“Gregor didn’t tell me a thing. That dear fat fool!”
“He did, my lord. You weren’t listening.”
Strykar had heard enough. “We can lead the way out,” he said. “I’ll get them assembled inside.” And he was off, harness jangling.
Danamis grabbed Escalus by the shoulder. “Get the women out for me. Do you understand?”
Escalus nodded. “I will get them out safely. And the retainers.”
“And join us by the same way down to the docks.”
Escalus face was expressionless. “My lord, your father left me here to run this house as his castellan. And I will not surrender that responsibility.”
“You’ll be killed.”
“I have no intention of being killed or captured. There’s a lot about this palace you don’t know about. Last night I took the liberty of sending the myrra down to the ship. I’ve hid the silver and jewels too. They’ll never find them. Now go!”
There was an explosion as the cannon outside the gate let loose. The shot had struck where the gate met the stone wall and great splinters of wood splayed inwards as the top hinge was blown away.
“All of you! Into the house,” cried Danamis.
In the hall, Escalus and Danamis manhandled the oak beam into place at the doors of the palazzo, dropping it into the iron brackets. Tetch’s gunners were slow. They had not yet fired a second shot to take the gate down. Danamis turned to Escalus. “Get Kassia and Talia out of here.”
Escalus nodded. “I will. And you will be back, captain. When they least expect it.”
Danamis clapped him on the shoulder. “My father chose his castellan well.”
“Thurio will guide you down to the tunnel. I showed him earlier.” Escalus gestured to the trembling houseboy who stood near the pillared portico before picking up a sword belt from the hall table and buckling it on over his robes. The weapon was long and thin, a gentle curve all along its length; a Southlander’s sword. “Fare you well, my lord!”
Strykar and his forty men had now arrived, and with them, Timandra and Acquel both looking bewildered. Danamis eyes turned to the marble staircase. The women were standing at the top, clutching a few belongings, the fear on their faces clear. He bounded up even as Escalus cried out again for him to get to the vaults.
“Escalus will take you away. You will be safe,” he said, reaching out to pull his women to him. Their eyes shone with not just fear but anger besides. They both recoiled from his embrace.
“You are no man,” hissed Kassia, practically spitting at him. “You run away but leave us to fend for ourselves.”
Talia nodded, leapt forward, and shoved Danamis with all the force her little body could muster. “Coward! At least Tetch knows how to fight and lead men like a warrior! What do you think will happen to us now?”
He froze there on the steps, his mouth hanging open, bereft of any comforting words to impart. They were right.
Escalus was now beside him, pulling him away and down the steps. “For God’s sake, my lord, go!”
Danamis threw one last glance to his courtesans, now forfeit along with his palace. He could not look them in the eye. He turned again at the bottom of the stairs, even as Escalus dragged him by the shoulders. The castellan wheeled him round and gripped him by both shoulders like a scolding parent. “Find what you have lost! Do you understand me? And then come back. Come back and defeat him.”
Eleven
THE OLD BRICK-LINED tunnel, dug out and built when the palace had been constructed, ran straight as an arrow, gently sloping as it descended. It was wide enough for two abreast, barely that for armoured men. Timandra was behind a torch bearer—one of the house servants—and in front she could see Strykar, his round shield slung over his back, hunched over as he moved forward in the stinking darkness. She had left everything on her mule up in the stable, a gift to the shitting sailors who no doubt were bursting through the gates above right now. She cursed and felt to make sure she still had her near-bursting purse lashed to her hip. She glanced behind to Acquel, his eyes as big as plates as he splashed through the fetid drain water that puddled about their feet.
It grew brighter ahead, and then she was outside, practically pushed by Acquel into a milling mass of soldiers. They were in a cobbled street. Above them the red sandstone cliffs rose up to where the palazzo stood. The street, little more than an alley, was bordered by tall ramshackle houses, cheek by jowl, roofs bent with age and decay. As the small army of sweaty sword-and-buckler men poured forth from the old drain, Timandra heard the sound of slamming doors and shutters echoing around them.
