‘Be grateful you are alive,’ she retorted. ‘He guided your steps to this nunnery. Think what might have happened if you had climbed the wall of an order whose habit had less commodious skirts. Bear that in mind if you ever have to seek refuge again in a convent.’
I heard her laugh, and she called out softly as we jolted away, ‘Avoid the Carmelites at all costs!’
We were stopped almost immediately we left the precinct of the convent. There was no conversation. Marco was too lowly a worker to protest or question why his cart was being searched. I squeezed my eyes shut and made as small a bundle of myself as possible. But the novice had judged correctly. Each barrel was opened and examined but the manure was only prodded lightly. Then we were free to pass.
Marco took his time. Whether it was his way not to be flustered or whether he did it so as not to attract suspicion I do not know. But the hour and more it took us to reach his house gave me time to think. And the more I deliberated on the day’s events the more unanswered questions there were for me to puzzle over.
My three pursuers were not common robbers waiting to ambush a lone unwary traveller. They had known who I was. Must have watched me travel that road in the morning and waited for my return. And how had they known that it was my custom to travel that particular road? As soon as I asked myself the question I knew the answer. The Romany. The small gypsy family who had camped there for the wife to give birth. Wherever he had gone he would have told that story – of the French officer who had forced him to move on with a new-born infant, and of the young man who rode with him yet understood the Romany customs and language. And Sandino, who had spies everywhere, would have nosed out my trail. Not enough to trace me through all the roads to the farmhouse at Kestra, but sufficient to get my scent and post a watch on that stretch of road to wait and see if I passed that way again.
They must have heard my approach. Yet they had not stretched a wire across the roadway that I would have blundered into it at speed. And the man who was their leader in this expedition had stopped them throwing rocks at me as I climbed the cliff. The priest in Ferrara had told me when I was a boy of nine, ‘He who holds this seal holds the Medici in the palm of his hand.’
But now I saw that it was about more than the seal that I carried around my neck. They had tracked me so far and for so long, and killed the Sinistro Scribe. It could only mean one thing. This was vendetta.
My life spared for this reason. My blood chilled as I thought of it. Now that I knew the identity of the man as a Medici I realized why I must be captured whole. It was necessary to their honour to have personal vengeance upon me. And when they caught me, which torture would they choose? The rack? Red-hot pincers to squeeze the flesh? Or the one favoured by the Medici and the Florentines – the strappado? Tied by the wrists, hoisted high, and then let fall. Time after time until every bone in your body is loosed and jolted from its socket.
But although I had evaded capture this time, where now could I go? If I tried to return to Milan I would be found. Although it was still under the rule of the French, the Medici had power and money to pay spies to watch the city gates.
I saw then that there was only one course of action open to me.
I must send a message to Felipe and the Maestro telling them what I was about to do. Some day I might meet up with them again and be able to explain that I’d had no choice but to give up my place at the university. Circumstances had decided that I should pay the debt I owed for the wrong I’d done in my boyhood. I must accept Paolo dell’Orte as my condottieri captain and become second in command of his men-at-arms.
I would don the crimson sash and ride out with the Bande Rosse.
PART SIX
THE BANDE ROSSE
Ferrara, 1510
Chapter Fifty-Eight
AS STRAIGHT AS an arrow flight, Via Emilia, the ancient Roman road, cuts across the great valley of the river Po.
And it was by this route, after an absence of seven years, that I entered the Romagna again. This time I rode boldly, with a body of mounted troops, towards the cities and the city states whose ownership was so bitterly disputed.
Beyond Bologna were the towns that Cesare Borgia had once efficiently and ruthlessly conquered. From his headquarters at Imola all the way to the Adriatic Sea, their names sounded out their bloodied history.
Faenza, where Astorre Manfredi, in order to save his town from being ransacked and his people killed, had agreed to join forces with Cesare and become one of the Borgia captains. Then, once lured from the safety of his own lands to Rome, he had been bound and thrown into the river Tiber.
On then to Forli, where the bold Caterina Sforza had defied the Borgia to the last. When his men captured her children they shouted to her to come to the walls of her citadel. They held them up for her to see, and threatened to kill them before her eyes. She had lifted her skirts and called out in response, ‘Do your worst. I have the means to make more!’
Senigallia, where I was when Cesare Borgia strangled his captains after pretending to forgive them.
It had been autumn that year too, I remembered. Terror and foraging troops meant that country people feared for their safety and never knew which overlord they had to look to for protection. In all these years their land had been fought over and contested when it could have given bounty to the poor. My master was right when he lamented the cost of war. But as we went south fruit hung heavy on the trees, and no doubt in the quieter places people got on with their lives, gathering their stores for the oncoming winter. In the villages such as the one where the dell’Ortes had lived, they hoped to avoid the troubles and continue with their lives.
Similar thoughts must have been in Paolo’s mind for he had his horse fall in beside me.
‘We are coming near to Perela, Matteo,’ he began.
‘I know this,’ I replied. And instinctively I knew also what his next words would be.
‘I would like to make a detour and go there.’
I said nothing. Which I suppose was not kind. It meant that he had to ask me outright then.
