by Robyn Young
‘Who is he? I may have heard of his deeds, if not his name?’
‘He’s from Genoa apparently. I heard of him recently while seeking new business opportunities for my masters in Spain.’ Amerigo looked at Lorenzino and Giovanni as he spoke. ‘It is said this sailor believes that by sailing west from Portugal he can reach the Spice Islands. He is currently seeking funds from the monarchs of Spain for such a voyage.’
Jack’s interest was sparked. Amaury had spoken of this sailor. What had the priest said? That if the man attempted such a voyage he would surely find New Eden first?
There are factions who would carve up the world for themselves, careless of the cost. We are on a path to darkness, all of us.
‘I’ve been trying to find out more about him,’ Amerigo continued. ‘But all I know is that he crewed for a Genoese company shipping supplies of mastic to England, that he spent time in Lisbon and may have worked the seas off Thule on a fishing vessel.’
‘What interests you in him?’ Jack asked. As he thought of the map and that strange new coastline seen by the Bristol sailors of the Trinity, he felt a shift inside him. He wasn’t just some actor playing a role; or a nobody no one wanted to talk to. There was real power in his own truth. That map had been in his hands, entrusted to him by his father. It had endangered him, yes, and had led directly to his mother’s death, but the fact was – for a time – he had been in control of something desired and fought over by some of the most powerful men in Christendom. Didn’t that mean something?
‘What interests me?’ Amerigo said with a surprised bark of laughter. ‘Imagine – a new route to those islands, just over our horizon? No need to challenge the Turks? A path, all our own, to the greatest concentrations of spices, perfumes, silks, pearls, gems and gold in the world? Any man who succeeded in finding it could become richer than the pope!’ He took a gulp of wine, as if to temper his fervour. ‘One of my uncles is commander of a fleet of ships that patrols the waters off our coast. Several of my cousins are also seamen. The ocean runs like blood in the veins of my family, but my father, a lawyer, wanted me to follow in his footsteps.’ Amerigo set the goblet down, slowly twisting it on its base. ‘All my life I have dreamed of horizons and those who have sailed into them, undaunted.’
Jack thought of Ned, turning those shells in his hands. We know there’s something out there.
‘Marco Polo,’ continued Amerigo, ‘Prester John, the Vivaldi Brothers, Prince Henry of Viseu, navigating his way down the African coast. Imagine what you would feel being the first man to set foot on a land not yet known? Like Adam, at the dawn of the world, no?’ His dark eyes reflected the glitter of candlelight.
Amerigo’s intensity was infectious. Faint skeins of stories his father had told trailed Jack’s mind: of the golden cities of the far east, of lands with mountains made of gems, the air dusted with the perfume of a thousand spices, of men like Prester John disappearing into the depths of Africa, seeking new roads to the Orient, rumours they were now kings of other worlds. ‘Have you heard of Antillia?’ he asked Amerigo, forgetting himself. ‘The Island of the Seven Cities? It is said to disappear whenever sailors get too close. Or Hy-Brasil?’
As the man went to answer, eyes lighting up at the question, Lorenzo’s voice sounded, harsh above the hum of voices. ‘Master Amerigo, perhaps you ought to spend your time focusing on your own business? Or, more importantly, the business of my cousins, which is what you are employed in my household for. Not idle gossip or children’s stories.’
The hall had fallen silent, the only sounds the footsteps of a servant and the slosh of wine in a glass. All eyes were on Amerigo. Jack saw the man’s hand had turned white around his goblet.
After a pause, Amerigo cleared his throat and rose. ‘Of course, signore. Forgive me.’
The silence dragged on. Finally, Lorenzo threw down his napkin. ‘Let us take some air. Sweets will be served shortly, with wine from my grandfather’s store.’
The company clattered back to life, men groaning as they stood, patting their stomachs, ladies taking the moment to dab perfume behind their ears. Amerigo was one of the first up heading for the doors, the goblet still gripped in his fist. Jack followed, keen to be out in the fresh air, realising just how close he’d come to speaking of things he shouldn’t.
