by Robyn Young
He decided to continue in the vein he’d opened when he’d met Marco on the riverbank; prove himself a useful source of information. ‘Did you hear the signore has arranged the betrothal of his daughter to the pope’s son?’
‘I think Signor Lorenzo has made sure all of Italy has heard this.’
‘And his son, Giovanni?’ Jack knew this fact was less well-known, the negotiations yet to be finalised. ‘He may become a cardinal? It seems the signore has grand plans for his empire.’
Marco’s eyes flicked to him. For a moment, Jack thought he’d caught his interest, but the young man simply smiled. ‘There are not many rules in this arena, Sir James. But one is that we do not discuss business here. Today is for merrymaking. Enjoy yourself. This is a chance for us to get to know you. Not what you know.’ Loud jeers broke his attention.
Jack sat back, frustrated, but knew he couldn’t push. If he appeared too eager, too insistent, he risked having this door closed in his face again. Following Marco’s gaze, he saw the captain of the Santo Spiritos hastening towards the net in front of their benches. He was clearly the focus of the jeers, but kept his head high, ignoring the taunts, some of which involved his mother. On the opposite end of the field, the captain of the Santa Maria Novellas was heading for the other net. The drummers were filing out, followed by the horsemen, all except one, who galloped into the centre between the two companies, holding aloft a leather ball.
The crowd fell into a hush, all eyes on the rider who dropped the ball in the sand, then urged his mount away, trapper flying, hooves scuffing up sand. The two companies faced one another, shoulders bunching, hands curling into fists, eyes narrowing. Jack found himself sitting forward, feeling the tension rising. The silence was shattered by the blast of a trumpet. Then, all was chaos.
The men on the field lunged at one another, fists swinging, and the crowds in the stalls leapt to their feet, bellowing. The ball was still in the sand, but the two companies were ignoring it, in favour of beating the life out of one another. A colossus of a man in the red hose of the Santa Maria Novellas had barrelled into one of the whites, tossing him over his shoulder. Seizing another by the hair, he rammed his knee into the man’s face. The burst of blood from his nose and mouth drove the crowd into a frenzy. Two whites set upon the colossus in retaliation, one kicking his leg out from under him, causing him to buckle to one knee, while the other punched him repeatedly in the face. All around the sand, men were smacking and jabbing, cuffing and shoving. The crowd’s excitement was infectious; the wild passion of the mob. Jack felt as though he’d been swept into a battle – but all thrill, no terror.
Suddenly, one of the reds – a beefy man, hairy as a bear – broke out of the fray and snatched up the ball. He ran down the field with it, several of his comrades running with him in a protective circle and five of the whites in pursuit. One of the whites punched out one of those defending him, got through the line, leapt to catch him, and missed. He landed hard, skidding across the ground on his stomach in a wave of sand. The captain was in the net yelling orders for his men to defend it, but to no avail. The beefy man approached him at a sprint, feinted right at the last moment, then, with a sweeping curl of his arm, tossed the ball into the net, which billowed back with the impact. The crowds beneath the standard of the golden sun went wild.
Jack, who had risen with Marco and the others, found himself cheering along with them, a fierce grin on his face – all thoughts of what he’d come here to do swept away on a tide of exhilaration.
‘Alesso! Alesso!’ the men were shouting.
Jack guessed that was the name of the man who had scored, for he turned to them in triumph, punching his fist into the air. The spectators down the other end of the field had gone quiet, bruised with defeat. But they were soon on their feet again, roaring insults and threats at the jubilant Santa Maria Novella supporters as the ball was slung back into the sand.
‘Are you enjoying our city, Sir James?’
Jack turned at the shout to see Luigi Donati’s lean face at his shoulder. ‘More so now!’
God, but it was true. He hadn’t felt like this in months, years even, not since the arena in Seville, or when he was a page in his father’s command. No questions, no riddles, no confusion about where he belonged. Part of a company, moving with the same purpose.
Luigi laughed appreciatively, then thrust his finger towards the field. ‘Alesso has the ball again!’