‘Will you come with me?’
‘Once there, what do you intend to do?’
He looked at me in surprise. ‘Why, nothing,’ he said. Then after a moment he went on, ‘Ah, I understand your hesitance. You think I might want to turn out whatever person has been installed in the keep to replace my father?’
I did not reply. I did not know what I thought about his plan to visit his childhood home. Only that I was unhappy at the idea of returning there.
We left our men at an inn not far from the main road. Paolo paid the landlord to provide a good meal and some wine, and gave his soldiers strict instructions not to annoy any of the serving women. We had no qualms at leaving them. For the most part they were a biddable bunch: young men like Stefano and Federico from the neighbourhood of Kestra, with hopes of glory and good fortune, glad to be away from the drudgery of farm work at this, the busiest time of the year.
Paolo and I then rode fast until we met the confluence of rivers that marked the place where we must cross the bridge to Perela. We went more slowly up the road to the keep. I saw him glance towards the gorge. Neither of us said anything. We both knew that there were wild animals in this area, and after so many years there would be no remains left of his mother and baby brother. I confess it was with a sense of relief that I saw that the keep was falling into ruin. The walls had tumbled down and the main door was no longer there, probably broken up for firewood. The locals must have quarried the available stone and no doubt carried off everything else of any value. The way in was open and unprotected. We rode through the archway and into the yard.
My heart stuttered in fear.
A raggedy tent was strung between two stakes and an old gypsy woman sat huddled next to a small bundle of burning twigs.
I turned my horse at once. ‘I will not stay here,’ I said.
To my surprise Paolo agreed with me. ‘There is nothing here for me now.’ He glanced aroun
d. The windows and doors were gone, as were most of the roof tiles. The house was open to the sky and the wind. ‘Why disturb this poor woman if it gives her some shelter for the winter?’
Back on the main road we made good progress on our way to rendezvous with Charles d’Enville and the French light horse.
The French commander had arraigned his detachment of the army outside Bologna. He was hoping to have an easy run to retake it. The Pope was desperately ill and it was known that the Bolognese would welcome French help to restore their former overlord. They favoured the Bentivoglio family as their rulers rather than any legate installed by the Holy Father. But when we arrived the news was not good. The Pope had risen from his sick bed, quit Rome and arrived in Bologna to inspire his troops. Not only would he vigorously resist any attack on Bologna, he was intent on driving his campaign forward. Now that he had secured the help of Venice he saw no reason why Ferrara too could not be overcome and the d’Este family dislodged from their place.
The Pope’s presence in Bologna put a different aspect on the situation. The weather had turned bitterly cold and the French troops wanted to be in a good billet for the winter, not waiting out in the field while the papal armies celebrated Christmas snug inside the city. Then messengers reported that the Venetians had sent an army to aid the Pope. The French were preparing to withdraw from their positions even as we arrived.
Paolo was heartbroken. He had been looking forward to some action, and had believed the stories that Bologna would be taken easily. He had promised our men that they would play a part in a major battle and that they would return home for the festival of the Epiphany laden with jewels and other booty.
Even Charles d’Enville was downcast. ‘This is what happened with the Venetians at Agnadello,’ he said. ‘A firm command is needed else we will retire as they did and be forced to fight on the run.’
We attached ourselves to Charles’s light horse unit and moved back north with the French troops. The papal armies mustered themselves and their allies and marched in pursuit.
The Pope’s aim was clear. He intended to wipe out Ferrara. His wish was for the Papacy to rule supreme, from Rome to the borders of Venice. But little Ferrara defied his intent. When the Pope learned that the French were now aiding Duke Alfonso his famous high temper showed itself and he yelled that he would make Ferrara a wasteland – not a stone left upon a stone. He would see the city in ruins rather than let it fall into the hands of the French.
Charles told us that the Pope had sent envoys to Ferrara to relay his threat. But the duke and the duchess had laughed in their faces. They had taken the papal envoy to view their fortifications and artillery and the duke had patted one of his cannon and said, ‘I will use this to send a message back to your Holy Father.’
The envoy had withdrawn in haste, fearing that the duke meant to fire him from his gun.
This story was one among the many told by the soldiers around the campfires at night. There were others, and, as may be expected, the ones concerning the fair Lucrezia were more outrageous. One wondered if there was any truth in them. It was said that she had bewitched Francesco Gonzaga, the Pope’s gonfaloniere, so much that he had offered free passage and safety for herself and her children should she choose to leave Ferrara. Charles had it on good authority from his uncle, who was a cousin to the king, that their spies had intercepted letters to that effect. Yet Lucrezia had not deserted her duchy. Rather, she stayed in Ferrara lending encouragement to the people.
During that grievous winter, as the towns around Ferrara were conquered, she had ridden out in the city with her ladies. Dressed in her best finery so that the populace could see her, the Duchess Lucrezia gave alms to the needy and comfits to the children. The townsfolk had been reassured by her calmness and steadfastness.
