The Powder of Death

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘That will not be necessary at this time,’ Sforza came back smoothly. ‘But there are two things more – the first, I’d advise a poignard to be carried about you at all times.’ He lifted his tunic to reveal the gleaming hilt of his own.

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘Learn the Italian fluently. If not tomorrow, then by the next day. It may save your life.’

  The buoyant mood that he’d had at their progress had evaporated and he went on in a sombre voice, ‘You have seen enough to know that it is the most favourable to us of any situation. Kindly do your part and I’ll do mine.’

  The next day Sforza was his old self again, urbane, considerate and dignified. ‘We have an agreement.’

  ‘May I know of it?’ Jared asked.

  ‘For the provision of not less than fifty gunnes of a power capable of slaying a man at a hundred paces we receive, well, a considerable sum on the Frescobaldi Bianchi of Florence in gold florins. Together with an advance of one quarter of the sum, and a handsome provision for your subsistence and workshop expenses.’

  ‘Ah. The workshop. I thought that—’

  ‘An entire smithy and its workers has been taken in hand and turned over to you to conduct matters to your satisfaction, its materials and running costs to the account of the signore.’

  ‘Where will I live?’

  ‘A town house and servants close by the palazzo will be assigned to you for the duration of the works. And to allay your anxieties further, I’ve been able to make an arrangement that satisfies more than one condition.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The signore has specified that at the same time as the gunnes are being made, a body of men be taught their operation.’

  A look remarkably like that of smugness briefly appeared. ‘And for these I know where I can go.

  ‘First you must understand that it is the practice in Italy, including Arezzo, to forswear maintaining an army. It’s expensive and needs quartering between wars. Instead, prosperous cities hire in their soldiers who can be dismissed at the peace. These mercenary bands are then unemployed, roaming and pillaging unless bought off. They call themselves free companies and we find some mainly German, others Gascon, still others from Navarre.

  ‘To our advantage there are several English free companies and I suggest that a middling-level band be approached with an offer to train as gunne-people with us. They stand to win constant employment for little danger and will have a war skill that will soon be most lucrative. This is to the one side. To the other is that the captain of the band will interpret for you in the workshop and elsewhere until you have the Italian, but more to your liking will be that he and his band will be your protectors and allies. And dare I say it, a friend to you in a strange place.’

  ‘But are you not my friend?’

  ‘Our friendship is of the highest value to me,’ Sforza replied loftily. ‘But alas, my duty to the House of Barnwell calls me away to my customary responsibilities. After we have settled here I must be on my way. For financial and other matters I have appointed a trusted merchant to act for me – and for yourself, of course.’

  He gave a broad smile. ‘Shall we now inspect your lodgings? Should they not be to your satisfaction …’

  CHAPTER 62

  To Jared it was princely: a substantial three-storey house with an upper balcony fronting on to a sloping paved street that efficiently carried away the filth of urban living. The lower storey for his work, the middle for his entertaining and the upper for repose.

  His staff stood in a line before him. A page, two servants and a cook, together with a housekeeper.

  ‘Messer Jared,’ Sforza said, hiding a glimmer of a smile, ‘this is Giannina di Ferrara. She will see to your comfort and rule the house.’

  The striking dark-haired young girl stepped out from the line, dressed in a simple gown and apron.

  ‘It is my honour to serve you, chiarissimo Jared,’ she said, her eyes downcast prettily.

  ‘You speak English?’ he asked, delighted.

  Sforza looked pleased with himself. ‘With much diligence I looked to find you one with your tongue. She comes from a half-English family of Emilia-Romagna. You will be safe in her hands, I believe.’

  ‘These quarters will do, I find,’ Jared said quickly, adding awkwardly, ‘It’s much to my taste.’

  The girl looked up and there was no mistaking the dancing light in her eyes.

  ‘Then we should find your baggage. Tonight we will be dining with the signore, a great privilege and distinction.’

