Court of Wolves

by Robyn Young

  Harry had tugged the dagger free from the guard’s belt and, having slashed away the last strands of rope from his wrist, was sawing frantically at those around his ankles. The Spaniard was watching him wide-eyed, nodding in encouragement, wrists out for his turn. Then, as quickly as they’d come, the arrows ceased. Moments later, a horn sounded, followed by wild cries. A horde of men came charging around the side of the hill on to the outcrop, fighting the Moors as they came; clubs swinging into heads with bursts of blood, blades clashing. Overwhelming the first few lines, they stormed into the camp.

  The Moors turned their crossbows on the incoming men, but although the first bolts picked off a few, the rest were on them in moments. They rose to meet them, using the bows as weapons, smashing them into faces, breaking jaws. Harry saw several knights in Woodville’s colours among the leather brigandines of the Spanish. There, too, was el Barbero. The soldier, having broken a Moor’s nose with a vicious back-thrust of his sword pommel, kicked the man to his knees. He swung his blade in a mighty arc, carving clean through the Moor’s neck. The man’s head flopped on to his shoulder, throat severed almost all the way through, blood spurting up in gouts, bathing the Barber in a red rain.

  At last, Harry cut himself free. He staggered to his feet, clutching the dagger, ignoring the pleas of the tethered Spaniard. The Moors were retreating, but fighting as they came, edging back towards him. There was a wall of them between him and the Spanish. The Smiler was among them in the fray, swinging his spiked club with devastating force. Turning with a shout, the brute set off at a loping run, some of his men closing the gap behind him and continuing to fight, others going with him.

  Harry had backed away, leaving the Spaniard, who yelled in terror as the Moors came, raising his bound hands for mercy. The Smiler cuffed him brutally aside with a swing of the club, barely breaking his stride. Harry looked desperately around him – the ravine to one side, sheer rock face to the other, and, behind, an animal track which clearly the Moors intended to flee by. He could run, but knew in his weakened state they would be on him in moments. He gripped the dagger, holding its ridiculous shortness before him.

  Lord, help me!

  There were screams from the last line of the enemy as Woodville’s knights carved through them. A flurry of motion and they were on the fleeing Moors. The Smiler was launching back his club to take a swipe at Harry, when he was caught, mid-swing, the tip of a blade punching through his throat. Blood spewed from his mouth as the blade was withdrawn with a twist. The club fell from his fingers. He followed it a moment later, knees impacting the stone. Behind him, blade slick with blood, stood Edward Woodville. The knight was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, his face wet and red in the scattered light of the fires. He kicked at the Moor, who toppled sideways.

  At the sight of his captor lying there, rage surged through Harry, bursting up through his relief. Tossing aside the knife he held, he ran to the dying Moor, now choking on his own blood. Straddling the man, he wrenched his jewelled dagger free from the man’s belt and began stabbing the blade into any bit of flesh he could find, yelling as he did so, all the fear and humiliation he’d felt these past weeks powering every strike. Then, his wrist was caught.

  ‘It is done.’

  Harry sat back, gasping for air, the metal taste of blood in his mouth. The Moor’s face and neck were a pulpy mess of ruined flesh. One eye was gone and most of his lips. The man would smile no more. Legs shaking, Harry rose. The sounds of fighting had ended. The prisoners were being released from the cave, stumbling out, exclaiming as they saw their countrymen. Embers of fires glowed across the outcrop, like candles around the strewn dead.

  Harry turned to Edward Woodville. ‘Thank you.’ His voice came out as a whisper. As he looked around at the camp’s disarray, seeking water for his parched throat, Woodville caught his arm.

  The knight’s grim expression was unchanged. His sword was still in his other hand, blood dripping from the blade. ‘You owe me. To repay that debt you’ll give me what I want. You understand?’

  As Woodville’s grip tightened in question, something passed through Harry: a hot streak of defiance. The last man who’d threatened him was dead on the ground behind him. He looked the knight full in the eye. ‘I told you the day these bastards took me – told you everything I know. I believe Richard killed your nephews. What more can I say?’

  Woodville paused at his tone, but his eyes narrowed again. ‘Your brother then. He knows something. Why else would Henry be hunting the bastard son of a dead knight?’

