by Robyn Young
They had talked through the afternoon while Jack had laboured, Amaury listening keenly to all that had happened since they met in Paris, over two years ago. Sometimes, the priest interrupted to ask questions or to clarify something himself, other times he repeated a question Jack had answered only moments ago, his mind like a butterfly alighting briefly on a subject before floating to the next, then back again. But much of the time he just listened, expressing sorrow at the fate of Prince Edward, anger over the loss of the map to Henry Tudor, eager interest at the signore’s plans and his pact for peace with Prince Djem.
He had been clearly troubled by Jack’s confirmation of Lorenzino and Giovanni di’ Pierfrancesco’s control of the Court of Wolves, their treachery against Lorenzo and intent to bring him down – some of which he’d discovered for himself during his incarceration. But he remained silent, contemplative, through Jack’s vocal frustrations at being manipulated by all these men. The signore. Marco Valori. His father.
‘And for what?’ Jack had demanded, pausing in his chiselling to suck blood from his knuckle and spit it out vehemently. ‘To make them all richer? Give them more power? I should have stayed in Sussex, laboured in a lord’s field for what little I’ve seen for my service.’
Out of everything he’d told the priest, however, the news that Amelot was alive and well in Florence had drawn the most emotion from Amaury, tears welling in his eyes as Jack told him she had never ceased in her search for him.
Another lump of stone and earth showered down, peppering the floor around them. Jack smelled cool night air, felt a mist of rain on his face. ‘We’re nearly there,’ he panted. A few more chunks like that and he would be able to squeeze through, pull the priest out after him.
Jack felt it before he heard it: a murmuring in the earth beneath his fingertips. For a moment, he thought it was another tremor, but the trembling quickly separated out into the rumble of hooves and wagon wheels approaching. His heart thumped as he heard voices breaking the hush. They were too far for him to hear what they were saying, but he guessed their time was up.
‘Here,’ he said, tossing the stone aside, holding out his hand to Amaury. ‘I think it’s wide enough.’ As the priest grabbed his hand, Jack strained to haul him up on to the barrel beside him, gasping with the effort. Amaury weighed little more than a bag of bones, but it was more than enough for his broken ribs to scream out.
As he grasped the priest around the waist, readying himself for the lift, Amaury clutched him in panicked confusion. ‘James, you have to go first! I cannot pull you out.’
‘It’s still too narrow for me. But you have to go,’ Jack pressed in as Amaury went to argue. ‘Get to Florence. Warn the signore. Can you make it?’
Amaury nodded, but he gripped Jack harder. ‘What you said earlier – about your father? That you had wasted these years following in his footsteps? That it had been for nothing?’
‘Amaury . . .!’
‘Do you know why I recruited your father into the Academy? What made me choose him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jack said, agitated. ‘His position under King Edward? His access to power?’
‘No, James. It was you.’
Jack, taken aback, released his grip on the priest.
‘We were at a feast, years ago, with the royal court in France, Sir Thomas and me. Your father had been talking about his family. He was homesick, I suppose, all those months away as ambassador, and, of course, the wine was flowing. Sir Thomas started telling me a story of his son. How he’d set up a target for his boy to practise with the sword while he was away – a man of straw, painted black like a Saracen.’
Jack’s mind flickered with images: him and Sir Thomas stuffing handfuls of straw into a pair of old hose, big hands and small working side by side, smell of fallen leaves and tang of wood-smoke. How old had he been? Seven? Eight?
‘He said he’d come home after months away to find this target still hanging from its perch, barely a mark upon it, and demanded to know why his son hadn’t been practising. His son declared that he had been practising, but not with this target. When Sir Thomas asked why, the boy had said because—’
‘Because he’s my friend,’ murmured Jack, amazed by the clarity of a memory that had sunk beneath the years long ago.