As Jack chanted the man’s name along with those around him Marco caught his eye and grinned. Alesso made it almost to the net, but was tackled at the last moment by one of the whites. They both went flying, a tumbling tangle of limbs. One of the reds grabbed the fallen ball, but was rocked off his feet by a vicious head-butt from another opponent.
More goals were scored by each team and more men went down. Lando was sent to fetch more drinks. Jack found himself gulping down the ale, throat stinging from all the yelling. He was on his fourth flagon when one of the players was crushed beneath two opponents and came up screaming, leg twisted at an improbable angle. There was a brief lull while he was carried off, spectators taking the opportunity to relieve themselves in a trench behind the stalls, the men on the field catching their breath, wiping sweat and blood from their faces.
The wind was picking up, sending sand spinning across the arena. Jack went to speak to Marco, but the man was turned from him, talking with someone else. As he sat back, he felt a hand fall on his shoulder. Looking round, he saw the well-built man in his middle years with the mane of grey hair. Marco had introduced him earlier, but in all the excitement Jack had forgotten his name.
‘Signor Marco tells me you’re a guest of Signor Lorenzo’s? From London?’
‘That’s right.’
The man had a rugged face and dark eyes that were hard to read. ‘I should like to hear more about your family’s business there.’
Jack glanced sideways at Marco, mindful of the man’s insistence that this place was for pleasure not business. Out on the field, the players were getting ready to begin the game again.
The man followed his gaze. ‘Not here. Come to my palace. We can drink and talk at ease.’ A faint smile curled his lip, but went no further.
After a moment, his name came back to Jack. Martelli. Signor Franco Martelli. At the same time, he realised the man seemed familiar.
‘I will send for you. I think we could be of help to one another, Sir James.’
The trumpet blared and the crowds roared in anticipation. Franco Martelli sat back, fixing his hard gaze on the field. All at once, Jack remembered where he’d seen him before. The party in the summer in the gardens of the palazzo, back when he’d first met Pico and Marco Valori. Martelli was the drunk man he’d seen arguing with Lorenzo de’ Medici.
As the ball was tossed across the sands and the two companies hurtled towards one another, Jack wondered what sort of help Martelli thought he could be.
21
The guns were the harbingers, announcing the assault in a ruinous blast, which shook the valley. Loja’s walls, scarred from months of bombardment, shuddered under the fresh onslaught. Now and then, the enemy’s guns would answer, their shot smashing into the hillside close to the Spanish artillery in bursts of mud and earth, or striking the screens that protected the cannons and the men working them. Most were deflected by the barriers, but one crashed through, knocking apart one of the platforms and crushing two gunners beneath the barrel of a fallen bombard.
Whatever jubilation the Moors might have felt was short-lived, for soon after a wide top section of Loja’s walls finally yielded to the assault and collapsed in a rumbling roar, chunks of masonry plummeting into the river. It wasn’t a low enough breach to allow the Spanish to enter, but it served to sow panic among the Moors, their white turbans glimpsed along the walkways as they raced to defend the rupture. While they were distracted, King Ferdinand, watching the assault with his royal troops, not far from one of the town’s gates, ordered the bastidas into position.
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The four wooden towers rolled slowly to life like drunken giants advancing in shuddering, swaying steps across the flat ground by the river, towards Loja’s walls. The skies, black with threat of rain since dawn, opened and rain came sweeping through the valley in blinding sheets. The men manning the bastidas panted, heaving on the ropes as the ground grew boggy, dragging at the towers’ wheels. Rain hammered off helmets and soaked through gambesons and brigandines.
The closer the towers came to the walls, the more treacherous the ground became, littered with blocks of masonry and spent shot, bolts that stuck up from the mud like splinters and the skewed bodies of defenders plucked from the walls, left to bloat and fester in clouds of flies. Edward Woodville’s archers moved in formation, shooting volleys of arrows up over the walls to provide cover. Harsh screams rose beyond, dim beneath the pummelling rain and the shouts of the Spanish commanders.
