He and Father Simon found themselves – in the absence of all of the cardinal’s other officers – the virtual heads of the cardinal’s household. Swan sat in the kitchen – his usual office – and drank hot wine while he and Simon checked the house’s supplies – and its defences.
‘Men will want to go to mass,’ Swan pointed out.
Father Simon nodded. ‘Easter vigil,’ he said.
Swan shuddered at the thought of the whole household vulnerable, walking through the streets of the city in the darkness. ‘Either we all go together to one church …’ He paused. ‘Could you say mass here, Father? At Saint Cesaro?’
Father Simon scratched his naked chin. ‘I could ask the parish priest,’ he said.
‘The church is within the walls,’ Swan said, as much to himself as to the priest. ‘With a dozen more men-at-arms, I could cover the whole compound.’
The palazzo had a fine chapel, which the cardinal used for many of his own devotions. Father Simon showed the same hesitation that Peter had shown about the cardinal’s study. ‘I don’t dare …’ he began.
Swan shook his head. ‘Listen, Father – let’s just have our mass there. We can even invite other men in the neighbourhood and their servants – the streets aren’t safe, and we can help maintain order this way.’
Father Simon looked away. ‘It is not my place,’ he said. ‘But I think you are right.’
‘We could save lives,’ Swan said.
Father Simon agreed.
Immediately, Swan sent the pages out to inform their neighbours that mass – Easter vigil – would be celebrated right here at St Cesaro. He briefed his rented men-at-arms, as well as his own trusted men – Cesare was abed, but Peter was mostly recovered and Antoine could be trusted absolutely. He put them at the front gate, watching the visitors. He took the garden staff and a pair of men-at-arms and went to the church – St Cesaro – across the courtyard. After a brief and mostly one-sided discussion with the resident priest, he barred the church’s front doors, which gave on to the street, so that the church itself could be entered only through the St George chapel from the courtyard. He left Father Simon to mollify the priest.
He sent one of the undercooks to Alessandro at the inn by a roundabout series of flour purchases intended to bore any watchers into oblivion. His message told Alessandro of his intentions. Before darkness fell, Di Bracchio came in person with another twenty men-at-arms, including the men he’d rented from Malatesta. He introduced Malatesta’s youngest captain, Raimondo Accaiouli.
‘We’re out of the running,’ Alessandro said when they were alone. ‘Bessarion knows of the treaty. He put his head in his hands and said to thank you.’ Di Bracchio shrugged. ‘There will be no voting tomorrow or the day after, because of Easter.’ He collapsed into a chair. ‘The Orsini candidate was voted down today,’ he said. ‘Now they are all looking for a compromise. Someone so old and harmless that neither side fears him. In the meantime, expect the worst.’ He paused, and Swan saw how hollow his eyes were. ‘You don’t know how lucky you have been – fighting the Turks. An open, obvious enemy.’ He shrugged. ‘You’ve done well with the mass. With thirty armoured men and all the staff, we can hold this house and grounds against the Legions of Hell. I’m taking a nap.’
He arose in time for the neighbourhood to gather for Easter vigil, a late-night mass that heralded the coming feast. Swan had every man-at-arms awake and fully armed, and he used Bessarion’s other clerks and servants as extra eyes.
An excited clerk caught an Orsini arsonist as the man passed into the garden for mass, and they caught two more suspicious men at the end, and put them into the cellars guarded by a pair of men-at-arms. Swan interrogated them one at a time and came to the conclusion that the arsonist was self-motivated and the other two were more likely casual thieves than Orsini spies, but he held them all for his captain’s pleasure and went to bed.
Easter day dawned. Men and women woke and found that Christ had risen, and most of them forgot their petty quarrels, went to mass, and ate a feast to break the endless fast of Lent, and bells rang all over Rome. Pilgrims, kept out of the holy places for weeks owing to Lent, flooded the streets, making the clan fighting almost impossible without a bloodbath of rich, powerful innocents.
Alceste served them a superb Easter dinner, which the cardinal’s staff and rented mercenaries ate in shifts in the kitchen. But the house had a festive atmosphere, as the release of heavy stress and the celebration of a major holiday coincided with a sense of shared danger. The pages ate shoulder to shoulder with the cooks and the men-at-arms. As noontide passed, Giannis came back from his own errand – he would not describe it. He had a wound on his right arm and it had bled through all his clothes, and Swan sent out for their favourite doctor, the Bishop of Ostia’s – Dr Claudio, who came immediately.
‘Scarcely worth summoning me! Easter!’ he joked as he stitched Giannis’s arm, but he was mollified by apple tarts and ham and good wine. He washed his hands and sat to eat with Swan and Cesare.
