God saved my life. God, and an unseen boatman coming down the canal the other way, asleep at his oars, or perhaps flirting with his passenger. His little gondola struck the cargo boat just as Black Scarf pulled the trigger on his weapon. The bolt passed between me and Marc-Antonio and killed a Savoyard who had just survived the plague.
Our bow ground into the cargo boat and I leaped over the gunwale, armed only with my wits. I had a dagger in my belt, but I was not so handy on boats that I could spare a hand for a weapon yet.
Marc-Antonio came with me; I felt him land on the cargo boat. Now don’t imagine a great round ship. This was a boat smaller than most fishing wherries, capable of carrying four passengers or a lot of rolled carpets. I went over the cargo, and the boat threatened to tip. The next bolt ripped along my inner thigh like a hot iron on my flesh. The pain was so intense that I fell, bounced, and caught my feet on the opposite gunwale, saving myself from an unwanted swim.
Black Scarf had an arming sword, a hand’s width broad at the grip and narrowing to a needle point. He cut at me, and he hit, slamming the blade into my shoulder and back and catching a little of my scalp. It all hurt. Then I turned, facing him, my feet still on the gunwale, and I got my dagger in my right hand – a long dagger with a heavy backbone. I’d drawn right-handed, with the blade down, and I covered his next blow with a sweep across my body, so that his cut came onto the backbone of the dagger, but he was too fast for me to accomplish anything. Anyway, I was balanced on the edge of a boat and had no place to put my feet.
I considered going into the water.
He tried a deception. He wanted me dead, but he was in a hurry and he was afraid. All men are afraid in combat, I suppose, except the stupid ones, but he was functioning and not thinking, if that makes sense, and instead of just pushing me into the water, he did something complicated.
You can’t deceive a dagger. I mean, I suppose maybe Fiore can, but not many other fighters. I didn’t have to think; the point of my dagger went into his sword hand while he rolled it left and right, trying to open my centre, I suppose.
Then I had his sword and he was dead. I went over him into the stern of his boat, and his other three bravos were running. But I was not alone; one of the Savoyards had got himself all the way onto the fondamenta, despite a month of poor food and no exercise. He picked up a candlestick and attacked one of the crossbowmen. And got him.
Marc-Antonio vaulted over the cargo and came down feet-first on another, breaking the man’s shoulder.
The third man dived into the canal.
What was I doing?
I was standing, as the wave of pain began to hit me. Black Scarf had landed a good blow. His cut hadn’t gone through the good wool of my old doublet, but it had gone into my scalp and everything hurt, and my left side hadn’t been working all that well to start with.
I sat suddenly, and it took an effort of will for me to stand up.
Our boatman slammed his steering oar into the swimming man’s head before I could demand that the man be captured.
It was a stout blow – the oar splintered, and the swimming man sank. He never came up.
Marc-Antonio had the only prisoner.
But an hour later, in the wet lower rooms of the palazzo, the prisoner, clearly terrified and badly injured, had admitted nothing. He claimed we’d attacked him, that he had been unloading furniture, and he claimed it with a conviction and a steadiness that made me doubt.
Vettor Pisani came with a dozen Arsenali. They took the man away and, before he’d left the room, Pisani reassured me.
‘He’s not Arsenali,’ Pisani said. ‘Not one of mine. And no one but an Arsenali may walk armed, much less carrying an arbalest.’ He had both of the weapons. ‘This one will swing, even if he talks.’
‘Not much incentive,’ I said.
Pisani shrugged. ‘He’s not Venetian. Can’t you hear him? Milanese.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re bleeding, young man,’ he said.
That evening, I moved the count to the Hospital. His boatman helped us. He was a Roland or Galahad among boatmen. He accepted that hiding the count from enemies was part of his duties, and we delivered two boxes of new glass panes – a real order from Murano – which our boatman went and fetched to give his errand complete verisimilitude. He smiled the whole time.
