Court of Wolves

by Robyn Young

  24

  Dawn was breaking, thin fingers of light pushing through the gaps in the shutters. Jack scanned the gloom, eyes moving over the hulking shapes of four catapults that stood along the far wall of the armoury. The wheels were propped beside the frames with the axles and boards of disassembled carts. On the floor were rolled field tents and thick coils of rope.

  All around the expansive chamber, which, along with the Medici Library, spanned most of the top floor of the palazzo, shields were banked up, decorated with the Medici arms. There were lines of spears and halberds, arquebuses and crossbows, swords and breastplates, helms and heaps of mail, glimmering in the half-light. It was enough to equip a small army, but all of it mottled grey with dust. There was no movement, no sign of life.

  Heading out, Jack’s gaze passed over the fresco that decorated one wall, depicting a battle, mounds of hills needled with cypress trees descending to a tangle of men, horses and swords. It was faded by time, the plaster cracking, but he could just pick out the faces, contorted in fury. He wondered if it was some ancient conflict of the Medici, back in the days when they fought their wars with weapons, rather than the cut and thrust of politics. A time when their struggles were perhaps simpler to understand, settled with the swift strike of a blade in the open. Not like now, in whispers behind closed doors. Even in the fight between York and Lancaster – family against family – Jack had known what side he was on, who he risked his life for and the God-blessed rightness of that cause. It was a long time since he’d felt such certainty.

  Moving down the passage, retracing his steps past the locked library and the couple of storerooms he’d already checked, he paused to listen. But the hush descended as soon as he stopped. Other than faint noises drifting up from the kitchens below, the top floor was silent. He reasoned it must have been something outside, or elsewhere in the palazzo that had woken him in the darkness; that what he’d imagined were footsteps and the creak of a door was his mind playing tricks.

  Returning to his room, he saw, now his eyes were accustomed to the gloom, that the door to the store cupboard where Amelot slept was ajar. Inside, her blanket lay in a heap and her grey cloak was gone from its nail. Often, she would slip out while he was sleeping, despite his warnings she shouldn’t go alone into the city after curfew. He had guessed from her narrow-eyed glares at his admonishments that she was still searching for Amaury. But for the past few weeks she had been disappearing more frequently, for longer. He wondered now if it might have been her he had heard in the passage. She knew not to go wandering about the palazzo, but she’d been acting strangely, more skittish than usual. Cursing, he abandoned the fading warmth of his bed in favour of the chilly silk of a doublet and his boots, and headed out to check for her.

  On the floor below he was surprised to find a flurry of activity around the kitchens, unusual for the early hour. Smells of food and the shimmer of lanterns seeped down the passage, shadows of servants hastening in and out of the pantries.

  ‘Sir James?’

  He turned to see Bertoldo approaching, trailed by two boys hauling a basket of logs between them.

  The chief steward’s eyes were red-rimmed, his face pillow-creased. ‘I am sorry if we woke you. The signora returned from Prato late last night.’

  ‘With Mistress Maddalena?’ Jack berated himself as the words jumped, quick and keen, from his mouth.

  Bertoldo, however, didn’t seem to notice the odd impertinence of his question. ‘Yes, a little earlier than expected. Caught us unawares. I can have food sent to your room, once they have broken their fast?’ Taking Jack’s silence for agreement, Bertoldo dipped his head and hurried on to the kitchens, pressing the boys to keep up.

  Jack turned for the stairs, the last vestiges of sleep slipping from him as he descended to the grand passages that connected the family’s quarters, passing servants hastening with armfuls of linen to dress the dining salon. He had been waiting for Maddalena to return, ever since the fateful dinner at Franco Martelli’s.

  That afternoon, after sneaking from Laora’s room, he had paced the streets, his mind in turmoil, troubled he might have found the enemy Lorenzo feared within his household – and all he could think of was the enemy’s lips on his.