  ‘As I said—’

  Woodville let go of his arm and jabbed a finger towards him. ‘I don’t believe what you said. I think James Wynter is still alive. And you’re going to tell me where I can find him.’

  ‘Sir!’

  Woodville glanced round as one of his knights hailed him. Giving Harry a last look, he moved off.

  ‘Sir Harry?’

  Harry turned to see Rodrigo. The hidalgo was covered in blood. Little of it looked to be his own. He wore a strange expression. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Harry shook his head, trying to move off, but Rodrigo stepped in front of him.

  ‘Who were you speaking of?’

  ‘My brother – half-brother. Sir Edward has an issue with him. It is nothing of consequence.’ Harry guessed his face told another story, for Rodrigo’s questioning – almost hostile – expression didn’t change. ‘How did you find me?’

  The furrows in Rodrigo’s brow remained, but he answered. ‘We captured one of the Moors from the field, took him back to our camp when we realised some of our men had been seized. Eventually, he told us about this place. These men were survivors of a garrison our forces overran last year. It seems they’ve been out here collecting Christians to sell as slaves in North Africa.’

  Harry swallowed weakly.

  ‘Come,’ the hidalgo said after a pause. ‘We need to move out. Before we left, the king declared he was ready to mount a full assault on Loja.’

  As Harry, bare feet sliding in the spilled blood of his captors, walked with Rodrigo to where Don Carlos was ordering the troops to help the wounded on to horses, he caught sight of Edward Woodville mounting up with his men. The knight met his gaze, his blue eyes full of threat.

  20

  The change of season came violently to Florence, storm clouds towering over the mountains in the humid heat of late September. Thunder rolled down from the hills, splitting the air and trembling through the church bells. A whip of lightning struck the dome of Santa Maria de Fiore, another blasted through the roof of a bookseller’s in Santa Croce, setting the place ablaze and bringing out the men of the district in lines, hauling water from the river to stop the fire spreading.

  The rains followed, downpours that turned the dust and dung-covered streets into channels of viscous slime that sucked at shoes, trapped cartwheels and stank. The Arno swelled to roar between the bridges, its waters full of broken branches, splintered timbers and bloated bodies of cattle swept down from upriver. People were more generous with their offerings and more fervent in their prayers, wondering if – along with the earthquakes and the plague – the storms were a portent of God’s displeasure with the republic. In San Marco one Sunday in early October, Fra Savonarola preached a formidable sermon against luxury that was talked about for days afterwards.

  Jack, back in the palazzo after Lorenzo’s banquet, watched the change in the weather and waited. Each morning as he opened the shutters of his room to see the terrace dashed with rain and the clouds hanging low over the towers, he hoped for word from Marco Valori. Each evening he asked Rigo or one of the other guards if any message had come and his disappointment would rise with the shakes of their heads.

  In these empty days, rain hammering on the roof and into the inner courtyards, trickling down the faces of statues, he found little to occupy himself and his thoughts turned often to the man chained in the room three floors below, his presence like a tune he couldn’t get out
of his head. Jack was certain the man was the source of the prayer he’d heard, convinced, too, that this was the secret Pico thought Lorenzo and Marsilio were hiding: a Muslim – clearly no slave – locked in the heart of the palace. But who he was and why he was being held in Lorenzo’s sanctum remained a mystery he could not hope to solve without giving away his trespass. He had wondered about confiding in Ned and David, but worried a confession Lorenzo was keeping an enemy of Christendom in state in his private chambers would only add to his companions’ growing frustrations at his continuing charade, with no sign yet of any reward.

  Whatever sense he thought he had of the Academy and their intentions seemed more obscure than ever. Every thread he picked at just seemed to tighten the knots. Unable to shake the fear that he was slipping further away from what he’d come to this city in search of, Jack had determined to speak to Lorenzo, but when the signore returned from Fiesole he was all but unreachable, shut away in meetings or out in the city on business. Since word spread of Maddalena’s engagement, the palace was inundated with more notaries, secretaries and sycophants than ever. Messages buzzed between Florence and Rome as arrangements were made for a spectacular betrothal feast to be held at the palazzo in several months’ time, after Christmas and Carnival. Lorenzo, not missing an opportunity to make some political capital, sent heralds throughout the republic to announce it. In the brief audience Jack had been granted, Lorenzo had told him, in no uncertain terms, that until he made some advance into the Court of Wolves there was nothing for them to talk about.

