Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade: Part Two

by Christian Cameron

  Malatesta nodded. ‘Please be very civil, or my people will hurt you.’ The Lord of Rimini walked to his curio cabinet. He put his hand on the scarab’s niche, and turned. ‘Not here, just as Iso says. Very well – I’m sure that after we dispose of your bodies, we can find it. Someone will have seen you – some servant, some doxy—’

  His face froze. His left hand was still on the curio cabinet, and the fingers were moving.

  ‘By the deified Isolda!’ he shouted. He withdrew the scarab from the fabric in which it had been hidden.

  Swan sagged.

  ‘There it is!’ Malatesta said, wondering. ‘Iso – it was here all along – Dio mio, Englishman, I have had you by the wrong hook! Sweet Christ – see to the man, I think he’s fainted.’

  Swan hadn’t fainted. But he sagged to his knees, and the prayers he was saying were quite genuine.

  ‘You are an idiot,’ Peter said. Swan was on his stomach, and Peter was pouring wine on the stab wounds in his back and then rubbing them with honey. ‘If these become infected, you could be very sorry.’

  ‘Blessed Saint George, I’m sorry now!’ Swan said.

  ‘Not sorry enough, my oh-so-clever employer. He was going to gut you.’ Peter’s glare went right through his back. ‘You could just sleep with whores, like the rest of us.’

  Swan glowered bitterly at his pillow.

  Clemente appeared at the head of the stairs and had a whispered conversation with Hugh Willoughby, the youngest of the English archers. Swan could identify Clemente by his footsteps and his voice – his face was still buried in his blanket.

  Swan heard Willoughby’s heavier tread as he approached the bed.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ Willoughby said. ‘The lord ’as invited you to dine.’

  Swan laughed. ‘Of course he has,’ he said, but his sarcasm was muffled in wool.

  Peter got him dressed. He chose not to wear his best, but instead wore his sober brown – brown wool, with black hose, the uniform of junior priests and papal functionaries. He did place his best rosary in his narrow red belt, and he did wear his ring of devotion, worth about the same as his warhorse. And a dagger. Wearing a sword would excite comment in the great hall, but a dagger would be permitted. His was an old-fashioned rondel dagger, a long slim spike of steel with steel rounds at the guard and the pommel, completely protecting the hand in a fight. In addition to being pretty and deadly, the dagger’s scabbard held a by-knife and a pricker, allowing him to eat the food put in front of him without borrowing utensils that might be dirty – or poisoned.

  ‘Will you wait on me at table?’ Swan asked Peter. It was an awkward question. Peter didn’t do most of the work associated with being a manservant – he was a master archer, and he resented servile work.

  But Peter merely gave his slim Dutch smile. ‘Ah – this I count as battle,’ he said. He pulled on a brown robe scarcely less fine that Swan’s own. A year of hard work with good pay had left both of them in possession of more clothes and more things than either had owned before.

  But in the great hall, they both appeared to be plainer and poorer than the servants, who all wore the Malatesta livery. Indeed, from the lord himself to the lowerst servant in the hall, every one of them sported the family colours – in silk and English wool for the nobles, and in cotton and linen and Spanish wool for the servants, but nonetheless the appearance was as rich as the English king’s court at Christmastide, and Swan nodded.

  He found himself seated at the second table – well above the place he had expected. The majordomo nodded pleasantly when he saw that Swan had brought his own server, and he and Peter had a brief conversation about the course of the meal.

  Swan found that his dinner partner was to be the governess, Signora Sophia. Montorio was across the table and Ser Columbino was on Signora Sophia’s left side while Maestro Alberti was across the table next to Montorio’s very young and very cheerful lady, Signora Anna. On the far side of Signora Anna was the castello’s master-at-arms. Introductions were pleasant enough.

  It was easy to forget that these people had been ready to kill him two hours before.

  The Demoiselle Iso was sitting at the high table on the dais, by her father. She did not look at Swan at all. Swan busied himself being agreeable, even to Maestro Alberti.

  The humanist seemed unfazed by the rapid changes in Swan’s fortune, and smiled at him. ‘I was not at all sure you would be joining us for dinner!’ he joked. ‘I thought it possible you would dine on hemlock.’

