The Black Sheep

by Peter Darman

  ‘I am reliably informed that the commander of these mercenaries has his own fleet of ships,’ replied Timothy. ‘Transportation will not be a problem, general.’

  Andronicus brought his hands together, rested his chin on his thumbs and closed his eyes. Silence filled the chamber as all eyes looked at the emperor, the heir of Constantine and the man responsible for defending the true Christian faith. Andronicus opened his eyes and looked at Timothy.

  ‘Very well, lord treasurer, use your spies to make an approach to the commander of these Catholic mercenaries. They are to relay a message from the Roman emperor that he has selected them to defend the city of Christ from the infidel Muslims.’

  So it was that the Emperor of Constantinople, on the suggestion of a eunuch, took a decision that would have profound consequences for the empire he was desperately trying to preserve.

  Chapter 1

  Luca Baldi considered himself luckier than most. For one thing, he was still alive. For twenty years armies had criss-crossed Sicily fighting a war to control the island. In that time many villages, farms and towns had been destroyed, along with their populations. The great island still looked the same, with its woods of pine, oak, beech, willow, elm and poplars, and Sicily was still the main granary for Italy, just as it had been for over a thousand years. But the shipments of grain to the mainland were not what they were, a consequence of the war that had blighted the land, destroyed crops and conscripted peasants into armies, from which a great many did not return.

  Sicily now contained many large and mostly empty expanses of land, which were either barren wastes or were given over to cattle and sheep farming. In theory, all the island’s land outside the towns was divided between the crown and powerful barons whose estates were administered from a large manor house called a casalis, around which were stretches of grassland and pasturage dotted with villages. But even the manor houses lay abandoned and derelict, their masters having been either killed or left together with their families for the mainland.

  Luca neither cared about the causes of the war or who had been fighting it. He was a simple shepherd, though as a child his first job had been herding geese and goslings. He had then moved on to pigs, spending most days enduring their squealing and grunting, and sharing the filth they lived in. His father, also a shepherd, had insisted he also learn about the care of cows and horses, and a for a while he had even assisted one of the town’s blacksmiths in his forge, learning to make and fit horseshoes. But his purpose in life was to care for his family’s flock of sheep. To look after the lambs in the spring, and to shear the rams, ewes and yearlings. A shepherd’s life was idyllic in summer among the wildflowers and fresh air, and unceasingly bleak in winter when being lashed by wind and rain on the hillsides.

  His hometown – Rometta – was a quaint place built on a hill a short distance from the port of Messina, around which were cultivated terraces growing lemons, oranges, grapes and olives, as well as accommodating grazing sheep.

  The fierce heat of summer was a memory now, the autumn bringing more pleasant daytime temperatures and cooler nights. There was still the occasional hot wind but rains now replenished the streams and lakes so the hillsides around Rometta were green instead of brown. Like Luca, the town had been lucky during the war, its walls, which had been built by Arabs, had withstood numerous attacks and even helped beat off an army of French knights and soldiers. Luca had been a boy when he had thrown stones from the walls and had hurled a spear at a soldier scrambling from a scaling ladder trying to clamber on to the battlements. Even as a boy Luca had strength in his arms and shoulders and the spear had struck the man in the chest, the point going through his mail armour to penetrate his ribcage. He had seen the man grimace before he fell to the ground below. In the horror and chaos of that summer’s day, he had not given the fact he had killed a man much thought. He was just glad the attack had been beaten off, that his family had survived, and he was briefly feted as a hero afterwards. But the reality was he was lucky, as was his town, for which he gave thanks to God. He had seen the face of war and survived.

  Now there was no more war.

  ‘If I was a wolf I would have eaten half your flock by now.’

  Luca stopped his daydreaming to turn and see a beaming Jordi Rey creeping up on him. The dark-skinned Spaniard was crouching low but drew himself up to his full height when his friend faced him. They were roughly the same height, barring an inch or two, Jordi broader shouldered and more powerful in appearance than the sinewy Luca. His skin was darker in hue, though both had thick black hair and calloused hands, Luca’s through hard work, Jordi’s through war.

