Scales of Gold (6 page)

Julius always appreciated it when Nicholas made a mistake. He said, ‘Yes, we heard how you were holding your own. You tricked the Vatachino into insuring our old friend the
Doria
before the old man sailed it out of Cyprus with Crackbene. I hope to God you’re not going to Portugal after it? Or maybe you don’t need to. Did the grasping devils pay up?’

‘They paid up,’ said Nicholas. ‘Margot, will Tilde need some sort of head covering? It’s not a long way, but we’ve a barge to tow with us. Suppose we leave as soon as we can?’

‘… Because you know who is waiting in Portugal,’ Julius continued, cheerfully unrelenting. ‘The old man sent letters about
you. The widow’s there, and her son. The girl’s family are going, from Bruges. I’ve got a letter for you from her husband.’

He fumbled for it in his purse, while trying not to miss any reaction. He could never understand how Nicholas hid what he was thinking. My God, he must have come all the way from Cyprus knowing that Simon was the first person he’d hear from. He found the packet and handed it over, expecting Nicholas to open it, or walk off to read it. Instead he said, ‘Why not tell me what’s in it? You know already, I’m sure.’

‘Well, you can imagine,’ Julius said. Gregorio was glaring at him, and that pretty woman didn’t look very pleased. He cleared his throat. ‘Not knowing any different, they do blame you for everything. They say they will deal with you here if they have to –’

‘Deal with me?’

‘Kill you. They will come to Venice if need be, but they would prefer you to come west and face them.’

‘They?’

‘The bereaved families,’ Julius said.

‘Oh. One by one or all together?’ Nicholas asked. He glanced at the hour-glass.

Julius said, ‘The old man likes to lay his own traps. His son is the lad who’ll come after you. Really, you’d better explain. Whatever you tell them, we’ll back you.’

‘So Simon has challenged me,’ Nicholas said. He still held the letter unopened.

‘You killed his wife,’ Tilde de Charetty said. ‘You killed his sister’s husband. You imprisoned his father and nephew, and you would have killed them as well if they hadn’t escaped.’ Margot got up and put an arm round her shoulders. The girl trembled.

‘On the Bank’s very own ship. Well, they got their own back,’ Nicholas said. ‘I take it you don’t want to come to Murano? I’m enjoying the talk, but it is getting late.’

‘You’re not answering?’ the girl blurted out. Margot’s hand tightened.

‘You didn’t ask me anything,’ Nicholas said.

‘She was wrong to ask you,’ said Julius. ‘But –’

‘She was wrong to ask me,’ Nicholas said. ‘This is my house, and this is something I will not at present discuss. I should have thought the reasons were obvious. If you think you can talk about something else, I shall be delighted to have your company. Excuse me, if you will, while you think about it.’

In the end they went to Murano, largely because Tilde, although shaken, was determined, and nothing, really, would have stopped Julius. Waiting while Nicholas changed, and Margot took Tilde to
her chamber, Julius strolled with Gregorio to the landing-stage. He said, ‘Do
you
know what happened?’

‘In Cyprus? I know what happened, but not why it happened. I don’t know why he won’t explain either, but he always has reasons: I’m not going to push him.’

‘Perhaps you don’t want to know,’ Julius said. He waited, and then said, ‘It affects the Bank. Rumours.’

Gregorio said, ‘Of course he knows that. Otherwise he wouldn’t have written to me. He’s said he’ll decide in four weeks if he’s leaving. I’m willing to wait until then.’

Julius said, ‘I hear a whisper that he’s taken an island.’ He didn’t say how he knew.

‘It doesn’t mean he’s going to stay,’ Gregorio said. ‘He has a factor and two fiefs in Cyprus. He’s free to go anywhere.’ He paused. He said, ‘Would it be breaking a confidence to tell me what was in the letter from de Ribérac’s son?’

‘Breaking a confidence!’ Julius said. ‘He wanted me to read it aloud as he wrote it, and make copies for Catherine and Tilde. That letter was written in sulphur.’ He fell silent a moment, remembering.

Gregorio said, ‘It was his wife who died. The worst thing that could possibly happen. Nicholas and this violent man, at war with each other for years. And now this.’

Julius said, ‘If Nicholas told me he had nothing to do with the death of Simon de St Pol’s wife, I think I should believe him. So why doesn’t he? The wretched man is convinced it was part of some great murderous scheme to leave him a widower, and that his only child will be the next victim. The grandfather thinks so as well. They’ve even sent the boy off to some hiding place.’

‘They don’t usually agree, Simon and Jordan de Ribérac,’ said Gregorio absently.