As he passed through the doors, he saw Lorenzino di’ Pierfrancesco had slipped out with Amerigo. The two men were walking down the passage, heading for the torchlit gardens.
‘What was that about?’ Lorenzino asked Amerigo.
‘Nothing. It was nothing.’
Lorenzino’s voice lowered, but Jack caught the words. ‘All that talk of family? I do not know how you can even stand to sit at his table, my friend, after all he has done to yours.’
‘Sir James?’
Jack turned to see one of the ushers.
‘The signore would like to speak to you.’
He lay on the floor, panting. Smoke curled into his nose and mouth; poisonous, searing streams, filling his throat and lungs. His wrists and ankles worked uselessly against his bonds, the ropes rubbing his skin to blood. He was trying to grab a knife that had fallen somewhere close by, but his fingers just scratched at dirt. Heat buffeted him, the roar of flames at his back unrelenting. Then, everything fell silent.
His hands and feet were free. He sat up. A strange song was rising and falling. A chant? A prayer? There – in the shadows – a young boy, appearing and disappearing in the smoke. The boy’s eyes were closed. He was singing.
There were three ravens in a tree, they were black as black could be.
One bird turned and asked his mate, where shall we our breakfast take?
Down in the long grass in yonder field, there lies a knight slain ’neath his shield . . .
He recoiled as the boy’s eyes opened. They were empty – two orbs filled with nothing but darkness. The boy stretched out a hand, pointing. He turned, heart thrumming. The world behind him was still on fire. The hunting lodge where he’d been struggling, moments before, the woods beyond, the sky – all of it was burning. But in silence. In the midst of the fire he saw a figure, hunched and huge, a devil in the flames, crouched over a body. A white mask covered one side of its face. The body on the floor was a woman. His mother. The creature had one hand wrapped around her throat. As he tried to run forward, to save her, the savage heat forced him back. He could do nothing but watch as the figure reached up and lifted the mask, revealing the face of Lorenzo de’ Medici.
Jack jolted round, tangled in the damp sheets. He lay there, swallowing at the dryness in his mouth, sweat trickling down his face. After a moment, he sat up. He’d had the dream many times, but had not seen the boy before. The song was familiar though: a favourite of Prince Edward’s. Sometimes, the man in the mask was his father, other times it was Harry. Lorenzo was a new face for the horror.
The room was in darkness, the air close. Tugging off the clinging sheet, Jack rose, the bare boards cool beneath his feet. He crossed to the window and pushed open the shutters, the cool air a blessing. He closed his eyes. Too soon. The image of the masked figure pinning his mother in the flames was still imprinted in his mind. He gripped the sill, the stone solid beneath his fingers.
Back in Lewes, three years ago, his clothes still dusted with ash where he’d rushed into the charred ruin of his home, yelling his mother’s name, Grace had tried to comfort him, telling him the coroner said it would have been quick – the smoke, not the flames. But that was before she found the body of old Arnold, his father’s lawyer, strangled in his home by Sixtus’s brutes; before Jack had come face to face with the masked man who admitted to his mother’s murder; before Amaury had told him that same man had tortured Amelot.
Jack had often thought of his mother’s terror – the pain those men could have inflicted in their interrogations. But, after coming so close to burning alive at the hands of his own brother, his mind had seized on the one truth he did know: her remains had been found in the heart of a fire. A
nd, now, those visions of her death, powered by his own experience, had become even more potent. Had she been alive when the flames took hold? Felt the furious heat stripping the air from her lungs, burning her hair, melting her skin?
He focused on the piping of night birds in the cypress trees that surrounded the villa, a motionless army of shadows. The sky above him was black, star-glistered, but a faint blue tinge in the east over the distant mountains spoke of dawn. Apart from the birds, everything was silent. He glanced back at the bed, but didn’t want to retreat to its dishevelled dampness, risk a return to the dream. Besides which, he was wide awake. How long before the household was up and about? Hours, he suspected, given how late the party had gone on: long after he’d retreated to his room, lying awake in the dark, listening to hoots of laughter and drunken singing, stumbling feet and the shattering of a glass, the soft rising cries of a woman in pleasure.