  As the weeks passed, Jack started to feel as though he were back in Seville, guarding the map. The endless wait for his father to come, to keep his word: I will explain everything. The deepening fear he never would. Part of him wanted to stuff his few belongings into his bag and walk out of the palazzo, let this maze he was trapped in collapse around him. He would learn to forget the past few years of his life, go to Spain with his men, or anywhere, abandon the hope of what Lorenzo had promised. But he knew he wasn’t ready to give it up. Not yet.

  Then, late in October, the city preparing for the feasts of All Hallows and All Souls, the message had come. Two days later, the first in weeks without rain, Jack had set out from the palazzo into the dazzle of a bright, windy afternoon, following its instructions.

  He held the letter crumpled in his fist as he made towards the Porta al Prato, the air throbbing with the pulse of drums. Up ahead, a parade of men on horseback was funnelling out through the gate, the drummers marching behind them. The riders’ tunics were emblazoned with the coats of arms of two of the city’s quarters: a golden sun for Santa Maria Novella, the Medici quarter, and a white dove for Santo Spirito across the river. Great standards hoisted above them bore the same symbols, while smaller banners showed off the arms of the four gonfaloni each district was split into – a gaudy mix of vipers, dragons, unicorns and lions.

  The crowds grew denser as Jack neared the gate; a jostle of sweaty bodies and raucous laughter. The sound was deafening, but more overwhelming was the feel of it: a wild excitement like a storm charge. Jack felt it in himself – a fizzing in his chest and stomach that made him want to shout or laugh.

  He had heard people speak of calcio – the kick-game, as Fra Vito translated for him – but other than the fact it sounded like the games of football he’d seen played in Sussex, he didn’t know what to expect, only that half the city seemed to want to be a part of it. There were flags draped from many of the balconies he passed beneath, men, even a few women, leaning out to cheer or boo whichever team they supported.

  Ahead, beyond the gates, in a wide open field, wooden stalls with tiers of benches built into them had been erected around a large rectangle of sand. Jack, filing in with the rowdy mob beneath flags dancing in the wind, past rows of traders selling ale and roast pork, was reminded of Diego’s arena in Seville. He saw himself punching Estevan Carrillo, the rough roar of the men of Triana ringing in his ears as the arrogant nobleman went down in the dust. Seeing the setting – the sand raked and ready – brought back that old thrill. He realised he’d missed it. His weekly duels with Ned on the riverbank were no substitute for the violent release of a real fight, the feeling – dancing along the blade of death – of being truly alive.

  Once inside he paused, men flowing around him as he opened the letter, creased and warm from his hand, the wax seal with its imprint of a wolf’s head cracking.

  The stalls by the standard of Santa Maria Novella.

  The horsemen who had led the parade had split into two companies, one taking the standard with the golden sun to the far end of the field, the other moving to the end closest to him, bearing the white dove. At each of these opposite ends a net was positioned, attached to poles thrust into the sand. The drummers had fanned out and were pounding away over the din of those filling the stalls. Making his way down the field, sand caking his boots, Jack realised what a disparate mix of men were gathered here. The mob he’d been moving in had mostly been made up of rough-faced workers – wool-washers, carders, tanners – but around the arena he now saw the garish mantles, doublets and hats of the elite. One such group had taken up most of the front rows of benches behind the far net, beneath the golden sun. Among them, Marco Valori.

  As Jack approached, Marco saw him and beckoned him in. Jack threaded his way along the benches to meet him, men rising to let him pass. ‘Signor Marco.’

  Marco stood and grasped his hand, a smile creasing his face. ‘Sir James.’ He edged up, allowing him to sit beside him. ‘I’m glad you could come.’