‘My father was a smuggler,’ he said. ‘I enjoy defying authority.’ This seemed an odd attitude for a man employed by the Count of Savoy. But I was not in a place to complain, and when I saw the count to a Hospital bed, with Musard there to guard him, I went to my little chamber. Sir John’s letter was there, waiting for me.
It is hard to explain. I had been afraid of it, and now I was not; or perhaps I was beyond fear. The blow to my head and shoulder had been as close to mortal as I ever need to come. It scared me every time I thought of it – made my insides turn over, made my hands tremble.
I popped the hawk seal on the letter with my thumbnail and unwrapped the outer layer, which was oiled linen, and then pulled open the inner parchment envelope which, I noted, was an old itinerary with numerous wormholes.
It was addressed to ‘Guglielmo d’Oro, Miles,’ which made me smile.
‘To my gracious and puissant lord, Guglielmo d’Oro, Lord of Methymna, Baron of Gorytos, greeting,’ it said. I smiled wryly, even with pain. The light was bad; I was allotted one taper to get myself to bed, and I needed more light. I went out into the corridor and there was a serving brother with a towel over his arm, clearly on his way to bed.
‘Brother,’ I said, stopping him, ‘do you think I could use the library at this hour?’
He grinned. ‘Prior is still up,’ he said. ‘He won’t mind.’
I went down the curving stairs from the monks’ hall and then crossed the little bridge to the library. Sure enough, the Prior of Venice was sitting in a fur-lined robe that had seen many better days, his bare feet up on a stool, reading from a scroll.
‘I have a perfectly good house,’ he said when he looked up. ‘But there are more candles here.’
I was meant to laugh, so I did. He waved me to a seat, and I pulled one up at the reading table, lit by two big oil lamps and a pair of candlesticks that would not have looked out of place in a great cathedral, all silver gilt.
‘There’s wine, if you want it,’ he said. ‘A good year, out there in the Veneto somewhere.’ He pointed at a pitcher on the sideboard, which by chance sat almost exactly below a small sign in carefully lettered Latin that demanded that neither food nor drink be consumed in the library.
I poured myself a glass. A real glass, as good or better than Bohemian glass. It was a pale green and very clear. I sat down at the table, wine in hand, and went back to Sir John’s letter.’
‘It is with every joy that we hear you are safely returned from Outremer and many deeds of arms conducted in the very face of the enemies of our Lord,’ he said. I smiled, as the Pope sometimes referred to John Hawkwood and mercenaries as the enemies of our Lord.
‘And we understand with pleasure that you continue in the service of that estimable and noble lord, Count Amadeus of Savoy, of noble fame! The count has never been our friend, and yet we hold him in the very highest estimation.’
I wasn’t sure exactly how to take that last. I drank wine.
‘I myself am not in service to any lord, great or humble, but lead a Free Company now; many men well known to you. We have elected to act together to protect ourselves from the depredations of our many enemies.’
That made me smile.
‘It is possible that in the spring we may be in a position to offer employment to all of our friends, but at this time, we fear that we cannot honour our obligation to you, which makes us all the more joyous to hear that you are in service to that noble Lord of Savoy. And we understand that you intend to accompany him to Rome, which service you may find arduous, so we recommend some caution. Even
in the south, where we are now, we have heard of certain men who seek to harm the noble count.
That was bald enough. And if John Hawkwood, ten days’ ride away, knew that the Prince of Achaea was attempting to kill the count, I needed to be even more cautious.
The truth is, the first attempt in the rain had been so haphazard and so like the temperamental, mad Camus, that I had assumed it was delivered in a rage. I had not yet assimilated the second attack, and the preparations they must have been making. Indeed, for the first time – and call me a fool if you will – I realised that nothing but the count’s sickness must have saved his life. They had been ready to murder him if he left the palazzo by water. And if Hawkwood knew enough to send me a warning … And the warning was, by then, ten or twelve days old.
The Prince of Achaea must have come to Venice intending to kill the count.
I sat back suddenly, and the prior looked up.