Going to the stool where he’d discarded his clothes, he pulled his boots on over his hose and struggled into his shirt and doublet. Enough of this room, stale with his sweat. He would walk the gardens and watch the sunrise, enjoy the sweet air before he was sent back down to the city, which would no doubt be shortly, given Pico’s absence and Lorenzo’s displeasure at his carelessness. The signore had questioned him intently on what he and Amerigo had spoken about and whether he’d revealed anything he shouldn’t have. Jack had answered distractedly, his thoughts on the murmured comment he’d heard Lorenzino make to the clerk. What, he wondered, had Lorenzo done to Amerigo’s family?
Another thread for the knot.
The villa was hushed and still. Statues filled the ends of hallways with suggestions of figures, making Jack halt and stare into the darkness to check for movement. He didn’t fancy bumping into Black Martin or any of the others if they were patrolling. He had spoken only rarely to Lorenzo’s bodyguards, but had the impression they would all likely strike first, then ask questions.
Down the next flight of stairs, he paused. Below, the passageway was brighter, candlelight bleeding from somewhere. Hearing voices, he descended cautiously. Once down, he followed the guttering light along the hallway towards the reception hall, beyond which was the door to the gardens. Odours of spiced meat lingered, trapped in the air. He’d not indulged his appetite at the feast and his stomach growled at the smell. One of the hall’s double doors was ajar. The voices were louder now. Servants? Jack wondered if he might get some leftover food.
Reaching the doors, he peered in. The hall stretched into a dull gold dusk, lit by melted stubs of candles sputtering in their holders. Sitting alone at the top table, bathed in shifting shadows, were Lorenzo and Angelo Poliziano.
‘It seems a lifetime, no? Since we talked like this.’ Lorenzo sounded tired, his voice heavy with drink. His head was propped on his hand, elbow on the table. ‘Do you remember those nights? When poetry dripped like honey from our tongues? And dreams took flight before us?’ He swept his free hand in an arc through the air, sending the candles aflutter. ‘Soaring. Wondrous.’
‘Lives have seasons, my friend.’ Poliziano’s tone was soft. ‘They change.’
‘But not ours, Poliziano. Surely not ours?’ As Jack watched, Lorenzo reached out and touched the younger man’s cheek. ‘If that was summer then let us go back. This winter freezes my heart.’
Footsteps echoed. Jack started back as the two men looked towards the doors.
‘That will be the wine,’ he heard Lorenzo say. ‘Just one more drink. For me.’
‘For you, signore.’
Jack saw a shadow on the passage wall, coming closer. Hastening to the door that led to the gardens, he gingerly slid back the bolt and slipped outside, closing it quietly behind him.
Keeping to the shadows, he moved away from the house, the murmur of voices through the open shutters fading behind him. Preoccupied, he descended the steps to the lower buildings, across the wide darkness of the lawn, past the stables and down to the lower gardens where he and Laora had talked. Phantom trees crowded the shadows, a green bite of pine in the air. The trill of nightingales accompanied him as he headed for a stone bench among the roses and box hedges.
Sitting, he glanced back up towards the villa, which loomed against the sky, the windows of the hall glowing faintly like golden eyes. His mind filled with the image of Lorenzo and Poliziano bathed in candlelight, heads so close they were almost touching. Men were more familiar here than they were in England, but even so, the moment had seemed weighted with more than mere brotherly affection. More secrets. More questions.
He fixed instead on something tangible – the distant mountains, clearer now in the lightening sky. Beneath, in the valley, watch-fires burned low on the towers of the city walls. Beyond, spires and domes of churches rose, ghost-grey in the blue of early dawn. In the hush, Jack’s thoughts returned to the dinner and his conversation with Amerigo. Their talk may have been cut short, but the man’s feverish words had sparked something in him, a fire set flickering in the corner of his mind.