  They had known each other for only a short time, but in that time had become friends. Jordi was a soldier in an army of mercenaries raised in far-away Catalonia, a region of northeast Spain, though Jordi had never seen his homeland. The mercenary army was made up of two parts, one of horsemen and the other, larger part made up of foot soldiers called Almogavars. They were given that odd name because they were the descendants of Spanish shepherds who had fought the Muslim Moors decades before. So effective were the Almogavars that the Spanish king offered their services, together with hundreds of Spanish horsemen, to the King of Sicily in his war against the French, though they did not come cheap. The mercenaries had travelled to Sicily twenty years before to fight against the French, a task they had excelled at. They were now led by a military adventurer named Roger de Flor, a part-Italian, part-German larger-than-life character and veteran commander. His deputy and second-in-command of the mercenary army was Jordi’s father, Sancho Rey.

  Now there was peace, the Spanish Almogavars and horsemen had no one to fight and nothing to do. Jordi placed a sack on the ground.

  ‘I have brought you food and wine to stop you starving,’ he grinned, pulling bread, cheese, olives and a wineskin from the sack. ‘No wolves today?’

  ‘Only Spanish ones,’ answered Luca, accepting the wineskin and taking a swig before handing it back to Jordi.

  He flopped down on the grass, his friend doing likewise, in front of them the flock of sheep in Luca’s care grazing on the hillside. Above them Rometta basked in autumn sunlight. Jordi drank some wine, tore off a chunk of bread from the large loaf he had brought and handed it to Luca.

  ‘How do you do it?’ he asked.

  Luca looked surprised. ‘What?’

  Jordi gave a lazy sweep of his arm. ‘This. Sitting on a hillside all day staring at sheep.’

  ‘It is not all idleness and relaxation, my friend. The winter is a bad time. In the summer, a shepherd replenishes his stock of stamina in preparation for the tests to come.’

  He broke off a piece of cheese and stuffed it into his mouth, then washed it down with more wine.

  ‘What will you do now the war has ended?’

  Jordi shrugged. ‘Return to Spain with the others, I suppose, though there seems some doubt regarding whether we will be welcome in Catalonia. One thing is certain, King Frederick wants us gone.’

  Frederick, the third son of King Peter of Aragon, was beloved by the Almogavars, even though he wanted his kingdom of Sicily to be rid of the Spanish soldiers who had helped him win his throne. Generations before they had been shepherds like Luca, but now they lived and breathed war. They also retained a strong identity to their homeland. Jordi spoke excellent Italian, but he had told Luca that the Almogavars spoke in their native Catalan when conversing among themselves.

  ‘I will miss you, my friend,’ said Luca, now feeling the pleasant effects of the wine.

  ‘When we leave Sicily, you could come with us,’ retorted Jordi.

  Luca was shocked. ‘Leave Rometta?’

  Like the vast majority of peasants, his world comprised his hometown and the surrounding area. Travel was rarely undertaken, and the idea of leaving Sicily filled him with trepidation. He had never even visited the city of Messina, a mere eight miles to the east.

  ‘Why not?’ smiled Jordi. ‘You would make a good Almogavar, and you have
already proved yourself in battle.’

  Luca shuddered. ‘I was fighting for my life like a cornered animal. I have no wish to repeat the experience.’

  Jordi ate some more cheese. ‘I could have a word with my father. He is always looking for new recruits.’

  Luca had never met Sancho Rey but had heard stories of the Catalan who had a quick temper and a formidable reputation as a fighter.

  ‘I will think about it,’ answered Luca, evasively.

  Jordi, like his friend, had seen only eighteen summers, but he had grown up among soldiers who had been fighting a bloody war; and his instincts were already finely honed when it came to sensing danger. His black eyes were following four riders trotting along the western road leading to Rometta, which would take them right past him, Luca, and the latter’s herd of sheep. Some of the animals had stopped their grazing to lift their heads to watch the horsemen.

  ‘Who’s this?’ asked Jordi, jumping to his feet.