Through November and December the Pope’s divisions crept nearer. They took Sassuolo, then Concordia, towns allied to Ferrara. It seemed as though nothing could stop their advance. By Christmas they were encamped only thirty miles to the west of Ferrara and the Bande Rosse were sent to assist at the town they were besieging, a place called Mirandola.
In the early January of 1511 we encamped with Charles’s cavalry and the next day looked down upon the opposing forces.
We spotted the papal tent amidst the others, the flag with the crossed keys fluttering above it, surrounded by the blue and yellow banners of his Swiss Guard.
‘It is a ruse,’ Charles told us. ‘Our spies report that he sleeps in a rough hut so that the soldiers will see he suffers the privations of a winter campaign as they do.’
‘He sets a good example,’ I said. ‘Men will die for such a leader.’
‘He is not fit enough to mount his horse,’ said Charles. ‘Perhaps he will save us some trouble by dying first.’
‘May he perish at the point of my sword,’ declared Paolo.
‘He has piles. Therefore any point will seriously discommode him,’ Charles quipped, to much laughter.
But the indomitable old Pope recovered. Still unable to sit upon his horse, he insisted on being carried on a litter to watch the siege of Mirandola.
We waited. We were detailed to contain the flank. But we must only move against them if they launched an offensive.
Spies moved forwards and back among the enemy lines.
One morning in mid January we were told to prepare. Our target was massing in formation.
Then came a rider holding the message aloft and shouting, ‘They attack! They attack!’
Chapter Fifty-Nine
CHARLES RAN TO Paolo and me. He grasped our hands.
‘May your God go with you.’
His face was tense. He was thrilled at the prospect of the fight to come.
I too was excited. But my excitement was one of foreboding. I had an ill feeling in my bowels and a terror of running away. Was I a coward?
The alarums sounded in our camp, the drums rattled to call out our men.
The task of the Bande Rosse was to harry the foot soldiers here on this side of the siege. By attacking their flank we should draw their fire away from the town. If there was a breach, then it would give the defenders time to regroup and restore the damage. Our main target was a group of musketeers armed with heavy arquebus. The musketeers fired off deadly rounds of shot and were protected as they reloaded by ranks of pikemen. These pikes were six feet or more in length, and when massed into a schiltron almost impenetrable. It was hoped that the French light cavalry, led by Charles and supported by the Bande Rosse, unlike the heavily armoured knights on chargers, would be able to get in among them.
But this was our first battle. Charging with outthrust lances at sacks stuffed with straw and sword play with wooden blades had not truly prepared us for the noisy fearful thrill of a real engagement. Stefano and Federico moved their horses closer together, and almost without noticing Paolo and I did the same.
Mirandola lay before us. It looked small and vulnerable. The puffs of smoke from the artillery rose in the clear sky. The noise of the cannon carried to us on the frosty air. As we advanced forward we saw the extent of the massed army besieging the city. Rows of pikes glittered, their armour shone as they mustered and took formation, thousands of foot soldiers supported by light and heavy horse. I could identify Swiss, German and Venetian banners, with many other lords in their own livery.
Charles laughed. ‘We are in for a merry day.’ He drew his sword and kissed the blade.
‘To victory!’ he said.
At once Paolo followed suit.
‘To victory!’
I felt compelled to draw my own sword and do the same. ‘To victory,’ I said.
Paolo swung round in his saddle. He shouted louder to his men.
‘To victory!’
They drew their swords and a roar came from their throats. ‘To victory!’
We proceeded apace, keeping in time with the marching men who would follow us in after we charged.
On a rise above the battlefield we halted.
The ranks of the foot soldiers in the d’Este livery raised their banners and shouted together.
‘Ferrara! Ferrara!’
Charles moved his horse a little way in front of the line. In cavalry formation his light horsemen assembled behind their leader.
Paolo took his mark from Charles. He guided his own horse into position in front of our men.
I moved in beside him.
He turned and grinned at me.
My own throat was thick with fear.
Charles raised his sword high above his head. Before he brought it down to signal the charge he cried out.
‘For King Louis, and for France!’
Paolo kicked his heels to urge on his own mount. As his horse leaped forward he too raised his sword and cried out.
‘Dell’Orte!’ he shouted. ‘Dell’Orte!’
Our men took up the cry.
‘Dell’Orte! Dell’Orte!’
And I found that I was shouting as loud as all the rest.
‘Dell’Orte! Dell’Orte!’
Chapter Sixty
I HEARD THE thunderous roar of horses’ hooves, before me, behind me, around me.
The jangling harness, the sweating men. Some were crying, tears openly running on their cheeks as we charged. Some whooped in delight, in a madness of anger and excitement. The horses jostled for position, their hooves thudding on the hard ground. We descended upon our prey: ravenous wolves upon penned sheep.
We had the advantage of surprise. Their pikemen were still marching into place, bristling like hedgehogs, holding their long staffs.
Fifty yards . . . forty . . . thirty.
They turned with screams of terror, trying to rally into a defence formation.
We were upon them.
But their commander shouted an order and the rear line had time to obey.
Instead of rushing to aid their comrades, this back line drove their pikes into the earth. We could not stop our horses’ charge. The pikes were tilted, pointed at the horses’ bellies.
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