Amerigo and this sailor he’d spoken of might be interested in the wealth of the Spice Islands, but the men of the Academy believed something else lay between here and there. Their New Eden. Worth more to them than gold or riches. He had been concentrating on finding out why this lost land was so important to them. So important, his father had stolen the map from the Trinity and sent him away to Seville with it, unaware of the danger he carried. So important, the pope ordered those men to retrieve it, at the cost of his mother’s life. Important enough for Harry to deliver it, along with Prince Edward, into the hands of Henry Tudor. In its brief time in his care, the map had changed his life completely. Even though it was gone, Jack felt it was still somehow with him, inked under his skin like lines of fortune, their fates entwined. Maybe he shouldn’t be focused on the why, but the where?
Lorenzo had offered him a sizeable sum in gold, if he succeeded in entering the Court of Wolves and helped him root out whoever could have read that letter and taken Amaury. Enough gold to go anywhere he and his men wished. Jack saw in his mind that coastline; oak gall on vellum, disappearing off the edges. Saw his father’s words, written in the hours before his death.
I pray you have found the answers I could not give you.
That the Needle has pointed the way.
Might the map itself have been a legacy? A legacy his father, in entrusting it to him, had intended for him? And, even though it was lost to him, could the simple knowledge – that something was out there – be enough to obtain that inheritance?
Kings of other worlds.
He was distracted by voices and the crunch of footsteps. Looking back towards the villa, Jack saw the flare of a torch on the sides of the building, the shadows of men moving in it. He heard the gruff tones of Black Martin. Closer, there was a rustle of leaves, footsteps thudding softly towards him, muffled breaths. Movement to his right. A figure appeared and dropped down behind a bush, a bag swinging from his shoulders. Even in the gloom, Jack – hidden by the rose bushes – recognised him. It was Pico.
The young man, clearly not so sick after all, was dressed in black. Pico crouched there for a moment, eyes on the guards moving in the pool of torchlight above. As they rounded the corner of the villa, voices fading, he slipped away through the gardens, heading for the steps that led down through the olive groves to the road below. Jack kept his eyes on the slim figure, descending quickly between the aisles of trees. After a pause, he rose and followed.
17
They made their way south into the mountains, streamers of flame gusting from their torches. It was late August and the men said the weather would soon be turning, but Harry could see no sign of it yet. Out here in the wilderness, far from Loja’s verdant valley, the sun had burned away everything, leaving a crusty scab of a landscape, choked with dust, rivers just lifeless dribbles, grass withered and brown. It didn’t seemed like they would have a job to do at all, until on the third day, just after dawn, they came down through a rocky defile and the land
opened before them on to a wide plain, awash with a golden sea of wheat.
Don Carlos, whom the king had set in charge of the tala, ordered a group of knights towards a series of buildings clustered around a mill beyond the crop fields. As they spurred their horses away, cutting arrows through the corn, Don Carlos relayed commands to the rest of the company. Rodrigo and his men, Harry among them, were sent to the eastern edge of the fields in charge of fifty infantrymen, all brandishing torches. Another band went west and one north, the foot soldiers holding the flaming brands aloft to keep them from the corn, waist height in places, the stalks beginning to bend with ripeness.
After the long rest in the camp, Harry found Nieve unusually sprightly, the plump white mare trotting eagerly at pace with Rodrigo’s piebald courser. A haze of corn dust rose around him, speckling his armour like ash. ‘It seems a waste to burn it all.’
‘The longer we stay in the field at Loja, the more exposed to attack we become.’ Rodrigo’s black eyes swept the crops as he spoke. ‘By destroying their food supplies we lessen the enemy’s ability to come at us in any strength of numbers.’
‘I just wonder if we could take it for ourselves?’
‘It would take too long and too many men to harvest and transport it. There is too much risk.’
Harry detected a flatness to the man’s tone. Rodrigo, he knew, had been disappointed to have been assigned to the tala. In the wake of the attack on the king’s scouting company, it was the war-seasoned Marquis of Cádiz who had been granted the honour of heading north to hunt down the enemy archers and pay them back in blood, while Don Carlos and his forces were sent south, following reports of an abundance of corn two days’ ride away. Harry had been secretly relieved to have been assigned to the less hazardous task, but his relief had been short-lived when he discovered Edward Woodville would accompany Don Carlos with a number of his men.