  Luca, now slightly light-headed, followed, squinting at the approaching horsemen. He saw the banner carried by one of the riders and nodded. He had seen the same colours flying from the town walls when the French had assaulted Rometta. They showed rows of horizontal red and white bands – the coat of arms of the Carafa family.

  The riders slowed as they approached the flock, which began to move away from the four horses, further up the grassy slope. Luca recognised the type of mount the soldiers were riding. They were coursers: fast, light and strong beasts imported from North Africa and bred specifically to carry soldiers. Knights rode warhorses called destriers in battle, but while attending to their day-to-day business they also used a riding horse called a palfrey, which had a very smooth gait, and coursers. The lead rider slowed his horse and drew level to the shepherd and his Catalan friend.

  Luca had seen the young lord several times in Rometta in recent months. If there was ever a man who resembled what a knight should look like it was Fabrizio Carafa. Tall, handsome with a strong jaw and piercing brown eyes, he also possessed the arrogance and rashness that characterised his social group. He peered at the two peasants and then pointed at a black sheep among the flock.

  ‘Is that your flock?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ answered Luca.

  ‘Why is there a black sheep among it? Are you not aware of the town rules?’

  Luca was indeed aware that shepherds were supposed to kill black lambs when they were born. Black sheep were believed to be unlucky and were linked to the devil. More practically, black wool could not by dyed and was thus almost worthless. More importantly, in a land that had been ravaged by war and where superstition was rife, such totems of misfortune and witchcraft were frowned upon. And Rometta’s rules clearly specified that black sheep were to be killed to avoid encouraging Satan ‘taking an interest’ in the town. But Luca liked his black sheep, and since he had for a short while been the hero of Rometta, no town official had raised the matter with him.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ snapped Fabrizio impatiently.

  ‘What business is it of yours?’ asked Jordi.

  The noble’s top lip curled into a sneer.

  ‘What did you say, peasant?’ demanded the knight.

  Jordi certainly looked like a commoner, with his sheepskin coat, called a zamarra, and his shoes comprising one piece of coarse leather tied on the soles of his feet by wool laces around his lower legs. They were called abarka and were worn by all the Almogavars, though Fabrizio probably did not know that. His three companions stared disbelievingly at the oaf who had just spoken to their liege lord in such a disrespectful manner.

  ‘I am no peasant,’ said Jordi defiantly. ‘Be on your way before I teach you a lesson you will not forget.’

  Luca, appalled his friend had spoken to an anointed knight in such a way, jumped between them, holding up his hands to Fabrizio.

  ‘Too much wine loosens the tongue, lord. He meant no disrespect.’

  Fabrizio’s noble nostrils flared. To a knight, respect was closely tied to honour, and honour was everything. To be spoken to in such a disrespectful manner could not go unanswered, even if there were no witnesses to the insult. But Fabrizio was accompanied by three of his men, who would report back to their comrades and anyone else with ears to listen that their lord had been insulted. Next to religion, honour was the most important aspect of knighthood. It was like a delicate flower that required nurturing and protecting. Fabrizio ignored Luca’s pleadings and focused on his companion.

  Luca was alarmed, and rightly so. The man on the fine brown horse was not only well armed and equipped, he was also a knight. A man whose life was dedicated to war. Whereas Luca had spent his childhood years attending to animals, Fabrizio would have been a page – a boy servant to a lord. A glorified servant but one who nevertheless learned to ride a horse and whose character, manners and sense of loyalty were moulded by his master to direct him to follow the knightly path. At the age of fifteen he became a squire, a knight’s personal apprentice. He was taught not only how to care for weapons and armour but to put them on and use them. His master practised fighting techniques with his squire and the latter followed the knight into battle. And when he had fully mastered the skills to do so, the squire became a knight himself. And this knight was freshly made and brimming with the virtues of his order.

  Fabrizio drew his expensive sword and pointed it at Jordi.

  ‘Arrest him, and the shepherd.’