I shook my head and went back to the letter.
There was a flowery ending, full of empty Italian praise, done by a professional notary. Indeed, the whole letter bore the stamp of a scrivener: elegant Tuscan Italian and well-practised flourishes.
There was an enclosure. It was a small slip curled inside – paper, not vellum. I opened it and saw it was from Janet, whom I hadn’t seen in two years. I had requested that she send me something for Richard.
It said: ‘Guillaume — We are north of Naples, facing Albornoz. Sir John is afraid that everyone will know we are serving Milan in this; I think that everyone already knows. We are serving under Ambrogio; he can’t find his arse with both hands, and you should not come. And as to Richard, tell him I am not for him. And that I’m sorry. Show him this if you like.
‘Hawkwood says you are both serving Count Amadeus. I knew him as a child; you are fortunate. Stay with him. Do not come to Naples; it is like Hell come to earth.
‘Janet
‘P.S. And now I am reduced to writing letters and watching the money.’
I put the letter into my purse, finished my wine and crawled off to bed. The prior didn’t even raise his head. The hospital’s cat was an old, well-fed tom; he raised his head and gave me a look.
My shoulder hurt like fire in the morning, but the count was better, and announced that we were leaving in two days.
We left Venice on the eighth day of September. I was still recovering and, for the first time in a long time, my wound had become infected – the scalp wound, that is. I was lucky that Black Scarf’s cut hadn’t been delivered better, or I’d have been dead. Instead, I merely suffered from a fever and headaches.
Musard did most of the work. But he did it well; he knew how to lead a company as well as I, and although most of my men didn’t know him that well, they knew of him. We stayed a night in Chioggia and my hosts, the Corners, were amazed and delighted to host the Count of Savoy.
The count didn’t go anywhere, even Mass, without four armed men in maille attending him. We learned to be very close. I made them accept that the threat from the Prince of Achaea was real – that a murder attempt was possible. We used tasters, and we planned deceptions.
I left half the horses and a power of attorney with Matteo Corner, with instructions to pass it on to l’Angars when he was released from the Lazzaretto. To ride with the count I had six of my own lances, as well as half a dozen more archers under Rob Stone, all mounted on fine horses and with spares just as good. In addition, we had Sir Giannis and his stradiotes, or at least the eight who remained, as one had died at Corinth and one had just married a Greek girl in Venice. We also had Richard Musard and his squire, Georges Mayot and his squire, and a dozen pages and servants; altogether about forty men and eighty horses.
Most men turned north at Chioggia, rode across the causeway and then followed the river Adige northwards to Padua. Richard sent Sir Giannis and our horses that way, and the rest of us took a flatboat up the river. It cost a mint, but it was pleasant and fast. It allowed me to keep the count under cover.
We made Verona on the second day, and found Sir Giannis there before us, staying in a fine house in the countryside. I knew the town, and so did the count. He had good friends there among the della Scala – we had no need to hide him.
Father Angelo came into his own in Verona, as he was a della Scala himself, albeit of the cadet branch, and he knew everyone, and everyone knew him. He arranged lodgings for us all. Thanks to him, and to the count’s reputation, we stayed in the magnificent castello, all brick, almost new, where I had once almost been captured or killed. This time I was well received, or perhaps they didn’t know me at all. We were all fed by the tyrant, and he gave a fine feast for the count, although I suspect it had been intended for a religious festival, and our arrival was not as surprising as he suggested. Regardless, it was a fine fête, and we ate until we could barely walk.
I think I have said before that Verona is a beautiful city. Perhaps the fairest thing about it is its squares; there are several, and each leads on to the next through fine arches of worked stone. There are magnificent outdoor staircases, and balconies and porticos and colonnades at every level; it’s a little like Venice without water. So we dined in the square of the city hall, and then walked through a magnificent arch to where there were musicians outside a building with a magnificent facade, all frescoed, with a lower line of fretwork. And in that square we danced – fast Italian dances, unlike anything from England. The count led almost every dance, at the invitation of the della Scala, and we were not bereft of partners. Indeed, the women of Verona are second to none in beauty or dress. I danced with a Giulia and a Beatrice and an Esperanza and a Bianca and a Sabina; all five were clever, witty, and kind. Even Father Angelo danced, which surprised me, but he was at home, and these were his people, and through him I met many of the local gentry.
