Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [79]
As it was, they had set her to rights as they went. She would sail into the harbour of Funchal with her spars and rudder in order, her sails easy, her trim well-judged, and her crew at the beginning of making a vigorous, if somewhat opinionated team. He wanted her to look well, for he didn’t know what awaited him.
They neared the anchorage just before dusk. For the last hour or two, among all the bustle of refurbishing ship, they all took time to stand on deck beneath the soft, blustering wind from the sails and watch the island appear; the biggest of the archipelago, thirty-five miles in length: a wild, mountainous, uninhabited place less than fifty years since, and now growing to wealth under the rule of its Portuguese captains.
The bay of the southern capital opened up. Nicholas saw a sprinkling of low painted houses on the volcanic slopes behind it, and the white of a chapel, and a large house, higher up, above which he thought he caught sight of a flagstaff. Low by the shingle he could see the rectangle of a stone customs house from which a boat was putting off, no doubt to lead them to their anchorage.
Jorge da Silves was ready. As the boat threaded towards him, he began to guide the San Niccolò to the edge of the swaying flock of fisher-vessels and barges and row-boats that occupied the inner part of the bay, while Nicholas watched.
These were not what interested him. From a long way off, he had seen the masts of two much larger ships, one a roundship and one a caravel like his own. The roundship, for all her peculiarities of shape and her unnatural colour, was one so well known to him that he identified her from her outline alone. The caravel, painted blue, was a stranger, and in spite of the uncertain gusts in the bay, the San Niccolò edged past at close enough quarters for him to see the name on her side: the Fortado.
‘Have you heard of her?’ It was Godscalc, surprisingly, standing beside him.
Nicholas said, ‘Yes. She’s Portuguese owned, and does a trade in yew bowstaves and sugar. I suspect she brought David de Salmeton from Porto Santo to Funchal.’ The caravel, in the poor light, showed some activity. The roundship, on the other hand, looked almost deserted, as if most of her crew were on shore. Occasionally she gave a small shiver, accompanied by a hollow drumming that carried fitfully over the water. Her topsides were scarlet.
The harbour boat, arriving and amiable, allowed them to drop anchor a judicious distance away from both the roundship and caravel. Godscalc watched the manoeuvre without pleasure. He said, ‘And that, I suppose, is your Ghost, with her horses. You still think her reincarnation will pass muster? David de Salmeton must know her as well as Simon – Who is that going ashore?’
‘Diniz,’ Nicholas said. The boy jumped into the harbour boat as he spoke and looked up, his face set in the lamplight. ‘He wished to leave first.… What were you asking? Would de Salmeton recognise the Ghost as the Doria? Not for sure. He didn’t see her on Cyprus, and has no proof, although he’ll suspect her, of course.’
‘And Simon?’ said Godscalc.
‘If he were to board her, perhaps. But I remind you. Ochoa de Marchena is a pirate. If threatened with boarding, he’ll sail. Are you going below? It is customary to give a supper on deck, and they’ll wish to put up the awnings.’
‘A supper?’ said Godscalc.
‘To celebrate our arrival. And say farewell, of course, to the ladies, whose magnificence we ought to try to match.’ The awnings lay on deck already, and were being untied with the greatest alacrity.
‘The ladies are going this evening?’ said Godscalc.
‘To stay with the Captain of Funchal. Diniz has gone to arrange it, and then will take horse to his family estate, where they will join him tomorrow. Ponta do Sol, twenty-five miles round the coast to the west.’