“Now what, cousin?” said Timandra as she reached Strykar, who was pulling his shield around to his arm and drawing his sword.
“Where the hell is Danamis? You three!” he called out to the closest soldiers. “Form three files over there!” And then to the others, “Form up on those men, three columns! Move!”
Timandra stepped in front of him. “I’ve lost all my stock and my mules and you’re planning on cutting our way out of here and down to the harbour?”
“Not now, cousin!” he snapped back. “I’ve lost a good piece of horseflesh worth twelve ducats so keep your mouth shut and get behind us.”
She growled and turned to see Danamis sprint past, drawing his falchion as he reached the head of the fast-forming columns.
“I will lead you down to the ship!” he shouted.
Strykar pulled over a short soldier in a dented barbute, rusty mail coif and steel corselet. “Tiran. You know your way around Palestro, don’t you?”
He nodded vigorously.
Strykar reached out and yanked another soldier. “You… and you! Tiran, take these two with you. Get out of the city by way of the gate we came in. Get back to the camp. Tell the lieutenant what has happened. Tell him if we have not returned by the morning he is to break camp and go to Maresto. He must go to Count Malvolio and tell him that Captain Tetch has taken over the Palestro fleet. Do you understand all that?”
Tiran nodded. “Aye, captain!”
Timandra’s mouth fell open. “If we don’t return by morning? You mean to say we are taking ship with Danamis?”
“Just keep the holy man close,” he shot back. “That is your task.”
They made their way down the winding streets at a trot, scattering chickens and sending townsfolk into their doorways and alleys. Timandra clutched her swinging purse with one hand as she ran. She could feel the sweat pouring down her as the heat of the day bore full on them. Danamis was leading them round and down and she prayed he was not lost in the maze of Palestro’s worst neighbourhoods. Then, the view ahead became clear and she saw the harbour and dozens of ship’s masts. They had emerged from the houses and down to the quayside, a long and wide run of great wooden planks laid along the stone harbour wall. The quay was practically empty and Timandra could see why. On the far side of the horseshoe-shaped harbour, hundreds of sailors and soldiers thronged. At least one vessel was burning alongside the dock. Of the great sailing ships, all but one were flying blood-red ensigns. The one remaining carrack that did not was taking a hail of arrows from the soldiers on the quay. Two longboats, stuffed with soldiers, were halfway between the dock and the carrack and were themselves taking arrows from the beleaguered ship.
Timandra ran to Strykar who had joined Danamis at the edge of the quay.
Danamis ran his hand back over his scalp. “My God. I’ve lost her.”
The Royal Grace, sitting quiet out in the harbour, flew a red ensign from her mainmast. It rippled and dipped in the breeze, taunting them.
Strykar took a pace forward. “The Grace? Surely she’s not gone over?”
Danamis said nothing. He was watching as two longboats appeared from around the stern of the ship, pulling hard towards them. A sailor stood up and waved wildly with both of his arms.
A smile broke out on Danamis’s face. “They haven’t gone over. Gregor is just buying himself some time.”
They could see the ot
her carrack starting to raise canvas.
“Salamander is fighting Tetch’s men off,” said Danamis, his face now animated at the chance of escape. “She’s going to make a run for it but there’s precious little wind to get behind her.” He turned to Strykar. “I’ve got to get onto my ship. We’ll thrash our way out of this, my friend!”
Strykar was taking in the scene, looking for other avenues of escape. He could see none. “I was not planning on a sea voyage this week, Nico.”
Timandra stepped forward. “What? We’re actually getting on that ship?”
Danamis had frozen, staring intently across the far side of the harbour, watching as a dozen or more men climbed the massive stone steps up to the tower of the chain.
“Shit. Hell and blazes. They’re going to raise the chain at the harbour mouth.” Danamis turned to Strykar. “But they need to do it from both towers. Look.” And Danamis pointed to the large party of men that were now rounding the horseshoe, coming towards them. “They’ll get into the tower and raise the chain at this end before we can pass over it. We cannot get under way that fast.”