  And you certainly did your best to see to that, Swan thought. ‘These things happen,’ he said with a smile. ‘It is best not to give them too much thought.’

  Montorio raised an eyebrow.

  Swan shrugged. ‘Ah – I do not fool you, capitano.’

  Montorio turned and smiled at his lady. ‘I hope that when it is my turn to die, I can do so with as much aplomb as Messire Swan.’ He spread his hands. ‘I hope that you understand. I only did my duty.’

  ‘For my part,’ Signora Sophia said, ‘I am most sorry that I allowed myself to be involved in your accusation.’ She didn’t meet his eye.

  Swan smiled and spread his hands. ‘I’m quite sure that you spoke nothing but the truth, and spoke it exactly as you had been instructed,’ he said. He nodded to Montorio. ‘I bear you no ill-will.’ He put a slight emphasis on you.

  A very uncomfortable silence fell.

  Peter flicked his ear as he poured wine. Peter thought he was taking too many chances.

  Swan wanted to say, I know exactly what I’m doing.

  Signora Sophia spoke in a very small voice. ‘How did you know that?’

  Swan shrugged.

  Montorio looked away. ‘We are men of the world,’ he said. ‘I propose we move on to other subjects more interesting to ladies.’

  ‘Like jousting,’ Swan proposed, and Ser Columbino raised his glass in a toast while Signora Anna grinned.

  Swan leaned out and raised his glass to Ser Columbino. ‘You are a fine jouster, sir.’

  Ser Columbino bowed in his seat. ‘You do me honour.’

  ‘But Ser Juan and Ser …’ Swan smiled. ‘The big man …’

  ‘Sometimes we call him “the castle”,’ Ser Columbino said. ‘Zane, Messire Suane.’

  Swan returned the nod. ‘… Are very worthy jousters as well.’

  ‘My lord believes that men-at-arms should be active,’ Montorio noted. ‘We try to run a few courses most days.’

  Viladi, the master-at-arms, leaned forward. ‘I will bore the ladies with technical questions. That little passage with Don Juan – you countered his stooping hawk. Who taught you that?’

  ‘Ah – I would like to have seen this,’ Montorio said, leaning forward, all ears. ‘It is the talk of the castle tonight.’

  ‘Such delicacy!’ Viladi said in genuine admiration.

  Swan laughed. ‘I served the Order of Saint John in the east,’ he said, deliberately flashing his ring. ‘At Rhodes, there is a knight – a Scottish knight – who is reckoned a great jouster. He certainly made me better.’

  Viladi nodded. ‘The Knights are not so very … scientific. But they are a hard school, and men who have served them all seem to be the better for it.’

  Swan nodded at Montorio. ‘While on Rhodes, all you do is practise, every day. On foot with sword and poleaxe and spear, on horse with lance and sword. All day. By Saint George, I even learned to shoot a hand gonne.’ He was bragging, a little, and he realised that he was showing off for the governess. Which was odd.

  In fact, his efforts were wasted – she had turned away to talk to Maestro Alberti.

  ‘You have fought the Turks?’ Montorio asked. ‘Pardon me for asking so directly, but none of us have this experience.’

  Swan thought of his first shipboard fight. And of fighting with a dagger under the earth.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  They were all waiting.

  It all paraded before his eyes – fights, death, the visceral feeling,
the smell. The dark. The heat. The realisation of who he had killed.

  Signora Anna said, ‘Ah – my lord, the Englishman has no wish to speak of these things – look at him.’

  Swan shook his head. ‘You are too kind. No, my friends, the Turks are … men, as we are men. Brave and foolish, well trained or badly trained. Gentle or coarse.’

  Montorio nodded as if something he had thought had been confirmed. Ser Columbino drew back, and Maestro Alberti laughed contemptuously. ‘They are not men as we are!’ he said derisively. ‘They are Satan-worshipping barbarians, committed to the destruction of all that is good. Sultan Mehmet has pulled down churches and ancient temples too to provide stone for his fortresses.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Swan said.

  ‘You are … sympathetic? To these fiends? Who have raped Greece?’ Alberti spat.