  CHAPTER 63

  It was a warm evening and Jared was grateful for the cool passage of air as they rode together into the countryside, a detachment of menat- arms jingling behind. Sforza said nothing, his eyes on the winding, dusty road as they passed by well-tended olive groves in the soft violet light.

  The villa was set in a fold of hills looking down over a broad plain, a sprawl of buildings in soft browns, slender towers, an enormous square ornamental pond – as unlike an English grey-grim castle as anything that Jared could have imagined.

  They were met and their dusty riding cloaks removed before being conducted to the gathering assembly in the gardens above the pond. Flaming braziers banished the gloom at either end, adding their ruddy glare to the portable candelabras and picking out the richness of the garments of the guests.

  At the centre of an animated group was the signore in dark-blue robes embroidered with gold and silver. Next to him bearing a haughty expression was a lady wearing rich garments and an ornate pearl collar and necklace.

  He broke off his conversation with an extravagantly attired young man when he saw them approach and Sforza lost no time in paying his obeisance.

  The cruel face eased and words of welcome were bestowed. The contessa awarded them an inclination of the head and they made their escape into the crush.

  ‘That was Cosima,’ Sforza muttered. ‘She bore him six sons and won’t let any forget. Butter her up well with all the recognition and honours of rank and you’ll get by.’

  ‘Ah! Sforza, you cunning old toad. I was looking for you.’ A suave and affable figure in impossibly tight hose took him by the arm and steered him away, leaving Jared to stand foolishly with a fixed smile as the throng surged about him.

  Several young ladies came up, eyeing his decidedly un-magnificent attire and giggling, making fun of him until Sforza returned to shoo them away.

  The pure sound of trumpets in harmony came from the left. ‘We enter for dinner,’ Sforza announced. ‘Stay by me!’

  The scene in the hall was breathtaking. The high table dominated with lavish crystal and silver table furniture on a white cloth strewn with flowers. Gold-threaded tapestries hung behind on the wall. At each end lesser tables were set at right angles to form an enclosing ‘U’ shape. Discreetly on both sides were lengthy sideboards groaning with dishes of food.

  Malatesta stood at the centre of the high table nodding and murmuring pleasantly as the guests filed in to the sweet sounds from the musicians’ loft above. Struck dumb with awe, Jared followed Sforza.

  They were to take places of honour to the right of the signore and he found himself between Sforza and an unsmiling churchman of some kind.

  In front of him was laid a silver spoon and a carved wooden plate with a trencher of bread atop, and to his right was a flagon of wine. He gave a weak smile at the cleric, who stared at him then looked away in contempt.

  Never in his life had he felt so inadequate, especially with the occasional curious glances from the some hundred guests at the lesser tables.

  The trumpets sounded again and the signore held up both his hands until the babble had died. Then he glanced significantly at the prelate who proceeded to say grace in imperious tones.

  The hubbub began again as finger bowls were brought around and out of sight a sprightly melody was picked out on lute and shawm. Sforza leant over and filled Jared’s goblet, exquisitely crafted of translucent swirled green glass.

/>   ‘Serve the bishop, then,’ he hissed.

  Clumsily Jared manipulated his flagon around and said in English, ‘M’ lord, some wine?’

  He received only a venomous look and a hand placed over the glass.

  Sforza sensed his discomfort and said loudly, ‘The bishop resents our presence at high-table. He’s a prig and a Guelph.’

  It took Jared a moment to catch on that it had been said in English and thus not a soul in the room apart from themselves was in a position to understand.

  On impulse he leant forward with a smile and bowed his head obsequiously to the man, who sniffed as if he was accepting an apology, then turned pointedly to the guest on his other side.

  ‘Who else do we have here?’ Jared asked Sforza.

  ‘The usual. That’s the captain of the podestà over there in green – Umberto di Campaldino – with his odious wife Beatrice.’

  Jared took in a bluff figure in bottle-green and gold with a plumed cap set exactly square and an acid-faced woman who stared at him without shame.

  ‘Glories in the old days when the commune republics ruled and chivalry was properly valued,’ Sforza added.