  The lie he sensed Laora had told him the day of the quake; the fact her father – a member of the Court of Wolves and a man with clear reason to go against Lorenzo – had been arguing with the signore at the party, attracting everyone’s attention while she disappeared upstairs; her confession in the hush of her chamber – he has made me a thief and a liar – his questioning of this interrupted by her kiss? As Maddalena’s friend, Laora had easy entry to the private quarters of the Medici. There was access and there was motive.

  It was enough, Jack knew, to take to Lorenzo. Enough to bring him, after all these interminable months, closer to understanding what his father had been striving for and what his mother had died for. Enough to secure that promised gold for him and his men and to think on the path that might lie beyond. Ned, at least, would be a willing travelling companion. With his knowledge of the map and enough coin might they seek for themselves the lost land described by Plato and glimpsed by sailors on the Trinity that Lorenzo and his brethren were so keen to locate? Find the rewards – unimaginable – that might come with such discovery? Such thoughts, set flickering in him by Amerigo’s words at the feast, had been burning brighter, catching easily in his restless mind.

  But Laora had trusted him, confided in him. And, with that kiss, she had awoken something else in him. Something he wanted more of.

  In the end, shadows sliding up the buildings, whores stepping from darkened doorways, Jack decided that before he either took his suspicions to Lorenzo or confronted Laora again he would go to the one person who would know for certain if the girl had lied about where she was going that night. But when he returned to the palazzo, he had found Maddalena de’ Medici gone, left for Prato with her mother, to see a famous tailor who was to make the gowns for the girl’s wedding trousseau.

  In the wait for their return, the household preparing for Christmas – the season’s festivities enlivened by Maddalena’s betrothal and Giovanni’s anticipated entry into the College of Cardinals – Jack had found himself haunted by Laora. His days were spent mulling over their few conversations, trawling his memory for evidence to suggest she could be innocent, even if her father was not, or thinking of ways to accuse Martelli without implicating her. At night, his thoughts drifted to that moment in her room, her cool hands sliding over his, her lips rising to meet his, her mouth parting. The catch in her breath as he’d gripped her, pressing her against him. With each recollection the moment became more vivid, memory slipping into fantasy, wicking him with desire, leaving him sleepless and tense.

  His only relief in these restive days was the arrival of an invitation to a gathering of the Court of Wolves, which meant that at least his disagreement with Martelli hadn’t damaged his tentative standing with Marco and the company. From the message, stamped with the wolf’s head, Jack guessed it was what he’d been waiting for: an assembly to be held at the palazzo of one of the members across the river in Santo Spirito, at which his suitability for their company would be settled. Determined Amelot would survey it – wondering if he need involve Laora at all if the girl spotted Amaury’s abductor – he had told Ned to scout out a position from which she would be able to spy on the gathering. He just hoped, given her recent behaviour, she would be ready when the time came.

  Having seen no sign of Amelot in the palazzo’s corridors, Jack guessed she must be out on one of her nightly ventures. There would be time, later, to chide her. Now, he had more pressing concerns.

  The passage where Maddalena’s room was situated was quieter, a single torch flushing a marble bust of Cosimo de’ Medici – all hook nose and stern mouth – that glared at him as he approached. Despite the hush, Jack felt his tension rise, both at the prospect of being caught at the girl’s bedchamber and of the answer he was, on the one
hand, impatient for and, on the other, wasn’t sure he wanted. After checking to see if he could hear any voices within, he knocked.

  The door opened a few moments later and Maddalena peered out, her honey hair sleep-tousled. She started, surprised to see him standing there. ‘Sir James?’

  ‘Signora. I beg your pardon for the intrusion and the hour of it. But I need to speak to you.’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘It’s about Laora.’ He meant it to sound nonchalant – a passing question, light conversation. But now he was here at the girl’s room, off-bounds, need sharpening his tone, he realised it sounded anything but.

  Her eyes widened in concern. ‘Wait here,’ she told him, pushing the door to.

  He lingered in the passage, glancing up and down it, until the door opened and Maddalena ushered him in, a fur-trimmed cloak covering her nightgown.