‘This time, they do,’ Julius said. ‘By God, they do. Although it was apparently all the old man could manage to prevent Simon from coming straight here to turn our wealthy young friend into pigfood. Instead, they’ve sent him this letter.’

‘Which says what?’ Gregorio said.

‘Wouldn’t you prefer to read it?’ said Nicholas, appearing briskly. He tossed the paper, open, towards Gregorio, who caught it just before it reached the canal.

Nicholas said, ‘It’s not very newsy. It gives me two options. I can remain here and die a bankrupt poltroon, killer of women and gentlefolk. Or, if I wish to call myself a man, I am invited to pursue my lord Simon in his various homes and places of business and be prepared to meet my match in both areas. It doesn’t sound very enticing.’

He had paraphrased the letter which was, as he said, very short. He had omitted the third accusation made against him. Julius saw Gregorio, reading, halt at the relevant passage. Nicholas, he realised, was watching him. Loppe, who had also arrived, plainly dressed, had walked to the wharf. Julius said, in some discomfort, ‘You see, death isn’t enough. He wants to ruin you. He says you set out to subvert his company.’

‘Well, of course,’ Nicholas said. ‘He sent his entire family to dismantle mine. Isn’t that the whole object of being in business?’ Gregorio folded the letter and Nicholas took it back, displaying a smile and both dimples.

‘So what are you going to do?’ Julius said.

‘Go to Murano,’ Nicholas said. ‘I haven’t got a ship that can go anywhere else. Julius, get the girl, will you? I haven’t time to wait about till it’s dark.’

They embarked as soon as Tilde came, studiously composed. Reared in Bruges, she was accustomed to water. She stepped down beside Julius into the Bank’s big lagoon boat, while Nicholas and Loppe took their seats. Gregorio, jumping down, spoke to the oarsmen, who wore the Bank’s livery. Beside them were two men-at-arms bearing the Lion of St Mark on their breastplates.

It occurred to Julius that it might have been wiser to take Tilde straight back to the Martelli-Medici palazzo. On the other hand, he liked being active. It had been dull in some ways, in Bruges. It had been dull, to be candid, without Nicholas. He liked pitting his wits against Nicholas. He felt pleased, among all these Italian manipulators, to have a good Flemish card up his sleeve.

Chapter 3

C
OOL AND PLACID
, home to waterfowl and the drifting vessels of fishermen, the lagoon of Venice filled the shallow, sandy miles between the city and the head of the gulf on which it lay. Of all the green islands on its milky surface, only one was nearer to Venice than the five slips of land that made up Murano. Which was a pity, because even an hour away over the water, the air was still filled with the din of a city going to war and, in the morning, the sea was as busy as the Grand Canal with boats going to market, bearing their fish and their produce to feed the overstuffed, overwrought Serenissima.

Now the traffic was thin, although the soldiers stayed alert, and Loppe’s vigilance, Gregorio noted, never flagged. Tilde, remembered as a girl of some fortitude, had nevertheless moved close to Julius. Nicholas, his gaze on the sea, paid no attention to anyone.

It had been foolish of Julius to let the girl come, and wrong of Nicholas to encourage it. Julius, in Gregorio’s view, was a competent Bologna-trained notary with a cast of mind which led him too often into pointless adventure. He had been, no doubt, an excellent and comradely mentor to the Charetty young, including Nicholas in his subservient youth. He still entertained, Gregorio thought, a delusion of ascendancy over Nicholas which Nicholas had either failed or chosen not to dispel, although, Gregorio supposed, he had some means, in crisis, of making sure that Julius respected his wishes.

Compared with Julius, Gregorio had little shared background with Nicholas: had seen none of his boyhood; had never fought with him; had never taken part in his bizarre escapades overseas. But he had looked after the Charetty business in Bruges when Nicholas was abroad, and his wife still alive, with young daughters. For over two years, he had run his Bank in Venice, and had been
forced to receive for that period a torrential correspondence he would not have foregone.

Gregorio, not a vain man, recognised that it was a common experience to imagine one understood Nicholas vander Poele; and to harbour an impulse to help and protect him. He reminded himself that the subject of such a humane interest did not always remain innocent, or worthy of it. One must not be beguiled.

Gregorio sat, his face remote; and his fingers of their own volition caressed the place on his shoulder where once, for upholding Nicholas, he had received a sword-thrust from the lord Simon of St Pol who had written that chilling letter. The letter with the accusation which Nicholas had not repeated in full.
Killer of women and gentlefolk
, it had said.
And despoiler of boys
, it had added. Gregorio felt cold, and then amazingly hot.

