‘I tell you I have intelligence touching on the true nature of Sir Nicholas Hawkwood,’ said Thornhill.
His voice hissed out between his teeth, the sound of hot metal being dipped in water, he was hot indeed. Angry with himself, with that fool Cesare Costa, with this interfering duke. He blazed. Rodrigo was grateful that the captain stood by his side for Thornhill seemed on the verge of madness. Rodrigo thought it best simply to shake his head in answer. A stillness hung over the antechamber, the only noise the crackle of paper as Thornhill’s fist crushed the letter clutched within it. He paid no further courtesy to the Duke’s lackeys but turned on his heel and stalked from the room. Behind him Rodrigo’s shoulders slumped and it was only the realisation that the captain’s had done so too that made him realise how great had been the tension in the room.
‘There’s one I would not have made an enemy for a thousand ducats,’ muttered Rodrigo.
The captain grunted his agreement and turned to make report to the Duke.
Thornhill strode towards his rooms. His fury gave him speed. The letter from Cesare Costa was clutched in his hand. It told a sorry tale of chances missed, of arrogant plotting when direct acts had been needed, of a failure to wield the true might of the Church, none of which Thornhill could forgive. Yet that was not the worst of it, for within it Costa set down what he knew of the English. Three men, one tall and fat, one solid as a block and a third, a young man, handsome in an ordinary way, unremarkable, save that one might know him by the eyes. The last two Thornhill did not recognise but the first, in every detail of Costa’s description it was Sir Nicholas Hawkwood, or Sir Henry Carr, or some other name. He had had him in his hands, in the very place of questioning, and let him go. This last he could not forgive himself. How did he deceive me? Thornhill thought. Truly this Hawkwood was a dangerous man, a villain indeed to look so coolly on the torture of another and still to play his part. He must be found with haste, taken with the rest, before he do true harm. Yes, there is God’s plan: He lets the first go to lead me to the others.
Thornhill slammed open the door to his rooms and Arrigo, waiting, stood hastily to attention.
‘Your man watched Hawkwood leave?’ demanded Thornhill.
‘Yes, Father. He said it was most strange.’
‘Strange, how so?’
‘Sir Nicholas rode in commission against the outlaws in the woods yet led his troop of men on the other road.’
Thornhill slapped his leg. Of course, cunning devil, cunning, cunning heretic devil. He led the Duke’s men away from the outlaws, away from his friends. Proof of this Hawkwood’s deceptions pile in upon themselves.
‘And from Ludovico?’
‘No news, Father.’
Thornhill sat down at the table, lost in thought.
‘Send two men, your best, Arrigo, your best, to follow the road this Hawkwood took. Scout him out, bring me news of his whereabouts with haste. When we know where he has gone then we must be ready to ride at once to take him. At once.’
‘I go.’ Arrigo saluted and turned to depart.
Thornhill called after him, ‘And send again to Ludovico. If message may be got to him, tell him to be ready for our sudden arrival.’
Thornhill heard Arrigo go. Alone in his room a little smile crept to the corner of his lips as he stared at the fire and thought of fires to come.
He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister
The Veneto
So changed was the mood of the returning outlaws it was as if they’d departed the camp to attend a funeral and returned with the dead man living again. Whistles as they walked, merry chatter, the clapping of backs, and arms slung across shoulders was their procession made of. Four fat satchels were slung upon the ground and Orlando sprang upon a fallen trunk of tree nearby to direct the bringing of the chest and barrels next.
‘All went well then,’ said Jacopo, whose injuries had volunteered him to the guarding of the camp.
‘Well, friend Jacopo?’ said Orlando. ‘Well? It was a very triumph!’ His cry was met by a cheer from the gathered outlaws. ‘For where we thought to fall on four simple pilgrims we found instead a train of them. All chanting like lambs but wanting a shepherd, we crept about them and swept them up in our embrace.’
He pointed to Hemminges. ‘There was one of their number, a great bear of a man, that strode at their front carrying a cross, who did not take kindly to our arrival and swung that cross like a halberd but all’s too much for brave John Russell, well he deserves that name, who outfaced him as he swung.’