Harry, trapped inside his helm, his breaths echoing loudly, gripped his shield, holding it braced before him as he struggled on in the wake of the lurching towers, the earth churned by their passing. The rain had got inside his armour, soaking his gambeson which hung heavy on his body. The air was humid, even with the downpour, rivulets of sweat trickling down his cheeks. His feet caught in rubble and the rotting parts of men, discernible by the wisps of clothing that still clung to them like tattered flags. The slits of his visor had narrowed his vision to the mid-sections of the rolling towers and the pitted façade of the walls looming ahead, so he saw little of the things that separated beneath his boots.
All around him, a mass of men moved: infantry with halberds thrust before them in a moving wall of spikes, caballeros in their armour trudging through the mire, homicianos and peasants in leather tunics, daggers and clubs in their fists, some terrified, muttering prayers, others grinning savagely, eager to spill enemy blood – perhaps earn the favour of the king. Among them – though Harry had lost sight of them in the mob – were Rodrigo, Don Carlos and Don Luys with their men, battle-ready since dawn. Supported by the mass of infantry, Ferdinand had chosen some of his most experienced fighters to be the first over the walls. All of them, for the moment, were being covered by the skill of Woodville’s archers, but from here on they would be in range, exposed to enemy fire.
Harry’s narrowed vision picked out Woodville, not far ahead, bellowing orders, his surcoat, emblazoned with his coat of arms, clinging to his armour. The knight hadn’t yet donned his helm and his straw-blond hair was plastered to his scalp, rainwater spraying as he turned his head to yell for one company of archers to let fly another lethal storm as the first of the towers neared the walls. Harry’s heart thumped as he imagined a stray bolt pitching down from the walls to slam into the knight’s upturned face. Each step he took, the image grew clearer, stronger, until he realised he was murmuring out loud.
‘Strike him down. Strike him down!’
After he’d returned to the royal camp, liberated from the cave, everyone’s attention had been focused on preparations for the king’s major assault. But even in the midst of the planning, Edward Woodville had not forgotten him. Just last night, the eve of battle, the knight reminded him of his debt. When Loja fell he expected to be paid, not just in the blood of the infidel, but in the answers Harry owed him.
Since he’d left the Port of London, everything had conspired against Harry. From the storm-tossed seas and his own stupid mouth in the queen’s presence, offering up his sword for her war, to the weeks lost, fearing for his life, in that stinking cave. And Woodville: trailing him with his cold blue eyes, needling him with questions, pressing him with menaces. It had been months since Harry’s arrival in Spain and he couldn’t be further from achieving King Henry’s order to ingratiate himself with the king and queen, and prevent Columbus from getting those funds. He’d thought he would have a chance, here in the royal camp, to advance his purpose, but for Woodville, Ferdinand’s English champion, always in the way, thwarting him, threatening him.
When might King Henry tire of his ineffectiveness? When might he send another man to do this job, remove him of his position here and any chance at one in England?
I can unmake you.
The first bastida was at the walls, men clustering at its base, ready to ascend as those manning it buttressed the wheels with fallen blocks of stone. Woodville’s archers continued their onslaught, but the defenders were rallying. The breach had caused a distraction, but now bells were clanging, alerting men to the danger. Torches flared along the battlements, gusting in the wet as men came running to help their comrades. Crossbow quarrels lanced through arrow slits, punching into the mass of men below. Some of the bolts stuck in raised shields or thumped into the mud, but shrieks and cries rose, ragged above the tumult of rain and shouts, as barbs slammed into shoulders and heads. Harry, panting harder as he approached the killing zone, kept willing one to strike his nemesis.
Woodville’s archers were shooting valiantly, turning the sky black with arcs of arrows, but more were falling now, picked off their feet by the enemy’s bolts. Holding his shield above his head, teeth gritted for impact, Harry almost tripped on the body of one archer who’d gone down in front of him. Recovering his balance, he went to step over the corpse, then halted, eyes catching on the bolt. Ahead, not far, Woodville was roaring his orders as the first men streamed into the opening at the bottom of the bastida and began to climb the ladder within.
Fast and feverish, Harry had an idea. All around was havoc and noise. He crouched, armour flexing, reached out with his free hand and grasped the shaft of the quarrel.
Wolfbane.