  Jack had caught glimpses into the grand suites belonging to Piero and Giovanni when the servants were cleaning them, but had not seen into those of Lorenzo’s daughters. Maddalena’s chamber was much smaller than her brothers’, but nonetheless well-appointed, dominated by a four-poster bed, its satin curtains still partly closed. Several travelling chests stood in the centre of the room, clothes spilling from them.

  ‘What is it? Is Laora all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said quickly, turning to her. ‘She is fine.’

  Maddalena put a hand to her heart. ‘You scared me.’

  ‘I am sorry, signora. It really is a trifling matter.’

  Maddalena eyed him, unconvinced. She had changed these past few months since the banquet at Fiesole, where her betrothal had been announced to the republic’s elite. She wasn’t the weepy, frightened girl he’d seen being comforted by Laora. Her cheeks were still plump with girlhood, but there was a new bearing in her body and maturity in her tone; a sense she was trying to fill the role fashioned for her by adults. She moved to a cushioned chest at the foot of the bed and sat, looking up at him. ‘What is this matter?’

  He opted for an easy question to begin with. ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Oh, weeks ago. Before Mother took me to Prato.’ Maddalena sighed. ‘It feels like an age since we spoke. I have so much to tell her! I cannot imagine what it will be like when I am married.’ The smile slipped slightly.

  Jack nodded sympathetically. ‘Laora speaks so highly of you, signora. I am sure she will miss you too.’ He thought of the sorrow he’d glimpsed when Laora had spoken of Maddalena’s betrothal. Her sadness at the prospect of being parted from the Medici household and the girls she’d grown up with was all the more understandable now he’d seen into the dark, empty chambers of her own family. He had wondered if this – not an interest in his family’s business – had inspired Martelli to invite him to dinner? If he had been using Laora to spy on Lorenzo, then her position here would soon vanish. The question was had Martelli been working with the knowledge and consent of the Court of Wolves, or was it personal, spurred by his hatred of the man who had ruined him?

  ‘I see how much of a friend she’s been to you,’ Jack continued. ‘How she has stood at your side.’ He was wondering how to steer her towards the night of the party, when Maddalena cut in.

  ‘Sir James, why are you here? What is your interest in Laora?’ As soon as she uttered this her eyes widened again and he thought she’d somehow seen through his charade. Then she smiled, her hand rising to cover her mouth.

  ‘Signora . . .?’

  She was grinning conspiratorially now, sitting forward. ‘My cousins, Lorenzino and Giovanni are holding a party, a masked ball, for Epiphany. My father and mother don’t know, but I am planning to go. Laora said she would come. My sister, Lucrezia too. Will I see if I can secure you an invitation?’

  At once, he realised – the girl thought he was asking about Laora because he liked her. Those lips, a soft surprise on his. Her perfume filling his senses. What better opportunity would there be to catch her alone? In all the ways he now wanted to. ‘You would be doing me a great kindness, signora.’

  Maddalena sat back, smoothing out the folds of her cloak. ‘I really will miss her. Perhaps she could be my maid? When I am married?’

  ‘I think she would like that,’ he answered distractedly, poised to ask her the question he had come for. ‘Do you recall the party in June, signora?’

  Maddalena was frowning now. ‘Of course.’ She shook her head. ‘Her father was so angry. Did you see? He made a terrible fuss.’ Her voice lowered. ‘I thought he was going to strike my father!’

  Jack stared at her. ‘You saw the argument?’

  ‘Everyone saw it!’ Maddalena paused. ‘Well, not Laora. She left early. Her head was paining her. I am glad she wasn’t here to witness it. Everyone staring, whispering as Signor Franco was led away by my father’s guards. She would have been mortified.’

  ‘Indeed,’ murmured Jack, his heart beating so hard he felt sure Maddalena must hear it. At the sound of brisk footsteps passing in the passage, he looked round. ‘I should leave you to be about your day, signora. But thank you, for entertaining my enquiries.’

  Maddalena rose, smiling shrewdly. ‘I shall get word to you about the ball, Sir James. You will have to find yourself a mask.’

  In this city? How many there were to choose from.

