Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [53]
The herd was attempting to follow when, almost too late, a band of Sanlúcar worthies blocked their way, riding up with their whips and their lances. The stamping, dust-covered animals faltered, backed and began to seek another way out. Towards the sea, over the heads of the crowds, the stampeding bull and the jennet had merged into the distance. Gregorio, on his feet, found the priest on his feet also beside him. The Genoese in the red cap said, ‘They will both be killed,’ and crossed himself soberly.
Somewhere in the pronouncement was a thread of satisfaction. Gregorio realised that, whatever bargain had been struck, the Genoese had always hoped that both would be killed. He said, ‘If God is good, no.’
‘God is good,’ said the priest distinctly. Walking back to the barrier was the jennet, its gait stumbling and slow and blood on its muzzle. On its back was the mummer in yellow. The Genoese said, ‘Ah. We have, it seems, to mourn the death of our prisoner. A sprightly man, but short of temper in drink. It was to be expected, and there will be no recriminations. The entertainment was all.’
‘Of course,’ the priest said. ‘We are privileged, who have taken part in it. And now, if you will permit, it seems that Signor Niccolò might well appreciate our company back to the ship. We shall see you tomorrow, no doubt?’
‘No doubt,’ said the Genoese. ‘I have seldom laughed so much. Your young master is a natural jester. Give him a hump and bells, and he would be immortal.’
They returned to the ship without crossing the market, their men-at-arms with them, and Nicholas in their midst, silent and stripped of his finery. Even so, half the men they met in the street recognised him, and wanted to hail him and laugh. He returned their sallies, showing his dimples, and explaining his gashes as love-bites. At the jetty he stopped.
The smaller ship’s boat was there, with its oarsmen and Loppe. Loppe said, ‘Yes. It’s all right.’
‘What a pity,’ Nicholas said. And when Godscalc made to say something, turned on him a look of stark fury that made the priest stop. On board, he walked to his cabin and turned at the entrance. The blood, running together, made strange damascened shapes on his doublet. He said, ‘You had better come in.’ And they followed him, Loppe drawing the curtain behind.
Inside, Michael Crackbene rose to his feet in his red mummer’s costume, blotched also with blood. Without the casque, his broad, blond face showed pale and repressed; his chest heaved. He opened his lips.
‘If you speak,’ Nicholas said, ‘I shall probably kill you. Our next call is Portugal. You will disembark there, and I hope never to see you again. In the meanwhile, Loppe will show you where to lie so that none of us will be required to set eyes on you. Get out.’
‘I will speak,’ the sailing-master said. ‘Even if you kill me. I meant you no harm. I fulfilled my contract. I was free. All men operate so. One day Piccinino fights for Milan, the next day against him. It is all by contract.’
‘And Diniz?’ Nicholas said. ‘Get out of my sight.’
‘You saved my life,’ Crackbene said. His voice was puzzled. But when Nicholas looked at him, he turned and left, followed by Loppe. A moment later Gregorio, too, left.
The galley rocked. The heavy curtain, blocking the light, reduced the great cabin to dimness. It smelt of damp wood, and salt, and the metal of the weapons hung on the wall, and the faint odours of cooking, and humanity, and fresh blood. The priest said, ‘Now? Or shall we come back when the lamps are lit?’
‘Oh, now,’ Nicholas said. ‘Sit down. Our next call is