Fist tightening around the shaft, he tugged the bolt from the archer’s twitching body. All Woodville’s focus was on the walls, eyes on the threat before him, no thoughts for his back. Harry fixed on the flesh of his neck, pale and vulnerable between the dripping strands of his hair. His mind panicked, baulked. A voice, strangely detached, asked if he was really going to do this? But he was rising now, the poisoned quarrel in his hand. It was unlikely he’d kill the man, not without precision and a huge amount of strength behind a blow, but perhaps a nick was all that was needed.
It infects any part of the body it pierces.
There was a seething sea of men moving between him and Woodville. Harry started forward, stepping over the corpse. The air was rent with sudden screams. Halting, jerking in the direction of the piercing sounds, Harry saw men tumbling out from the bastida. They were covered in some black substance. It took him a moment to realise it was boiling oil. The Moors had leapt on to the top of the tower and opened the hatch before the first fighters could emerge. Down inside it, they had poured a great cauldron of the steaming stuff. One of the Moors, picked off by one of Woodville’s archers, went spinning from the tower-top with a shriek, his body thumping to the ground, but it was too late for the men who had been inside the bastida, now rolling and flailing, clawing desperately at their skin, eyes wild whites in the black burning soup of their faces.
Harry was knocked and buffeted as men surged past him. He could hear Don Carlos’s voice booming somewhere close by. The other three towers had been heaved into position, men ducking inside to begin the climb. Woodville, directing his archers to continue their assault, was struggling towards one of them, hampered by the tide of men. It was now or never. Harry, weighed down by his armour, began to run. Before him, the world was narrowed to a slit of chaos, men screaming and dying, reeling from the battlements, men charging forward roaring battle-cries, swarming at the scarred walls.
Barrelling through anyone who got in his way, grunting with exertion, the shaft gripped in his fist, Harry came upon Woodville from behind. He raised the quarrel, meaning to jam the barb into the man’s neck, then keep on running – disguised by his helmet – and vanish in the anonymity of the mob. Woodville was before him. He could see the veins in the man’s temple, his mouth stretching for another roared command, a spray of blood painting his scarred cheek. At the last moment, Harry’s foot caught on something – a
nother body, a lump of masonry? He staggered forward, his hand flinging wide in a vain attempt at balance. He careened into Woodville, their breastplates clashing.
The knight was knocked off his feet by the impact. As he went down, Harry fell with him. His head struck something, the concussion ringing through his helm, the visor of which snapped free from one of its rivets. At the same time, he sensed something rush past him – part of his brain twitching at the danger – the thump of something punching into the mud beside him. As he turned, trying to right himself, he saw it was a crossbow bolt. A moment earlier and it would have buried itself in Woodville’s skull.
The knight, struggling to untangle himself, saw it too. His eyes widened on the quarrel, then flicked in surprise to Harry, lying half on top of him, his face exposed by the broken visor swinging uselessly from his helm. Harry rolled away. He still had the bolt in his hand, but it was too late. He dropped it.
Woodville scrabbled to his feet under a renewed volley by his archers, which sent the Moors beyond the battlements ducking for cover. His surcoat was soaked with mud. Tearing his gaze from Harry, the knight turned and ran for one of the bastidas. Harry crawled to his feet. He stared dumbly after Woodville, who disappeared inside the tower’s maw slinging his shield over his shoulder. Pushed and jostled by all those now following the knight, Harry found himself briefly face to face with Rodrigo, but the hidalgo, wild-eyed, battle-drunk, hardly seemed to recognise him. Tilting his head back, his visor swinging from his face like a metal flap of skin, Harry saw the hatch of the bastida burst open high above him.
Woodville emerged on the top, his blade flashing from its scabbard. He tackled the first man who leapt from the wall at him, sword scything the air. A brutal thrust of his blade and the Moor was felled, dropping from the tower like a stone. Woodville didn’t even bother to stab the second man who came at him, merely grabbed the man’s tunic, head-butted him in the face, then tossed him from the battlements. Then he was up and disappearing over the walls, followed by a host of Spanish fighters, erupting from the bastida like furious ants pouring from a nest. Beyond the walls, screams rose, punctuated by the clash of swords.