Orlando’s mumming of the blows caused him to slip from his perch to the laughter of the outlaws. From his back upon the ground Orlando finished his tale:
‘Thus did Master Russell, like an Achilles, a Hector, dart between the blows and bring him to his knees. The which I noted—’ But his words were drowned by the outlaws shouting over him ‘“is the proper place for a Godly man!’”
Orlando looked momentarily discomfited to be spoken over but it passed in an instant and, getting up, he turned and bowed to the men. ‘My friends, I humbly thank you. The deed was great, the commentary greater. Nor do we forget young Sebastian who, against the protestations of more experienced men, volunteered to be our bait and our distraction and when assailed stood firm. Here’s to the valour of youth!’
Again the outlaws roared their pleasure. The chest was opened and found to contain plate, coin, cups of pewter and some of silver, three candlesticks and a finely wrought lute. Treasure enough for comfort, nay for luxury too. Best of all was this: the barrels being broached held sack, which Luca, who had once worked in a vineyard and considered himself an expert in such matters, drank with great ceremony and pronounced to be good, fresh and ready for drinking. The outlaws joyed in the bounty and loving cups passed from hand to hand.
Aemilia looked about her and felt the excitement of the band join with her own and lift it higher. On their outward march, when Orlando had proposed that she confront the pilgrims and draw their view, she’d felt the tightening in her chest and almost cried off the post but then Master Russell had stepped in, so vehement against it that she, honour pricked, had insisted upon it. It angered her that Master Russell cosseted her so. She had one father already and did not need another.
The sight of the pilgrims’ leader, beard tangled, eyes wild, his staff raised above his head, its iron cross set to dash her brains from her head, was an image she would carry to the grave. She’d lifted her dagger above her, knowing it hopeless, that the blow would smash it from her grip, she’d cried out her terror, and then Russell had been upon him, knocking him from his path, the crozier flailing from his hands. It was as though her body had been flooded by joy in that instant as she realised she would live. She’d howled her joy. Russell had not stopped. She’d watched, again in wonder, as he darted across to challenge another of the pilgrims. In a moment all were down or cowed and a great cheer had gone up from the bandits and her voice was loud among them.
Hemminges watched Aemilia, bright-eyed with excitement, be clapped on the back and join with others in retelling the tale of their triumphs. He could not share her pleasure. He was too aware of the dangers that surrounded her.
One of the outlaws, Ludovico, came to sit by him and began to ask him a host of questions about where he came from and where he had learned to fight so well but Hemminges offered only single words in reply. He was not in the mood for conversation even if others were. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of William, stood in a sardonic, watchful pose, distant from the others’ revels. He made no attempt to join him, standing apart as he had done in the robbery, simply observing. Hemminges wished he had his friend’s power of understanding to turn on William himself. Such a deal of pain his friend had suffered, too much it seemed; the iron had not bent but shattered at the blow.
Valentine too was sat apart but his was the look of a man exhausted. He took no pleasure in the shouts of triumph or in the trophies held aloft, for each seemed to him to be an
other loop in the cord that would become the noose that hanged them all. He’d had riches twice as much as these at his command and tossed them all aside. He felt Aemilia come and sit beside him. He longed to take her in his arms and feel her embrace steady him. When at the court he’d felt his position keenest, his beggar’s status and the contempt for the passions that sustained him, poetry, music, philosophy, in Aemilia he had found a willing ear and an uplifting eye. She had not mocked his ambition but given him the wings to think he might fly. Now the sun had seared those wings and he’d tumbled to the ground. He turned to her and her look gave him heart as it had done in the past. He devoutly wished that look would have held longer but Orlando had leapt again to his tree-trunk rostrum and Aemilia’s eyes turned to him as he began to speak.
‘Now, my friends, are we greedy men? Are we selfish men? Have we in our triumph forgot those who remembered us in our disasters? We have not and we will not. Therefore, let us, when we have reckoned up our booty, give full a half of all that we have gathered here to the poor that dot these woods. What think you of this plan, will you say me, nay?’
To Valentine’s judgement the cry of yes had not the force of earlier cheering but it came nonetheless and he saw in Aemilia’s moist and uplifted gaze that Orlando’s generous spirit had won to him an ardent follower. Hah! It is easy to be generous with another’s money, he thought, his gloom again upon him.