Strykar nodded. “I’ll hold them off . You get aboard.”
“I’ll have no way of picking you up from the tower—unless you and your men jump from the parapet.”
Strykar inclined his head. “Your credit is fast disappearing.”
The two longboats had now reached them and a cheer from the sailors went up as they saw their captain on the quay.
Strykar grasped Danamis by the arm. “Take Mistress Pandarus and the monk with you. And pray there’s some long rope up in that tower.”
Danamis clapped the mercenary’s shoulder. “God’s speed. We’ll hold steady for you if we can once we pass over the chain.”
Timandra looked at Strykar, at a loss for words. Acquel took her hand and said, “There’s nothing else for it, mistress.”
Strykar’s men had already formed a shield wall along the width of the quay. As soon as the longboats had pushed off with Danamis, Strykar ordered his men to fall back towards the tower. As he did so, his eyes alighted on two upright stone columns that stood along the dock. Two coils of cable were looped alongside.
Elded smiles on me today.
“You two! Fetch that rope there. Cut it away! All of it!”
They had more than a hundred feet to go to reach the tower. Strykar could see the Palestrian mutineers had rounded the quay and were closing fast, some armed with crossbows. The rondelieri, trained to harry the enemy on a battlefield that could change in an instant, found themselves back-pedalling fast to reach the tower. As Strykar mounted the tower steps he encountered his second piece of luck: the great wooden door was ajar. He looked behind him again. Tetch’s men were nearly upon them and he could see them readying their polearms for a rush. He had to prevent them from gaining the tower. A quarrel whisked past him and shattered on the stones and he saw one of his men struck with another, the bolt protruding from his face.
He pushed the heavy oak door with the rim of his shield and leaned in. There was blur of silver and he instinctively dodged his head and raised the shield as the blade of a glaive slid past, scraping his buckler. Instantly, he stepped in, pressed his shield to the doorway, locking the haft of the glaive, and gave a high underhand thrust with his right arm straight into the throat of the soldier at the other end, one of two defenders in the tower. Another quarrel burrowed into the door as he pushed it open and the second defender was upon him. But Strykar’s men were now up the steps, the last of them locking shields again as Tetch’s soldiers piled in, thrusting and raining down their pole weapons. Strykar despatched his opponent with a feint and shield jab, chopping him down as he recovered from the shield rim stunning him.
The rondelieri poured into the large square room of the tower, a few falling at the doorway as the Palestrians tried to push in, their hafted weapons thrusting and jabbing. But slowly, the weight of the rondelieri pressing hard, the great door began to close. Thrusting through the space, a veteran was taking men down with precision thrusts while his comrade had dropped sword and shield to wrest polearms out of slippery hands. It was work done without word or command. The grunts and short cries of those struck were the only sound. In the centre of the room, mounted on the stone floor, was a great capstan wound around with a massive chain that snaked its way out a small round opening in the wall, down to the harbour mouth. At the far side of the room there was a wooden staircase that led to an upper level.
Strykar called to the men with the rope to follow him. They mounted the stairs and found themselves on an open platform, crenelated walls surrounding them at chest height. Strykar looked out into the harbour. He could see the Grace. She had not raised sail, but instead, was being towed by the two longboats, their crews straining under the load. Strykar knew he was no seaman but it looked like slow work to him. He looked over to the opposite tower. Like some monstrous serpent, rising out of the depths, he could see the black iron chain being pulled into the tower. He hoped for Danamis’s sake that it would not raise all the way up to block the whole of the entrance.
“Secure the ropes to these stones—here… and here!” He turned to head back down the stairs and then paused. “And you two are the first to go down so you better use the right knot!” There was a trap to the stairway, held open with a hook; that would be their last defence. As he reached the main chamber again the sounds of his men straining filled the room. They were slowly losing the struggle. Sooner rather than later the weight of sheer numbers would tell and the door would be breached. So too, he knew that the retreat to the top level would be their most vulnerable time. He quickly counted who was left. It looked like he had lost at least seven.