  ‘I was glad to get the invitation!’ Jack had to yell to make himself heard. Back in the summer, when Marco hinted at a meeting with his brethren, this wasn’t what he’d envisaged. How was he supposed to find out anything useful – make any headway into the company – in this storm of noise? ‘Are your brothers here?’

  Marco chuckled. ‘Look around!’

  Following his gaze, Jack realised that the men crowding the benches around and behind him, although a variety of ages, with some more sumptuously dressed than others, had one thing in common: a silver wolf’s head badge pinned to their doublets or cloaks. There were dozens – no, scores of them. He was surrounded by the Court of Wolves.

  ‘Signor Franco Martelli.’ Marco was motioning to a man seated behind Jack – muscular, in his middle years, with a mane of greying hair flowing from beneath a jewelled cap. ‘Signor Luigi Donati.’ A younger man with olive skin and a lean, rather sly face. ‘Signor Stefano di Parri. Signor Pacino Nardi.’

  Some of those closest to Jack shook his hand as they were introduced, others merely nodded before turning back to conversations. He tried to hold their names in his head, but as Marco continued to reel them off amid the clamour, he gave up. His eyes caught again on the badges. A glittering pack of wolves. Had one or more of these men been involved in Amaury’s abduction? He wished he’d brought Amelot with him to see if she recognised any of them, but he’d been uncertain what he was walking into and hadn’t wanted the girl’s unpredictability to distract him. He would have to secure himself an invitation to another such gathering, find a way to bring her and Ned along.

  ‘Is this your first meeting?’ Jack asked Marco, once the introductions were done. ‘Since your return to the city?’

  ‘We’ve had a few forums.’ Marco leaned forward to hail one of the men further down the row. ‘Drinks, Lando! Before we die of thirst!’ As a few of the others hooted in agreement, Marco sat back, his dark blue eyes fixing on Jack. ‘I take it you have never been to a game of calcio before?’ When Jack shook his head, the young man grinned and spread his hand to the sands. ‘Welcome, then, to the theatre of blood.’

  Some of those close by, catching this, laughed appreciatively.

  ‘We’ll crush those doves today!’ roared Luigi, which set off a fresh round of cheers and thunderous foot stamping across the benches.

  ‘Here they come!’ shouted someone.

  The crowds in the stalls rose in a wave of
sound as two lines of men came jogging on to the sands. All were bare-chested and bare-footed, just a pair of hose to cover their modesty – one set red, the other white. Some were huge, mountains of muscled flesh. Others were lean, sinewy, loping in easy strides down the field. Jack counted twenty-seven in each company as they split away, heading for the centre of the field. The drums beat a tattoo as they faced one another. Two men, gold braid belting their hose, strode up and down the two lines, gesturing as they addressed the men.

  ‘The captains,’ Marco shouted in Jack’s ear. ‘They’ll move into the nets when the game begins. Direct their men from there.’

  ‘Direct them to do what?’

  ‘Get the ball into the net of the opposite team of course.’ Marco grinned. ‘By any means necessary. Whichever side scores the most wins the game.’

  ‘You all support the same company?’ Jack looked back at the rows of men behind him.

  ‘Well, Signor Stefano has worrying tendencies towards Santa Croce.’ Valori chuckled as Stefano, in earshot, shot him a glare. ‘But, yes. We support Santa Maria Novella.’

  ‘You’re all from the quarter then?’

  ‘Our patrons are.’

  ‘Patrons?’ This was the first Jack had heard of any hierarchy in the company. ‘Your founders?’

  ‘Ah, here comes Lando.’

  More applause rose as Lando returned, followed by boys bearing fistfuls of flagons, ale slopping over the rims. As the drinks were passed down the rows, Jack took one gratefully. It was a chilly day, but packed in with these men he felt hot. He lifted his flagon to Marco. ‘Your health.’

  ‘And yours.’

  Jack drank deep, his mind working. It might not be the best environment, but after all this time waiting he was damned if he’d leave here today without something he could use to his advantage. David’s quiet words to him last night in the Fig came back to him. Make this work, Jack. He needed, at least, to secure a second invite: create an opportunity for Amelot – and, perhaps, for himself. Lorenzo might hold tight to his secrets, but no doubt his adversaries would be freer with the truth.