  His men began dismounting but before they had done so, Jordi hurled the wineskin at Fabrizio, who reacted instinctively to cut the leather container in half with a deft sideways cut of his sword. Jordi also reacted quickly, launching himself at the knight, grabbing his sword arm with his left hand, yanking it towards him prior to slamming his fist into Fabrizio’s handsome face. The head was the only part of the lord’s body that could safely be struck with a fist as his torso and limbs were heavily protected. Under his red surcoat he wore a long-sleeved mail hauberk and his legs were protected by quilted cuisses over his thighs and knees. Domed iron poleyns covered his knees and hardened leather greaves shielded his shins.

  The knight, dazed, dropped his sword and toppled from his saddle when Jordi punched him again, this time in the windpipe. He fell heavily on his back, winding him and rendering him unable to rise. A triumphant Jordi stood over him, laughing impiously at the crestfallen young lord.

  Luca’s jaw dropped as he stared in horror at the scene, and was rendered unconscious when the blunt end of a spear was struck against the side of his head. When he regained consciousness, he discovered his wrists had been shackled and his head throbbed from a splitting headache. He was also aware of being in a cold room with stone walls, a closed thick wooden door and iron bars over a single window in one of the walls. His mouth was dry and he found it difficult to focus his mind.

  ‘The hero awakes.’

  He heard Jordi’s mocking voice and felt comforted, his friend helping him to raise himself up and rest his back against the cold stone wall.

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Luca, looking around the bare room.

  ‘In prison,’ said an angry Jordi.

  Luca glanced at his friend beside him and saw his left eye was closed and his face was cut and bruised. Jordi saw his friend’s reaction to his wounds.

  ‘It took three of them to subdue me,’ he said, ‘plus the idiot knight when he had regained his senses.’

  ‘You should not have done that, Jordi, you could have killed him.’

  His friend sighed. ‘Sadly, he still lives.’

  Luca’s head dropped. ‘They will hang us both.’

  Jordi spat out a mouthful of blood. ‘No, they will not.’

  But Luca’s prediction looked set to become a terrifying reality when the cell door opened and two guards entered, hauling the pair to their feet, one striking Jordi across the face when the Catalan made a disparaging remark about his large gut. Grinning, blood showing between his teeth and apparently without a care in the world, Jordi marched proudly from
the cell to face the town’s magistrate.

  Called a podestá, he was a noble with extensive knowledge of the law who administered both civil and criminal justice in Rometta. Unfortunately for the two defendants, he was also a close friend of the Carafa family.

  The ashen faces of Luca’s parents affected him deeply when he was led into the courtroom, a rather drab chamber with peeling walls adjacent to the town jail. It smelt of musty leather and did nothing to raise his spirits. Luca’s father, a man worn out by years of hard work for little reward, tried to speak to his son but was rudely forced back by the fat guard.

  On a raised platform sat the three judges: the podestá himself, Roger Fontana, the bruised and fuming Fabrizio Carafa, and a bored abbot from Messina who had the misfortune of passing through Rometta when he was stopped by the podestá and asked to sit in judgement on the two peasants that had assaulted an anointed knight.

  The charge was read out to the court to the accompaniment of the sobbing of Luca’s mother, a wizened woman in her late thirties who looked closer to sixty, the bench taking no notice of her obvious distress. On the face of it, the charge did not warrant a death sentence. An assault on a knight was a serious offence, but usually incurred a fine, perhaps the loss of a hand, a flogging and a short spell in prison. Capital punishment was reserved for the most serious crimes, such as murder, robbery, counterfeiting and sodomy. Even rape, which was considered a serious offence, was usually punished with a fine. But Luca saw the stern faces of the judges facing him and a chill went down his spine.

  The three men talked in whispers to each other for a few minutes before Sir Roger pointed at him and Jordi.

  ‘According to the decree of Pope Innocent, now sitting beside our Lord in heaven, rei publicae interest, ne criminal remaneant impunita, that is to say it is in the public interest that crimes do not go unpunished.’

  Fabrizio and the abbot flanking Sir Roger were nodding their heads.

  ‘When you assault one of the king’s knights, you assault the king himself. And as the king has been chosen by God to rule over his subjects, I interpret your heinous act to be an assault on God himself.’