“Come on, lads! Hold them! They’re not going to let you walk out of here if you let them in!” Strykar leapt up the stairs and saw that the ropes were fastened, and when he peered over the parapet he could see the ship had nearly drawn up to them. He could almost reach out and grab the foremast spar that bobbed in front of him. It was time. Crashing down the stairs, he ordered six men at the rear to accompany him, sword and shields ready, at a hanging guard. The moment they took off the pressure, the door groaned inward a foot and a cheer went up from the outside.
“The rest of you… when I give the word, you make for the stairs and get on those ropes. Sheath your swords but leave your bucklers! And you lot”—he spoke now to the six—“you and I are going to fight them up the stairs. They can only get so many through that door so fast.” And he had no idea how it was going to work. He hefted his sword and raised the rim of his shield. “Now!”
His men scrambled for the stairs, passing the rear guard who moved forward as the door opened wider. He could hear them pounding up the stairs behind him as he moved forward to lock his shield with the man on his left. They were hit with a wave, pushing them back as blows rained down on their shields and helms. Strykar took a glancing blow on his sallet from a glaive but shook it off and struck back with a wrist-snap blow of his own that took the arm off his attacker at the elbow. In seconds they were at the stairs. Strykar saw one of his men fall on the left. The huge capstan in the middle worked to their advantage as the enemy could only get two men through the gap either side. And then they were falling up the stairs, shields warding what they could, their armour the rest.
Two more fell on the stairs, stabbed in the thigh and belly. Strykar and the rest came through the top still flailing away and the captain put a boot into a face as his sword pommel knocked the iron hook away and dropped the trap door down. One of the rondelieri severed a flailing arm that kept the hatch from closing and Strykar stood on the door as it sounded to the crash of blades pounding away. He could see his men helping each other to balance on the crenelated parapet, scrabbling to grasp the thick ropes that led to an uncertain rescue. The hatch beneath Strykar’s feet thumped and the hinges rattled, bolts jumping out.
“I can’t keep them all day, you lot! Get over that wall!”
A rondelieri grinn
ed at Strykar and joined him on the hatch, first throwing his shield down under his feet. The sound of splintering wood soon followed and the tip of a glaive shot upwards through the gap in the planks next to Strykar’s left foot.
BELOW THEM, ON the deck of the Grace, Gregorvero was almost purple as he barked at the four men that were awkwardly wielding a mast spar to keep the ship from crashing into the tower with every swell of the sea. With each rising swell, they braced at the deck and rail and pushed off against the stone retaining wall, a gut-wrenching scraping noise carrying across the ship. Danamis craned his neck to see the rondelieri hanging—three or four at a time—down the ropes that dangled from the side of the tower. Another one of Strykar’s men was plucked by his crewmen from the fraying line and rolled onboard. Danamis heard a scream as one of the rondelieri fell from the top, crashing into the water and disappearing. Gregorvero had done his best to position the high fo’c’sle near the ropes but now a particularly heavy swell pushed it into the wall with a terrible cracking noise, splintering the carved railing. But more rondelieri were managing to scramble aboard, the weight of their armour forgotten in their urge to escape. Danamis ran to the larboard rail and looked astern. Salamander had her foremast topsail raised and her mainsail, but the awning over her sterncastle had been set ablaze by fire arrows. With hardly any wind, she was barely making headway and would soon be boarded.
Danamis knew if Tetch have been there to lead the mutineers, rather than tearing down the palazzo, he would stand little chance. Even so, a contingent of archers had appeared on the quayside off his stern quarter, bearing tallow torches and preparing to ignite their shafts. Between them, the sea and the tower would turn his ship into kindling or else the fire arrows would do the rest. And now he saw two longboats pulling towards him, rammed to the gunwales with soldiers.
The Guns of Ivrea Page 11
