Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [55]
Chapter 9
THE MOORS, OF COURSE, had named the Al Gharb, the southernmost province of Portugal, which meant Western Land. Fear had named its most south-westerly point The End of the World. Less than thirty miles short of the End of the World stood Lagos, the Roman Lacobriga, capital of the Algarve, and the harbour from which the small ships sent out by Prince Henry of Portugal had ventured south, to discover whether the ocean ended beyond Cape Bojador in the Sea of Obscurity; whether there were heathens to convert or Christians to trade and ally with.
The Ciaretti dropped anchor at night, and by dawn, the Governor’s boat stood below, with a summons.
This time, neither Godscalc nor Gregorio went with Nicholas. This time, they knew it was not a matter of trade, but the discussion of a complex proposition already tabled by courier, to which they were not so far privy.
Father Godscalc, early risen, remained in his quarters. Gregorio, disturbed, watched Nicholas leave, elaborately dressed and attended, and also watched the small boat that soon after put ashore Michael Crackbene.
Somewhere up that steep castled hill, or on the river-bank with its markets and palaces, or on the tall headland that enclosed the western harbour, was the house built for Joao Vasquez, secretary to the Duchess of Burgundy, and shared by his kinsman Tristao’s widow and family. Lucia de St Pol was living there, and possibly Diniz her son, and probably Simon her brother. And perhaps, if Godscalc was right, Gelis van Borselen, whose sister had died on Cyprus. But for the moment, in the Governor’s charge, Nicholas was surely protected.
A long time later, the Governor’s boat returned, and Nicholas and his retinue came aboard, accompanied by a man with the dark, bitten face of a seaman. The retinue bowed and dispersed, all but their interpreter Loppe, and Gregorio and Godscalc found themselves summoned to the great cabin.
The stranger, introduced as Jorge da Silves, was a short, lean Portuguese of taciturn disposition. After a little wine and some surly exchanges, it emerged that he spoke and understood Catalan. A little later, Gregorio gathered that he was a sea captain of note, who had taken ships down the west coast of Africa. Much later, Gregorio guessed that he knew both Ca’ da Mosto and the Jew in Mallorca, and that Nicholas wanted his services.
If it was for Nicholas, it was for the Bank. Gregorio, accustomed to Catalan, did his best to please, and was glad to see the fellow, as he thought, responding a little. The priest added his professional skills, and Nicholas all his specialised charm. The man, accompanied by Loppe, left the boat a little flushed, and not far from smiling. Godscalc said, ‘All right. Who was that?’
‘You will get to know him very well,’ Nicholas said. ‘He is the captain who is going to take us up the African arm of the Nile.’
‘On a raft?’ Godscalc said. Ever since Sanlúcar, Godscalc had been sarcastic with Nicholas.
‘In a caravel,’ Nicholas said. ‘The kind of little lateen-rigged three-master that Prince Henry developed for Africa. The only ship that can sail close to the wind coming home.’
‘You haven’t got one,’ said Gregorio. ‘And don’t tell me Senhor da Silves has a thousand crowns invested in anything.’
‘I have one,’ Nicholas said. ‘Nearly finished, and lying there in the shipyard. Leased to me by the Portuguese King, provided I fit her out and load her cargo myself, and pay him a quarter of my eventual profit, together with all the charts I can make of my journey. In return, the King will be renowned as the man who opened the way to Ethiopia.’
‘You’ve got her for nothing?’ said Godscalc.
‘Does it seem so? said Nicholas. ‘I had the impression I took some trouble to lay all the ground work. Tomorrow we view her and complete all the documentation. Today, I thought I should visit the