Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [48]
It was known, of course, that having reached as far west as a galley could naturally sail, vander Poele meant to transfer to some other ship for a venture that had to do with evangelising rather than trade. Only the three men travelling with him – Gregorio, Godscalc and Loppe – suspected what ship he intended to use. And when the ports of call were selected – four in Spain and one at Lagos in Portugal – only these three knew, or assumed they knew, that the call at Lagos was the only one of the five that really mattered. Which was not strictly correct.
The truth was, in any case, that the sea swept such problems away; swept away all the conventions and burdens of normal life. The big, crowded ship became home. Whether under magnificent sail or propelled by brown, chanting oarsmen, she throbbed with noise and vigour and movement, with laughter and argument, with an apparent disorder which, on the blare of a trumpet, could resolve itself into a tattoo of running feet; a display of speed and precision which turned Gregorio dumb.
Then later, under the stars, there would be singing and good food and gambling, and talk. But the talk was about ports, or weather, or women, or fights; or if Nicholas were there, a competition to do with some game, or verse, or story he had just invented. It was not about why they were here.
For Godscalc, the tap on the door had never come. He hadn’t interfered with the last visit Nicholas had paid to Cardinal Bessarion and his household of expatriate Greeks. He had even agreed to be present at that final encounter, and received with him the Cardinal’s blessing, and the letters which would release their ship and smooth their path at the end of the voyage.
He saw, with shamed anger, the faith these churchmen placed in them all. This young man was to open a new way to Prester John’s kingdom, isolated by the Mameluke wars. Ethiopia new-found would march side by side with her Christian fellows against the forces of evil and ignorance: the churches of East and West would emerge triumphant as one glorious whole.
Afterwards, he had said to Nicholas, ‘I will make you hold to that. I warn you. I will not be forsworn.’
‘I hear you,’ said Nicholas. ‘I heard you the last time.’
On that last, frantic day, the priest had found it in him to set his hand to whatever was needed. He had taken his share in the talks which persuaded Cristoffels to exchange Venice for Bruges, where he would manage Tilde’s business, while Julius gave up Bruges for Venice in order to take Gregorio’s place at the Bank. The way had been adroitly prepared, and Nicholas had unhurriedly presented his case and unhurriedly obtained their agreement. The priest watched the flush with which Julius concealed his pleasure, and the war in Gregorio’s face as love and anxiety fought with the longing for change. Nicholas had judged it well.
With Tilde, it had been different. Julius, left to coax agreement from the youthful head of the Charetty company, had met with plain fury. Tilde, storming from the Martelli Palazzo to the Casa di Noccolò, had begun to accuse Nicholas of plotting to ruin her business and ended in Margot’s room, unkindly betrayed by her nerves and her stomach.
Godscalc, called to her bedside, had let her tell him everything she wished she had said. He said nothing against it. Instead, at the end, he had taken a considerable breath and proceeded to give her a succinct account of what, as he understood it, had happened to Nicholas on Cyprus. Long before he finished, she was lying quite still. She said crossly, ‘But Lopez would say anything.’
The priest said, ‘Perhaps. But this time, it