  ‘And over there—’

  He was interrupted by the arrival of the highlight of the first course, borne proudly in by servants in tabards emblazoned with the arms of Malatesta – a prancing black horse on pure white.

  It was a noble dish. Baked sturgeon picked out with a convoluted design in garlic and a red sauce. This evidently meant something, for the room burst into applause at its appearance.

  ‘You were telling me …?’ Jared prompted.

  ‘Ah, yes. On the right, the handsome young blade in red and black. That’s Corso Ezzelino. A thrusting, unruly fellow who has unlimited ambitions and—’

  Across the distance of tables the young man had seen their interest and flashed a broad smile directly at Jared, raising his glass in salute.

  Taken by surprise, he could only lift his own in reply but the moment had passed and Ezzelino was talking with animation to the lady by his side.

  The fish was wreathed with the subtle scent of a herb Jared couldn’t place and on a level of delicacy that left his memory of the muddy flesh of Dene River trout fading to embarrassment.

  Sforza raised his goblet and whispered, ‘And mark well the ill-faced wretch at the end of the table on the left.’

  Jared saw a dark-featured man whose eyes flicked everywhere but shrank from conversation.

  ‘This is Giacomo Capuletti, and he’s the capitano del popolo, the representative of the people, that is to say the merchants and guilds. He and Umberto hate each other but he can do nothing against a captain of the podestà, which is where the true power lies.’

  More dishes followed seemingly without limit: four kinds of soup: a ‘flying pie’ – when the lid was removed live birds flew out; an imitation porcupine made of slivered almonds.

  Out of sight the trumpets pealed as a procession approached, led by a tall, resplendent figure in extremely long pointed shoes. Beaming with pride he acknowledged the rising acclaim as the main object of interest came into view. It was an entire roast stag, still in its skin and arranged as if in sleep in the forest undergrowth. Behind it was an endless line of other splendid dishes: a peacock in full display, partridge, heron, wild duck and cormorant.

  The man performed an elegant obeisance before the signore and flourishing a long knife and prongs in the air descended on the stag and began carving. The first succulent pieces went to Malatesta and his lady and then faultlessly by place of honour, long beautifully finished slices laid swiftly but delicately in a fan-like pattern. After the high table was served he swept down in a bow as his performance was vigorously applauded. Lesser beings attended on the lower tables.

  Music burst forth and two clowns bounced in. They mimed and contorted, pranced grotesquely and sang duets in a falsetto. Sforza grimaced. ‘The buffoons – I never had a taste for their art.’

  Jared wanted to know more about the guests and asked, ‘The smooth-looking one over there, in blue. Is he …?’

  ‘Ruggieri Villani. A sly creature who’s related to the Lady Cosima and thereby tolerated. There’s talk that he and Perugia are no strangers. I should not show yourself too attentive to him before Malatesta’s spies.’

  ‘And the lady?’ A strikingly beautiful woman was by Villani’s side, in perfect control and barely touching her dish.

  ‘Lucia. His wife – do not underestimate her, I beg. Her family is powerful and she has no scruple about making use of her connections.’

  The evening wore on; the buffoons were replaced by dancers and then a troubadour singing softly of sweet sorrows. By turns elated and overawed, Jared’s head was swimming with impressions.

  He tried to make sense of it. ‘Why are we here? I mean …’ he asked Sforza.

  ‘You do not question fortune. It is sufficient that the signore has taken notice of us – but in this he has his reasons. To encourage us in his cause? Possibly, but more than that, to show the world that we are his creatures. And that at the moment we are securely within his favour and therefore unassailable.’

  ‘Are we?’

  Sforza laid down his knife purposefully. ‘Do listen to what I say, Messer Jared, for I shall soon be gone from you.

  ‘Each of those here hides a lust for something desired – a woman, power, the throne of the signoria itself. Each therefore ceaselessly plots and connives, and knows the other does likewise. You and I are not part of this, therefore we guard our tongue and keep to ourselves. Never meddle in some others’ quarrel. There is only one we serve – the signore, and this we display on every occasion we can. Insofar as we please him we are safe. You understand?’