I was too long away from Emile. I should be ashamed to admit it, but I am a lovesome man, and I do like women. I like to dance with them, and I like to look at them, and months riding around Greece without women, and living with the Order’s monks in Venice, had not shown me the charms that Sabina showed in a single elegant turn of her head, or Giulia in a wave of her hand and a laugh.
I’m sure it’s all a sin, this admiration of women, but I will crib the great Aquinas and say that as women are God’s creation, the admiration of them can hardly be a sin.
Sadly, Marc-Antonio failed to keep his hands to himself and was almost killed. He was an aggressive lecher – we’d had words about it in the past – but at Verona he got a hand under someone’s kirtle and she was not agreeable.
I pulled a young man off my squire, and then had to take his dagger away from him and not break his arm. The girl was obviously shattered.
‘You will apologise,’ I said. ‘Get up.’
‘She …’ he began. ‘She invited me …’
Somehow this incensed me. One look at the girl and I could see that being groped by my squire had never been her intention.
He looked at me. My squire – my right hand. My trusted man, my friend. But he had done this before. I had not made a stand then, when I’d seen him grope the whore at the Lazzaretto …
‘You completely misunderstood her, you are an idiot, and you must beg her mercy,’ I said in Greek.
He flushed. He was angry, and he’d been hurt when the young man attacked him.
He managed a pretty good bow. ‘Madonna, I am devastated that I have been such a boor. I beg your pardon.’
The girl was crying. But she steadied herself. ‘I never …’ she said.
I looked around. We were under the loggia, the row of colonnaded arches; no one was looking.
I managed to catch the eye of Siora Giulia, who had just been my partner and who, I admit, I had abandoned. She was … cautious … about joining me in the relative darkness under the arches. But she came.
I turned her away. ‘My squire has made an arse of himself,�
� I said. ‘This poor lady …’
Giulia shook her head. She shot Marc-Antonio a basilisk glare and passed him as if he was carrion or dung and put her arms around the young woman. She walked the girl out from under the stairs, leaving us with the angry young man.
‘I want to fight him,’ the young Veronese said.
Marc-Antonio was no longer an overweight accountant trying to be a fighter. He was a man who’d been in twenty actions; he’d probably killed ten times or more.
‘No,’ I said. ‘He’ll kill you.’
‘I’m not afraid!’ shouted the young man.
‘Calm yourself,’ I said.
One of the della Scala officers appeared as if by magic. Later I learned that he was Lady Giulia’s knight; at the time I was delighted at his forbearance and rapid Veronese Italian. He took the young man away almost as efficiently as Siora Giulia had removed the young lady, with an admonition that we were preserving the young woman’s reputation.
When the man was gone, Marc-Antonio glared. ‘You didn’t even hear my side,’ he said.
‘You have no side,’ I said. ‘You attacked her.’
‘She was willing enough—’ he began.
‘That’s weak,’ I said. ‘She’s young enough that she hasn’t ever met a bastard like you. Now she has, she won’t go for walks …’
‘Most girls—’
‘I will kill you myself,’ I said. ‘Shut the fuck up.’
Yes, I was very angry. He was my squire, and I was responsible for him, and here he had very nearly committed a rape. I had to wonder how many other women had been as unwilling.
‘She didn’t say no!’ he said.
‘Did you let her say anything?’ I asked. ‘Don’t tell me.’
‘Even when they say no they mean yes—’
I hit him. I’m not particularly proud of it, but I’m not altogether ashamed either. Sometimes a blow does more than words to convey disapproval, especially to young men.
Sword of Justice Page 25