Amaury nodded. ‘The two of us laughed at that, but then Sir Thomas grew serious, said he had asked you how a Saracen could possibly be your friend. The enemy of Christendom? The ravagers of Constantinople? You told him you had been at a sermon where the priest had spoken of the glorious crusades against Islam, where the Christians had wrested Jerusalem from the infidel, bathing the streets in their blood. You asked your father why you should hate the Saracens when they had only been doing what had been done to them. Our conversation moved on, I cannot recall to what, but I could see that your question – naïve though it was – had resonated in him, plucking at strings I believe were already there. I assumed at the time, knowing nothing of you, that he’d been speaking of your brother, Harry.’
‘No,’ said Jack, his voice thick. ‘It was me.’
‘I guessed as much when I first met you. Of course, I was interested in Sir Thomas’s authority and his access to power, but it was what he revealed of himself in that conversation that first drew me to him as a man. His willingness to open his mind and heart to a simple question from the boy he loved. His willingness to look at the world through the eyes of innocence and wonder how it might be made different.’ Amaury let out a wheezing sigh. ‘We are men, James. Me, your father, Signor Lorenzo. We are not without flaws, tethered as we are to this world with our feet of clay. But we believe in an ideal, beyond ourselves and our petty desires, beyond faith and country. A dream of peace, which you yourself grasped at even as a boy. You talk of finding the truth, of needing to understand your father. Was he good? Was he bad? But you have searched by looking at his actions in isolation of meaning and by asking who or what he was to other men. Who was he to you, James?’ He nodded as Jack turned away, eyes stinging with grit and emotion. ‘I think your answers lie here.’ The priest prodded him hard in the chest. ‘I think they always have.’
Jack looked back at the priest, a thousand thoughts bubbling up in him, but there were voices on the air now, coming closer, the thud of booted feet descending the cellar stairs. They were out of time. ‘Go!’ he urged, lifting Amaury up, blinking away the dirt as the priest scrabbled, fighting his way through the narrow space. Then he was up and out.
Amaury reached down, grasped his hand, brief and tight. ‘Keep faith, James.’
Jumping down from the barrel, Jack heaved it away, as bolts rattled back and a key turned in the cellar door.
‘He’s in there? You are certain?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many guards?’
‘I told you. Two men. Three at most if Wynter is with them. Now may I leave?’
‘No. Not until we have him.’
Pico bit back his frustration as Mani turned to confer with his comrades in low tones. The five of them were all the same: thick-armed, gruff-voiced and humourless. Mercenaries. He had been with them since leaving Rome and wasn’t any more enamoured with them than when he’d first been placed in their company, or custody as was more accurate.
Pico leaned against the wall of the building they had concealed themselves behind, the wind plucking at his hair. It was growing dark, clouds scudding low across the sky, rolling in from the mountains. The air was cooler now, the heat having broken soon after the quake. He had lived in this city for years, walked its streets with Lorenzo and Poliziano and the men of the Academy, like young gods of ancient times, drunk with power and passion, mere mortals turning to watch them, eyes filling with awe. Now, it felt like a mausoleum, a twilight world of crumbled statues and lost dreams. If only Lorenzo had trusted him more. And if only you had trusted him, whispered a voice in his mind.
Along the street, further down from the building they were watching, the windows of a tavern glowed with candlel
it promise. He wished he could be back in the warmth of the bed he’d shared with Poliziano these past nights, not out here with these grim soldiers, the wine he’d drunk with his friend earlier that day sour in his mouth, his own breath smelling like betrayal.
It hadn’t been hard to coax what he needed out of his old lover. In his absence, it seemed the signore had opened up to Poliziano, drawing him back into his trust. Knowing, now, what he was looking for, Pico had only needed to employ a few steers and prods, innocent questions between caresses. Poliziano, back in his arms – happy, unwary – had confided in him, worrying that the signore was putting too much faith in James Wynter, who had been entrusted to guard a special asset – an Ottoman prince, no less. After that, Pico, accompanied by Mani, had trailed Wynter until they discovered where the Turk was being held.
Just words, Pico had tried to tell himself: that was all he had taken from his friend. But such reasoning was a child’s defence. He closed his eyes. He should have said no, back in Rome. Been bold as Socrates; drunk his hemlock like wine. Died a philosopher’s death. But His Holiness had made clear his fate if he refused the task, and the prospect of the pyre, promised for his crime of heresy, had weakened him with terror.