  Several hours later, Jack was up in his room, his breakfast untouched congealing on the plate, mind loaded with the proof of Laora’s lie and thinking on what he should do next, when there was a knock at the door.

  A servant was outside. ‘Signor, one of your clerks is here to see you.’

  Descending to the inner courtyard, where the marble was bone white in the early morning sunlight, Jack was surprised to see David Foxley. The soldier had come in his disguise, blue woollen robes and a pair of spectacles balanced on his nose. His fringe was combed over the brand on his brow, but his grey hair was thinning and the felony mark was getting harder to hide. As David turned from studying the statue of his namesake, Jack saw at once from his expression that something was wrong.

  ‘Sir,’ greeted the soldier, playing his role. ‘You’re needed at the Fig.’

  Out in the street, away from the earshot of Rigo and the other guards who nodded as he left, Jack turned to David. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My brother and Valentine – they’re planning to leave.’

  ‘Leave?’ Jack took this in, not with surprise, but the heavy settling of something he had feared was coming. All their complaints these past months, their threats to walk away. ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. They’ve been saving some of the money Signor Lorenzo provides for provisions, bought weapons and armour.’

  ‘They’re going to Spain?’ Jack was surprised they’d managed to set aside enough for that journey, let alone the equipment, given how much all of them liked their drink.

  ‘Not Spain. They met a trader in arms two months back. He introduced them to a condottiero who captains a company in Venice.’

  ‘Mercenaries,’ murmured Jack. It made sense. The wars that had wreaked havoc across the Italian states might have paused, but there were always masters with a need for armed men, willing to get their hands bloody for a price. He searched David’s face. ‘Why are you telling me? Do they expect me to leave with them?’

  ‘No. But they’ve asked Ned and me to go.’

  Jack felt a stab of something. Resentment? Loss?

  ‘I said we should give it longer, at least until you’ve met the company, but I don’t think they’re willing.’

  Jack thought of the invitation in his room, the wolf’s head seal cracked open. If his companions weren’t here, how could he be certain Amelot would keep to her post and watch for Amaury’s abductor? Anger rose in him. Why now? When he might be about to enter the company? When he might have found, in Martelli, Lorenzo’s enemy? But his anger was hot bluster, no real substance. How could he blame them, when he’d walked them halfway across the west on a promise that had led to no more than a dingy tavern room?

>   The thought of them going curdled in him. Once this charade of his ended, what then? Even if he got what he came here for he’d have no friends to share it with, or join him on any onward journey. No one to watch his back, keep him company around the campfire nights, save for a wild mute girl and a head full of ghosts. His companions were gruff, hot-headed and hot-tempered, but they were still the closest thing he had left to family.

  ‘You should come with us, Jack,’ David prompted in his silence.

  ‘I can’t.’ Laora’s face in his mind, the mark of her father’s hand on her cheek. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then give us reason to stay.’

  On entering the lodgings in the tavern’s eaves, the drab room an uncomfortable reminder of the disparity of their living situations, his companions were surprised to see him.

  ‘Jack?’ questioned Ned, rising from the table where he was sharing a meagre breakfast with Adam and Valentine. He glanced from him to David. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’

  ‘So I see,’ Jack said, ignoring Titan barking happily at his feet, eyes on the sacks in the corner, from which poked sword hilts and the gleaming edges of armour. He saw, with a prickle of anger, his father’s sword among them, propped against the wall in its old scabbard.

  ‘You told him?’ Adam demanded of David, tossing the crust of bread he’d been chewing on the table.

  ‘He had a right to know, brother. We’ve come this far together.’

  Jack gave David a nod, grateful he had come to him – that he had one ally here. But he would have thought it would have been Ned. At least the large man had the decency to look guilty as he met his gaze.

  ‘We were going to tell you. We want you to join us,’ Ned added earnestly, although Valentine only grunted and Adam hadn’t yet taken his eyes off his brother.

  ‘Why now?’ Jack demanded. ‘When the Court of Wolves has invited me in?’ He had shared the news of this only a week ago, sitting here with a cup of ale, part of their circle. It all felt very different now.