‘It’s getting hotter,’ Tilde de Charetty said. She sat up. The holy island, the one nearest to Venice, had fallen behind. Ahead in the distance lay the sunlit snows of the blue mainland mountains. By contrast, the land which now seemed so close to their bows was green and populous, scattered with red and cream buildings and the towers of churches. By some trick of the sun, the composition appeared to be sparkling, like the effect of dew on a garden. ‘Why is it getting warmer?’ she said.

‘Because this is Murano,’ said Gregorio, emerging from his thoughts and wiping his brow. ‘It’s hot because of the glasshouses. This is where all the glass of Venice is made.’

The island’s sultriness eddied about them, carrying odours of baked clay and charred wood and metal. ‘Glass!’ said Tilde. ‘You didn’t tell me!’

She was looking at Julius who was far too interested in gazing elsewhere. Nicholas, in laconic Italian, was directing the oarsmen towards the entrance to the nearest and narrowest of the canals that wound through the island. As it began to open to view, you could see the mooring posts with their boats on either side, and the piles of boxes and barrels and sacks on the working-space between the water and the irregular line of crooked brick buildings. It was the Rio di Santo Stefano, where all the workshops were. Gregorio hoped to God Nicholas knew what he was doing.

Julius said to the girl, ‘I thought you’d enjoy the surprise.’ He chopped Nicholas on the arm. ‘I knew it. You’ve bought your way into glass, haven’t you?’

‘It would be hard to deny it,’ said Nicholas. For Tilde’s sake, he had switched back to Flemish. ‘It’s a pretty place, Murano, I’m told, away from the furnaces. Gardens, vineyards, hospices where you would be welcome. You and Tilde may want to walk, or the
boat will take you wherever you fancy. We shall meet you back here in two hours.’

Tilde said, ‘I should like to see inside a glass workshop.’

‘I thought you might,’ Nicholas said. ‘Gregorio says this is one of the best, and they will make you welcome. You will excuse us?’

Gregorio had made no such pronouncement, but Nicholas, it was clear, had received advice from someone: the berth to which he directed the boat belonged to a luminary of the Glassmakers’ Guild who was already emerging to greet them. Tilde disembarked, aided by Julius and Lopez. Nicholas and Gregorio landed, made the necessary introductions, and stood aside as Julius and the girl entered the building.

Nicholas called after them, ‘In two hours’ time, then, at this place!’ and, taking Gregorio’s elbow, began to walk smartly along the canal path. Lopez followed, and behind him the two soldiers came running. Turning, Gregorio saw Julius step out of the glassworker’s house and look after them with a displeased expression. Then the Magistrate emerged and led him in again. ‘Good,’ said Nicholas. ‘So where is the Barovier workshop?’

‘He’ll try to find you,’ Gregorio said. ‘Julius. As soon as he’s free.’

‘No, he won’t,’ Nicholas said. ‘He had a good look at the barge. It’s full of glassmaking stuff: alum and cullet and cobalt. He’s found out I’ve been acquiring an island. He’ll pay the boatmen to take him there. It’ll take him two hours and a half to get back.’

‘It shouldn’t,’ said Gregorio. It was a silly remark, and he wasn’t surprised when Nicholas didn’t trouble to answer. At the same time, he wondered if Nicholas realised that they, too, would have time on their hands. Their business wouldn’t take long, and they wouldn’t be encouraged to linger. He couldn’t imagine Nicholas strolling among the parks and gardens and vineyards. He caught himself wondering if he should ask about brothels. Nicholas, to his Bank, was an enigma as well as a responsibility.

They left their escort by the canal, outside the arcaded ground floor of the handsome brick house they were to visit. Only the wall that stretched on either side indicated the amount of ground which, sprawling behind, contained the wide yards, the warehouses, the wells, the furnace areas, the painting-sheds, the tool-making offices, the towers of broken glass and the towers of sand and the sacks and sacks of soda ash that comprised the multiple operations of the finest glasshouse in the world.

Then its owner came to the entrance to meet them, and took a dislike to Nicholas on the spot.

Marietta Barovier was late-born but not all that young: her
father had died four years previously after forty years at the top of his profession. Yet her hair under its grimy cloth was thick and black, and her olive skin slick as chamois with perpetual sweat. Her eyes, large and heavy-lidded, were piercingly dark, and her body sturdy and short in a stained canvas smock that hung calf-length. Below that, she wore thonged leather shoes grey with scorching. She said, ‘
This
is not the head of your Bank?’