing.
‘Six weeks,’ she repeated. She said it tersely, as if he had annoyed her.
Then he brought all his thoughts together, and looked at her body.
The changes, so early, were small, but plain to a lover. He sat still, until he could breathe. ‘Whose?’ he said. Even then, his mind did not travel.
She said, ‘Guess. What would truly, truly,