Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [51]
This time, Father Godscalc insisted on landing with Nicholas and Gregorio. They went on shore together, escorted as always, but found a strange absence of the usual officials, and the doors on which they knocked remained shut against them, as well as the afternoon heat. Further into the town, the narrow streets were filled with people who should have been working, and a sprinkling of well-dressed men and women in silks, most of them riding. There was an air of festivity.
‘It isn’t a Saint’s Day,’ said Gregorio, returning to report. ‘It’s the Genoese consul’s daughter’s wedding, and they’re treating the town: plenty to drink and everyone invited, but no business today.’ He looked about him. ‘Where’s Nicholas?’
Father Godscalc looked about too, and then clapped a hand to his face. Behind it, Gregorio felt, was a large, stifled curse. Eventually he removed it and said, ‘Where he meant to be, I should guess. At the prison. Without a bodyguard. I swore I wouldn’t let him do this.’
‘You couldn’t help it,’ Gregorio said. ‘Not with these crowds. What do you want to do?’
‘Find the prison,’ the priest said. ‘I’ll take two of the men. Stay here with the others. If I don’t join you, come looking.’
But for his anxiety, Gregorio would have enjoyed standing where he was, at the edge of the marketplace, with children clinging to his legs and their parents slapping him on the back, or offering him a gulp of wine from a flask, or a sugared pastry out of a napkin. His escort, though watchful, didn’t fuss. He carried no money. He wasn’t the primary target.
Girls tried to slip their arms in his, and burly men attempted to explain what was going to happen in a form of Spanish thicker than the kind he was used to in Bruges. He was going to witness mock fighting, it seemed; some on foot, some on horseback and some between animals of various kinds. Oxen were going to play some sort of part. Gregorio, who had missed all the exotica of Cyprus and Trebizond, wished that Nicholas were less of a handful, and hadn’t managed to ruin a really promising afternoon. By insisting on hounding Crackbene, Nicholas had put himself in jeopardy, and the rest of them to some trouble. He really deserved all he got.
At the same time, Godscalc had been away for ten minutes, and that was ten minutes too long. Grimly, Gregorio collected his men, asked the way to the prison and, followed by curious stares, set off towards it.
Halfway there, he caught sight of Godscalc pushing his way towards him. Beside him were the two men-at-arms and an unknown gentleman in a red velvet hat and a doublet with elaborate gold buttons. Godscalc said, ‘Ah, there you are. Let me introduce you. This officer is from the Genoese casa, and brings an invitation for you and me to watch the entertainment from the balcony of his house. The running of the bulls.’
‘The …?’ Gregorio said. ‘What about …?’
‘That,’ the priest said, ‘has all been taken care of. There is absolutely nothing to worry about. Do you have your rosary, now?’
‘No,’ said Gregorio blankly.
‘Ah, well,’ said the priest. ‘I have a good bit of credit, and I hope He remembers it.’ And, returning to his place by the Genoese, he resumed striding forward. Gregorio and the bodyguard followed.
The Genoese house had a gallery round two of its sides from which the marketplace was in full view, as well as the streets leading to it. The Genoese casa was full of men called Centurione, or Lomellini or Giustiniani or Spinola, all of whom had cousins working in Bruges who knew the Charetty company. Nobody mentioned the House of Niccolò, and Father Godscalc frowned whenever Gregorio opened his mouth. It meant either that Nicholas was safe, or that his situation, whatever it was, was past mending.
So, in a distracted fashion, the lawyer found himself following the entertainment below: the grand procession, the dances,