Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [81]
The chirrup of sound, when it came, was just enough to warn those below who were listening. Nicholas rose, hardly noticed, and slipped aft. Clear of the hubbub and laughter, he could hear the splash of muffled oars and the half-felt bump that meant a boat had lodged at the base of the ladder. By then, four of his men were at the caravel’s side, their swords drawn. Nicholas joined them, and looked down.
There was no great barge at his feet filled with cuirasses; no coats of arms, or threatening crossbows or hackbuts, and the face he dreaded to see was not present. A ship’s boat lay below him, manned by two pairs of half-naked oarsmen, and rising from its midst was a fellow in a great floating hat, bound to his cranium by hanks of gay ribbons. The head tipped back, revealing the bristled chin, the formless face, the violent bonhomie of a man he had met once before, in strict secrecy, in a room of the villa at Lagos. A man who, of all men, he did not want to see at this moment. Ochoa de Marchena, pirate; Spaniard; master of the resurrected roundship, the Ghost, floating somewhere behind in the darkness.
Nicholas said, very sweetly, ‘Go away.’
The unshaven jaw hoisted a red, dismayed lip. ‘Oh, I am disliked. I kill myself. Your signal is read, and my crew is aboard, but I kill myself. Why does Señor Niccolò frown? His guests are surely ashore?’
‘One of them is,’ Nicholas said. ‘Can’t you count? The rest are still here.’
The toothless face lengthened like wax. ‘No food, no wine, no kiss for Ochoa?’
‘It depends,’ Nicholas said. ‘Why don’t you keep watching the flags?’
‘Tonight?’ the man said.
‘Perhaps,’ said Nicholas.
‘Of course,’ said the man. A bubble winked inside his gums. He said, ‘The woman is pretty.’
‘She saw you?’ said Nicholas.
The face below, ploughed by pox-marks and scars, displayed horror. ‘I waved to her. It was only civil. She is of the enemy party? I have exposed myself? Execute me!’ Ochoa de Marchena flung his arms wide, letting go the sides of the ladder and falling backwards through the empty air towards his boat. Two of his crew silently caught him and set him upright in a practised way in the well. ‘What can I do?’ he added, peering from under his hat. He was dressed, Nicholas noticed, in scarlet satin.
‘Go away,’ said Nicholas equably; and watched them do just that. Returned to his feast, he was prepared for questions, but none came. He had to remark at large to the company: ‘The roundship master, presenting his compliments. He wouldn’t come aboard; they have sickness. No sign of the barge for the ladies?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Gelis van Borselen, ‘we should think twice about disembarking. If the Ghost has sickness on board, she must have infected all Funchal by now. All her crew were on shore till she recalled them.’
‘I didn’t know –’ Nicholas began, his voice easy.
‘I recognised signals? You should live on a hillside with an excitable widow and nothing to read except the ships in the harbour. You told the Ghost to recall them.’
Nicholas smiled. ‘I wish I had that kind of power. I did put up a lantern for water.’
‘They must have very good eyesight,’ she said. ‘I’d have sent that kind of order by Diniz. Jordan de Ribérac leased a roundship called the Doria to Portugal. I heard it was stolen from Ceuta.’
‘Was it?’ said Nicholas.
‘While you were away.’
‘In Lisbon,’ said Nicholas.
‘I heard you once claimed it was yours. Is that the same ship?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Nicholas. ‘This is the Ghost out of Seville, with a Spanish master who likes ogling ladies. I said you were busy, but if you wish I could ask him back over.’
‘I think you should,’ said Gelis van Borselen.