It was for the good of the Church, Innocent had assured him. Indeed, for the good of Christendom. With Prince Djem in his custody – with all the man’s valuable knowledge of his brother, Sultan Bayezid, his armies and country – he could begin preparations for a new holy war against Islam. Take back Jerusalem. Innocent had called him a hero, a champion of Christ. But Pico had other names for himself since he’d made the pact with the pontiff, names that jabbed at him in the wakeful dark, Poliziano’s head on his shoulder.
Coward. Traitor. Judas.
‘Who’s that?’
Pico pushed himself from the wall to see Mani pointing down the street towards the house they were watching, nestled between shops. A large man with a thatch of brown hair had emerged from the door, a little white dog trotting out at his side. It was Wynter’s man, Ned. He stood there for a while, looking up and down the street as though waiting for someone, the dog nosing in a pile of rubbish, before retreating back inside.
‘Just one of the guards,’ Pico murmured.
Mani nodded to the others. ‘We’ll take turns on watch. We go in at dawn.’
Amelot had been running since she left the city, feet pounding the rutted road, the few people she saw, mostly travellers hastening in before the gates were shut, staring as she sprinted past, head down and dogged. At first, her determination to keep up with the wagon – and the man inside it – had been her fuel, her legs eating up the miles. But, as the city walls fell back behind her, the bells ringing the curfew from the watchtowers, the land had risen ahead, gently at first, then more steeply, the road curving around hillsides dense with cypress. She was flagging now, lungs burning, muscles screaming.
Unable to go any further, she halted where the path tumbled away beside her into a valley of darkness, the glitter of firelight in distant villas winking like amber eyes. The air, green with pine, was filled with the hiss of branches in the wind. Rain, a fine mist at first, was falling harder now, dampening her face and hair. Somewhere in the wild heights an animal howled.
Having caught her breath, she bent and checked the trail. Her eyes had grown used to the gloom and in the pale shimmer of starlight, appearing and disappearing between ragged bands of cloud, she could see the tracks gouged in the path, made by wheels and hooves. Steeling herself, she ran on, down a long, sweeping hill, then up the punishing slope that rose almost immediately on the other side, but within another mile she was floundering again.
The forest was thicker here, shadows of trees rising all around, a harsh shriek and a flash of wings overhead. The clouds had covered the stars and rain needled her cheeks. She had been in cities surrounded by noise and people for so long that she had forgotten what it felt like to be out in the world. It made her think of her childhood, her family moving from one place to the next with the others of their company, the space between settlements filled with nights like these; jolting wagons and men’s steady words, the snorts of horses, warm blankets and her mother’s voice. At the thought a wave of loneliness engulfed her, cold and solid, threatening to drown her in emptiness. She fought back the tears for a few more paces, then collapsed against a tree, sliding down into the soft moss of its roots, sobbing bitterly. They had gone. Everyone had gone.
She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, eyes squeezed shut, shivering inside her cloak, but it had stopped raining by the time she looked up. The clouds had been scattered by the wind, leaving a sky dazzled with stars. There, visible in their frosty light, a figure was moving along the road, weaving slowly from side to side. Amelot’s first instinct was to run and hide, but she was concealed enough by the shadows and the figure made her curious; all spindle-armed and ragged, like a scarecrow come staggering out of a crop-field. As she watched, the figure stumbled another few yards, then buckled and went down in the middle of the road. She could hear wheezy breaths, the odd mournful moan. After a moment, curiosity got the better of her and she slipped closer, using the trees for cover.
Drawing near, she saw it was an elderly man, his gaunt body clad only in a tattered tunic. He was lying on his side, groaning in obvious pain. Suddenly, he raised an arm to the sky as if flinging out a desperate appeal to the stars above him, and cried out. Amelot heard the words – a prayer, spoken in French – at the same time as she saw the old man’s raised arm ended at the wrist. With a strangled shout she charged out of the undergrowth, swooping down on the man who yelped in alarm. Then, as his glazed eyes focused on her, he let out a cry of disbelieving joy, his good hand rising to touch her cheek, while she sobbed and cradled his face.