  ‘If I’m left alone to my work, nothing will please me more,’ Jared replied with deep sincerity.

  Towels and perfumed water were brought around to a sprightly accompaniment on the fife and shawm. The signore rose – the whole room did likewise and they progressed out to the pond with its glittering gold reflections, to talk and render their thanks for the magnificence of the banquet.

  CHAPTER 64

  Sforza was impatient to be away and their inspection of the smithy was cursory. It was sizeable and well-equipped with no less than five forges, each attended by a blacksmith and three.

  The capo of the smithy was introduced simply as Alonzo, a hulking bear of a man who stood impassive and unblinking in his well-used leather apron with his brawny arms folded as he heard the arrangements.

  ‘I’ve told him you don’t speak Italian yet, but there will be someone to translate. That will be your mercenary friend, who I expect very shortly.’

  There was no point in staying any longer without an interpreter and Jared went back to his house to wait for Sforza’s call.

  ‘A white wine, Giannina,’ he dared to the waiting housekeeper.

  ‘Oh – a trebbiano or a vermintino?’ she suggested anxiously.

  ‘Um, one you like yourself, we must talk together.’

  The balcony had discreet curtains that could be lowered and they sat at a small table in the rising warmth of the morning. She looked at him in something like awe, waiting for him to speak.

  ‘Giannina, I’m only a simple man,’ Jared began awkwardly. ‘Here to do a job, and I find so much strange in your country and … and I’d take it kindly if you’d set me straight on anything I do that’s not right. You know, like a friend!’ he finished with a blush.

  ‘Anything, Messer Jared?’

  ‘Is what I said.’

  ‘Then the first!’ she giggled. ‘If a friend, you will call me Nina – not in front of servants, o’ course.’

  ‘So I will be Jared,’ he replied, taken by her bubbling spirit.

  She grew serious. ‘You are receive by the signore. You are important man, all Arezzo talks of your magic. You be careful – I must take care for you also, or I be in high trouble.’

  ‘I’ll be careful, Nina. Now tell me – how does my house
work?’

  She looked incredulous then broke into laughter. ‘Which way you want it! You tell me, it will done.’

  It was quickly settled. Shaking her head at his simple tastes it was agreed that a single manservant would be more than enough, the cook, laundry maid and two others on call only, quite sufficient for his needs.

  The middle floor he would have little use for as he had no plans for entertaining; his upper room would be his retreat. There, a capacious bed sat squarely to one side with corded veils hanging down; the thickness of the mattress was astonishing. A broad writing desk was on the other side and a dressing table was already arrayed with pots and shaving implements.

  With a room area larger than an entire house in Hurnwych he would not lack for comfort.

  CHAPTER 65

  A messenger came from Sforza. The gunne crew had arrived and were ready to see Jared.

  He met them in the smithy courtyard. Twelve hard-faced men, fully armed and in faded and threadbare surcoats under which the dull gleam of mail armour showed. Beyond, the smithy hands stood apprehensively.

  ‘Ah, this is Master Edward Peppin, of the Black Company.’ Sforza smoothly introduced a lank-haired individual with lined and cynical features who sprang forward with cat-like grace.

  ‘At y’ service, Master.’ The tone was oily, the eyes hooded and appraising.

  ‘Ah. Then you wish to be a gunne … person.’

  ‘We do that.’ The feral intensity that lay behind the gaze was unnerving. These were men of a stamp that he’d never come up against, their easy menace and bold look telling of a life he could only guess at.

  ‘Well, this will come later, Master Peppin. We must first make the gunnes, mustn’t we!’ His words rang hollow even to himself. And one thing was certain: the wolfish predator in front of him was not about to be his closest friend and confidant.

  ‘Oh, one matter,’ he mentioned as casually as he could. ‘I don’t have the Italian and need to tell the smithy crew what to do. You’ll do this for me, will you?’