  Swan met the humanist’s eye. ‘I was not asked to re-create Livy’s comments on their nations,’ he said. ‘I was asked my opinion of them as fighting men. This I have offered. I’m afraid, Maestro, that you would have as much trouble understanding my answer as I would have of understanding your Greek.’ He paused. ‘Except, of course, that I understand your Greek well enough.’

  The insult was palpable, and Alberti flushed.

  Peter kicked his leg.

  Alberti looked at him, eyes narrowed. ‘You imply that I, a scholar of renown, cannot understand what you, a mere soldier, say? I call that a foolish lie. You, a soldier, understand the art of being a soldier well enough, I imagine, but I, as a scholar, understand everything. I’m sure that is difficult for you, but as Aristotle says—’

  Swan leaned back. ‘Aristotle claims that there is a hierarchy of knowledge, does he not? And Plato makes the same claim. Who does he place at the apex of that hierarchy, then, Maestro? Scholars?’

  Alberti was speechless at having been interrupted.

  Swan grinned. ‘He doesn’t even mention scholars, does he?’

  Ser Columbino burst into laughter and Montorio and Viladi joined him. Alberti rose, bowed stiffly, and left the table. Signora Sophia and Signora Anna both laughed, and Signora Sophia leaned over to him. ‘He will hate you,’ she said softly.

  Swan sighed. ‘I think that he already hates me, eh, signora?’

  She raised her veil to take a bite of food. Her lips were lush, beautifully defined. She had fine teeth.

  Swan made himself look away, as he had another beast in view.

  The rest of the dinner passed pleasantly enough – the men chatted about arms, the ladies asked questions to imply that they were interested when in fact they were not, and when Swan steered the conversation to clothes in Rome, they both bit like hungry trout in a spring stream. Swan found himself describing the clothing he had seen on various mistresses, and then on the courtesans of Madama Lucretia’s, although he attempted to pretend that this had been the papal court.

  All the while he tried to avoid thinking of the sharp aches in his back. If they are infected, I could already be dead, he thought, and cursed his own vivid imagination.

  Clothes led to dancing. Montorio had grown to manhood fighting for Milan, and knew a great deal about the court of the Visconti – now the Sforza. Swan merely repeated what he knew from Violetta about the latest German dances.

  Signora Sophia raised her head. ‘I find it interesting,’ she said, ‘that our latest fashion in dance never comes from supposedly brilliant courtiers like ourselves, but instead always from peasants, as if poor people with no money and no formal training are more inventive than we, who spend our lives on dancing.’

  Swan grimaced. ‘I can’t decide whether this is sarcasm or your honest analysis.’

  She turned and her veiled eyes almost met his. ‘Neither can I decide,’ she said. ‘How very perceptive of you. You are a strange man, Messire Swan. You actually listen when women speak.’

  ‘I was wondering this morning what it would be like to be a woman,’ Swan said.

  Signora Sophia looked at him as if he, not she, were wearing a veil. She paused – and sighed. ‘The world would be a much better place if men troubled themselves more often with such thoughts,’ she said. ‘Is England a better place to be a woman? Than here?’

  ‘This place does not seem so bad,’ he said, looking around. He had not expected to find her so intelligent – or conversable.

  ‘Really?’ she said. ‘Then you have done a poor job of imagining yourself a woman. The lord sees us all as his herd. Need I make my meaning clearer? He takes the ones that he wants. He kills the husbands who complain. Montorio there plays a dangerous game. If Anna catches the lord’s eye – what does she do? Did you imagine that part, messire?’

  Swan raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m fairly certain that I understood that part.’

  Even through the veil he saw her eyes widen.

  Swan shrugged. ‘I take your point, signora. Just do not imagine that being a man is so very different. He kills the husbands – you said as much.’

  ‘At least you can leave!’ she said. ‘Wear a dagger! Kill your enemies!’

  Swan smiled. ‘Turkish women can do all these things,’ he said.

  ‘I’m prepared to convert to Islam on the spot,’ the governess said. ‘I wondered, when I first heard of harems, whether fifty women living together weren’t more powerful, not less. You must find me tedious.’

  Swan shook his head. ‘No. I find it fascinating to meet a woman who sees so clearly the bars on the cage. Do you … like the demoiselle?’