I must be from this place. I must to the palace again, for I am not of these men’s thinking nor of their mettle. He glanced across the company, who were increasingly merry as the barrels drained, until his eyes lit upon Petro, the priest, his matted thatch of black hair hanging over his eyes and almost to his nose, a thing so prominent and bloodshot as almost to demand its own name. The man was luckier than the rest for having his own chalice with which to tap the barrel, rescued from his former abbey as he’d fled.
The sight of the priest turned Valentine’s thoughts to the fount and origin of his dilemma, the objection of the Duke to his marrying the Duke’s daughter. Why, here was the solution to that dilemma, sottish and sleeping. Return to the Duke with the marriage done. Why not? What matter then for the Duke’s approval if, in the eyes of the Lord, he and she were one? The Duke was a practical man above all other things and would bend himself to accommodate the new world that he found himself in. Valentine turned the idea over in his head but could think of no objection to it. What was the worst that could occur? That she and he would be lawful exiles instead of illegitimate ones?
But soft, he must not be overhasty. It would not do to let Aemilia’s true state be known, not now, not here among these swinish outlaws, drunk and bawdy and all too dangerous to a maid. He must test the priest against the thought first. If all was propitiate then he and Aemilia might be married before the week was done.
Aemilia watched Valentine stride over to the fire with something of the jaunty step that she had felt on the walk back from the robbing of the pilgrims. Pray God, he is come into better humour by our triumph, she thought. He’d been poor company on their adventure thus far, to her surprise and consternation, for at the palace he’d been the thing that had kept her singing when all about her were merely the bars of the cage that held her. His flights of fancy, his dreams of ambitions mastered, had given her own ambitions wing. Yet how their flight had shown the difference in their natures. He had ventured forth but taken with him a chain about his ankle that ever tugged to pull him back to what lay behind. She, let loose from the confines of her gilded cell, had burst into soars and sweeps and opportunities. She thought how Master Russell had raged when she had proposed herself as the diversion to the pilgrims’ caravan but how she had seen in it the chance to show herself more than a pampered child. Had she not been rewarded for it? Had she not seen in Russell’s eye a new look of respect for her daring? Had the outlaws’ leader not singled her out for praise?
He was an odd one, this Orlando. He stood out from the company that he kept like lustrous ebony among so much ash and cinders. As if thought commanded action she saw that he now came towards her and her heart beat a little faster at his approach. She felt ashamed, since Valentine’s approach had not made it do so. Then Orlando was by her, his handsome face smiling at her.
‘You’ve proved your valour today, young Sebastian,’ he said. As he spoke he cast an appraising eye over her and combed his beard with his fingers, bright teeth smiling through the black. She did not trust her voice in reply but nodded her thanks for his praise. She wanted to say that he’d seemed more valiant than any but Master Russell and more gallant than all. He’d calmed the women pilgrims, charmed the men – well, all save their leader who’d had to be clubbed to the floor when he would not stop his curses. Yet he’d apologised for its need and promised that charity would guide their use of the money taken and he’d delivered on that promise too. Truly, here was a noble man, for all her father’s gilt and chivalry, here was a man that dared all and still found space within his daring to think of others.
Something of her admiring look conveyed itself to Orlando, who blushed. ‘You need not look so kindly on me, Sebastian. Three times now I have led these selfsame men to fruitless battles, death and injury our only reward for all our daring. This time we happened on those that trusted in God for their protection and, this time, the Lord provided for we poor villains and not for them.’
‘Unto them that have, shall be given,’ said Aemilia.
Orlando’s blush deepened. For this fair youth’s words seemed pregnant with promises and he could not understand the sudden currents of thought and feeling that seemed to swirl about. He spoke lightly to quash the mood.
‘That is, no doubt, the consolation that their leader gives to them now.’
‘Why are you here?’ Aemilia now blushed at her question, blurted out in her headiness at being spoken to so freely and openly by the outlaws’ leader.
‘Ah, there’s a question that calls for more wine than I have yet drunk. What do you say you teach me the best manner to reply by answering it on your own behalf?’
‘My story’s simply told, sir. I am Valentine’s page and his exile’s mine to share.’