‘Oh, Amelot. My dear, Amelot.’
She was smiling and nodding, weeping as she held him. But, then, she saw it: something protruding from his back, long and thin, low down in his side. Fear gripped her heart as her fingers trailed towards it. His tunic was black and wet with blood. His face creased with pain as her fingers glanced across it. It was the shaft of a crossbow bolt, the rest wedged deep inside him. There was a low drumming in the earth.
Amaury’s hand tightened on her. ‘They’ve found me! Go! You must go!’
Ignoring his protests, Amelot seized him under his arms and dragged him towards the trees, steeling herself against his agonised cries. The thud of approaching hooves filled the air like thunder. Five riders emerged from the trees on the forest road, along the same path Amaury had staggered. She threw herself on top of the old man, covering them both with her cloak. From the thicket, she glimpsed men’s faces, the flash of bridles, bright gusts of torch flames. They hurtled on past, iron hooves kicking up stones, the trembling in the earth fading as they urged their mounts up the hillside, following the track towards the city.
Amelot waited until she could hear them no longer, then sat up, pushing threads of hair back from Amaury’s sweat-slick face, anxiously checking him with her hands. He fumbled out, grasped her wrist. His eyes were half-lidded. There was a black stain on his lips.
‘My dear,’ he breathed. ‘I must . . .’ He swallowed thickly, but when his lips parted and he tried to speak again, only a stream of blood trickled out.
‘Papa.’
Amelot spoke the word faintly, no more than a breath or a sigh, but Amaury’s eyes flickered open at the sound, filling with wonder. He raised his hand to touch her face, but the effort was too much and his arm flopped back. He drew in one long, shuddering breath, then closed his eyes, his head lolling back on the grass. Amelot sank down with him, darkness enveloping them in its mantle, the stars flickering like a million cold candles above them.
39
They marched him through the grounds of the estate, wind whipping his hair, buildings looming, pale in the starlight. As Jack was led towards arched doors, he heard shouts at his back and twisted to see men fanning out in the darkness. Had they discovered Amaury’s e
scape? The two guards holding him, ignoring the commotion, forced him through into a torchlit passage, cracked tiled floor and lime-washed walls yellow with age.
Passing a doorway, which opened into a spacious chamber, Jack glimpsed figures congregated around a table, some seated, others standing. A few of them glanced up as he passed. He caught sight of Marco Valori, his cloak dark with rain. There were others he recognised, familiar faces from the Court of Wolves. Now the veil had been torn from his eyes, these men – daggers and swords at their hips, silver wolves pinned to their chests – no longer looked like a company of young men questing for wealth and opportunity, but a private army, waiting for orders.
Marched on down the passage, he was thrust inside a kitchen. A dying fire smouldered in a great stone hearth, illuminating trestles and boards scattered with knives and platters, vegetable peelings and rinds of cheese. The smell of food tormented him. He hadn’t eaten in days. The guards sat him on the flagged floor, pulled his hands behind his back, binding them around the leg of a table, before trussing his ankles, the rope grazing his skin. When he was secured, one of the guards left the kitchen, while the other stood sentry. In the silence, Jack heard the fading throb of horses’ hooves. He prayed Amaury would elude them.
Boots clicked off the tiles in the passage, several pairs, coming closer. Jack swallowed dryly, desperate for a drink. Three men entered first. One was the guard, returning. The other two were Lorenzino and Giovanni di’ Pierfrancesco de’ Medici. Behind them came Marco Valori, gripping a slim figure by the arm. It was Laora.
Shock flooded Jack as he saw the source of Valori’s threat. ‘You son of a bitch,’ he murmured.
‘I warned you, Jack,’ replied the young man, his voice low.
Laora’s face was pallid and her cropped hair clung damply to her head, but apart from a reddish bruise that coloured one cheek she seemed unhurt. As she saw him, bound on the floor, her hazel eyes widened, but as they led her closer he thought he saw relief there too.