  Signora Sophia leaned back as another course was served. ‘I admire her. But in the end …’ Signora Sophie looked away. ‘I can say no more.’

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ Signora Anna asked from across the table. ‘Sophia, you are keeping him all to yourself. You never talk to men!’

  Conversation returned to being general. If Swan wanted to talk more with the governess – and increasingly he did – his attempts were parried deftly, and she rose early and walked away. When the dancing began, she’d already left the hall, and Maestro Alberti had returned.

  Swan considered what to do. He was standing with Ser Columbino, who clearly already considered himself Swan’s capitano, when the Demoiselle Iso passed in front of him. Her eyes met his.

  Inwardly, Swan shrugged and accepted the challenge.

  ‘Would the demoiselle condescend to dance with me?’ he said with his deepest papal bow.

  She laughed. ‘Surely you’ve earned a dance with your various feats today. Come – see if you can’t dance a little better than last night, and perhaps we shall be friends.’

  Swan took her hand. ‘I would, in fact, prefer to be friends.’ He leaned close. ‘Although I must confess that I’d dance better without two stab wounds in my back.’

  ‘Would you indeed?’ she asked as they paced up the hall. ‘You shock me. I would have sworn you tried to kill me last night.’

  Swan winced. ‘It was not my finest hour. I wanted to talk to you and I thought that I needed to control the conversation.’

  Any answer she might have made was lost as she backed into her place at the top of the rapidly forming column of dancers. Montorio appeared, leading an attractive, dark-complexioned woman in a yellow silk dress. Ser Columbino appeared with a tall woman old enough to be his mother. The six of them formed one figure.

  As they met and touched hands, Iso breathed, ‘I am not so easy to control.’

  There was no more conversation as they danced. The opening figure was a stately French dance almost twenty years old, a set of pavanes that were almost Gothic and used older steps. Swan didn’t really know them and had to concentrate, and Iso mocked his dancing with her own.

  But the second dance was another that he knew well, a fashionable dance in the new German manner, and he flung himself and his partner about the set with enthusiasm and some ability, although he winced every time he raised his partner in his arms. At the end he was breathless and Iso was flushed – and smiling.

  Peter br
ought them both wine.

  ‘Do you have my amulet?’ she asked. She looked directly into his eyes like a man.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ll trade it for the ring,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why the ring? You have no use for it! My father—’

  ‘Demoiselle, I am to give the ring to Hunyadi, the last soldier fighting the Turks. Does that mean nothing to you?’ He was too vehement – heads turned.

  She looked away. ‘My father is watching us. I will meet you later – in the same place. Now I will all but spit on you or my father will draw all the right conclusions about you. He almost killed you today, you know that?’

  Swan nodded. ‘All too well.’

  Loudly, she said, ‘Then you are a fool!’ and turned suddenly, leaving him alone. When he looked around, every eye was on him.

  He shrugged. ‘All too often,’ he said, and several of Malatesta’s courtiers laughed with him.

  The lord himself smiled. He beckoned, and Swan crossed the marble floor to Malatesta’s dais.

  The Lord of Rimini beckoned again, and Swan stepped up on to the dais. Given the presence of two fully armoured men-at-arms and the magnificent silk rugs and the wolf’s skin, the dais had an air of unreality, and Swan felt as if he was stepping into it.

  ‘Do you know Plethon, Messire Suane?’ Malatesta asked. He had a cup of wine and he waved his free hand until another cup of wine appeared for Swan.

  Swan bowed. ‘My lord, I have read an essay by the great man, and I have followed his arguments about Plato as best I can.’

  ‘Plethon said all of Christianity was superstition and foolishness,’ Malatesta said. His eyes were on the dancers. ‘He encouraged us to reject falsehood and worship the Greek gods.’

  Swan looked around. He wasn’t sure what he feared, but the Inquisition came to mind. And he thought of Domenico Gattelussi.

  ‘There are priests and bishops of the Catholic Church who reject Christ and turn to the old gods,’ Malatesta said.

  Swan sipped his wine.

  ‘No clever comment? And yet my daughter thinks that you are one of us. Are you? Do you reject Christ and accept Zeus?’ Malatesta asked. His eyes were not mad. They were merely the eyes of a very powerful man.