‘His exile?’
‘He loved the Duke’s daughter and would have married her but the Duke objected to his poverty, reckoning not the value of a true heart and wise mind,’ Aemilia said a little more fiercely than she had meant to do.
‘What thought the Duke’s daughter of the match?’ asked Orlando.
‘She thought well of it,’ said Aemilia. ‘Or so it was my understanding.’
Orlando nodded. ‘I hope it was so for his sake. His exile was a dear price to pay for an unrequited love.’
‘She made the proof of it in her every look and in her pleading on his behalf to her father,’ protested Aemilia.
‘So, so,’ said Orlando. ‘I do not doubt it though a woman’s love cannot compare to that of a man. A woman’s love may be called appetite, no motion of the liver but the palate. That suffers surfeit, cloyment and revolt. Sure and now her lover’s exiled she will have pushed away his dish and called for fresh.’
‘She will not,’ answered Aemilia hotly. ‘I know—’
At her breaking off Orlando beckoned her on. That strange heat was in the air again. He could not place its source; perhaps it was the heady wine of their battle won that muddied his thoughts so. He looked at the dark-eyed boy. ‘What do you know, lad?’
‘Too well the love that women may bear,’ said Aemilia, head held proudly up. ‘In truth they are as true of heart as we. I had a cousin had a lover.’
‘What of her?’
‘When her lover was called away to fight in the wars, she took herself off with him. Left hearth and home and comfort.’
‘What became of her?’
‘She died of her love. They perished both in the wars.’
‘A tragedy. As all true love stories are.’ Orlando broke his look from Sebastian. He turned to Master Russell’s friend Adam who sat nearby. ‘There’s
one that could tell you so. Eh Adam?’
‘Life’s a woeful tragedy, Orlando,’ Adam answered. ‘Love is but the tincture that drops in the sadness to our lives. We have love, we fear to lose it, we have it not, all our life is striving to find it. I would we were all stones.’
‘By God, he speaks,’ said Orlando. ‘His words as baleful a sermon as ever I heard but at least he is not turned mute. Come, man, banish melancholy, Adam, and bring forth delight. Today we are triumphant and must make revels. A song, a song.’
‘Master Russell has a fair voice,’ said Aemilia. Hemminges did not lift his head from where he worked at his venison but shook it in refusal. Aemilia would have none of it. She ran to the chest and took the lute from it and held it out to Hemminges. Only to quell the shouts of the outlaws that he should sing did he reach out and take it from her.
‘What song would you have?’
‘A love song,’ cried Orlando to the echoed shouts of the outlaws. Master Russell struck the strings, paused to tighten the pegs, and then strummed a chord and began to play. The same strong fingers and wrist that played so lightly with a sword now plucked forth sweet sounds and then his voice, honey-rich, joined in. Orlando settled himself to the ground, back to the tree trunk and close to the fire.
‘Ah music, the food of love,’ sighed Valentine, who had come to stand near Aemilia.
‘If music be the food of love,’ said Adam from his place outside the circle, ‘play on. Give me excess of it, that surfeiting the appetite may sicken and so die.’
His ill-tempered words were a goad to Hemminges, who turned the song from a sweet one to a lively reel. The outlaws stamped their feet and clapped the measure and Luca, who was as expert in his drinking as in his judging of the drink, began to dance, kicking up his legs and singing, hey nonny. Soon half the outlaws were whirling about the camp to Hemminges’ playing and the drumming of sticks on the side of the pot and the trees’ trunks. Aemilia, caught up in the spirit of misrule that had come over them all, joined in and even Valentine was pulled from conference with a drunken Petro and entered in the dance. Indeed, so full of happiness at the prospect of a future far from the woods was Valentine that he had begun to sing a verse of his own, composing to Hemminges’ tune until it became clear that mad Adam was capping each line he sang with a couplet of surpassing foulness, commentary on the young lord’s voice that had the outlaws at a roar. Stiff with pride, Valentine had ceased to sing and would have retreated to his bed but that Aemilia, laughing, drew him back into the dance along with the rest. At last only Hemminges, who played for them, and Adam, who would not be persuaded to it for all their begging, were still sitting.
The Assassin of Verona Page 23