After food, he unwrapped Cesare’s hand and shook his head. ‘This is what I ought to have been summoned for,’ he said, ‘not that little scratch.’ He pointed his chin at the Greek stradiote, who, bandaged all down one arm, had eaten well and fallen asleep in the chimney corner.
Alceste cleared the main table – Swan was reminded of Violetta sitting on Alessandro’s wounded body, naked, so that the blood would not ruin her clothes. He was still daydreaming when Cesare screamed.
But Dr Claudio was ruthless, cleaning the wound with a small brush. Blood flowed freely. Swan was beginning to feel faint when a pageboy appeared. ‘Messenger for Captain Accaiouli.’
Swan swung a leg over the bench, not at all sorry to leave the sight of Cesare being doctored. As he walked down the length of the kitchen, he threw his doublet over his shoulders and pulled his arms into the sleeves. He sent the boy to find Accaiouli, who was off duty, and almost certainly asleep.
He was still toying with his laces when he found himself face to face with a Malatesta messenger. He knew the messenger immediately, and his heart stopped.
‘So, now I know where you live,’ the Demoiselle Iso said.
Swan made himself breathe. ‘What brings the demoiselle to our master’s house?’ he asked. He was wearing his doublet open over one of his oldest and most frequently patched shirts. None of the rest of his clothes was up to much inspection, either.
‘You,’ she said. And then, as if she had said nothing of the sort, she went on, ‘There is a small army of Orsini at my father’s house. My lord father needs the return of his men-at-arms, if they can be spared.’
‘And sent you as a messenger?’ Swan asked. She was wearing men’s clothes – hose, a pair of boots, a breast- and backplate, a mail shirt and a sword.
She smiled. ‘Perhaps he didn’t mean for me to come,’ she said. ‘Are you appalled?’
He grinned. ‘Impressed, more like. Can you use that sword?’
She frowned. ‘Messire Swan, you have no idea how offensive such a question can be. Can you use yours?’
Swan frowned. ‘I only meant—’
‘You only meant that women cannot use weapons,’ she said. ‘There are a hundred gentlewomen in this city lessoned in arms.’
Swan selected surrender as the appropriate tactic. ‘Demoiselle, please accept my apologies.’
‘See that it doesn’t happen again,’ she said, and stuck her tongue out at him. ‘Enough that I have found you.’
He smiled, and she smiled, and they shared a comfortable silence, looking at each other. He was tempted to gather her in his arms and kiss her – he was almost sure that was her desire.
‘Why me?’ he asked.
She grinned, and it was her father’s wolfish grin – the grin of a predator who has eaten a great deal of meat. ‘It was written in the stars,’ she said.
Perhaps his hesitation showed on his face. She laughed. ‘Men are ever discomfited to find that a woman can also choose, and pu
rsue.’ She smiled, leaning close, her magnificent eyes like recently polished jewels. ‘But my arts tell me that you are for me.’
Swan swallowed.
‘Do you fear my father?’ Iso asked. There were footsteps in the hall behind them, and Swan wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be rescued.
‘Of course,’ he muttered. Their faces were so close he could feel the warmth of her lips.
‘That is wise,’ she said. And turned so quickly that Swan almost fell. She was standing an arm’s length away when young Accaiouli came into the back-stairs close and bowed.
‘Ma demoiselle!’ he cried, going down on one knee.
Swan went and woke Alessandro. ‘I’m for the Wolf’s den,’ he said.
They drove in the Orsini outpost before the gate like a hot knife cutting through bacon fat. Twenty armoured men-at-arms – even the kind rented for papal elections – had little to fear from a hundred unarmoured thugs. Thus reinforced, Montorio led all his mounted men-at-arms in a sudden sortie, and they cleared hundreds of Orsini-led brigands from the vicinity of the Malatesta palazzo. None was killed, but a few heads were broken and a great many Orsini were trampled by horses.
Montorio thanked Swan profusely for his support.
‘Captain, the least I could do after your saving us the other night. But now I must return.’ He was worried that the whole provocation had been a feint to lure him away. After mutual admiration, he led his rented soldiers – and Peter – back through the streets of Rome, and across the bridge.
But Bessarion’s house was not afire. They stabled their horses and Swan stripped off his harness without a squire and fell into his bed.
He awoke after noon the next day – Easter Monday – to find Alessandro in charge, the posts set, and the food delicious. As he completed his meal, Lord Malatesta sent his men-at-arms back with his thanks for their loan, and, now led by Montorio, they took up positions about the house.
Montorio told Swan and Di Bracchio that they had intelligence that the Spanish were likely to take the papal election. And that the Orsini would attack Bessarion’s palazzo.
Swan – clad only in a shirt and hose – collapsed into a curve-back chair. ‘By our lady!’ he swore. ‘It’s like war!’
Alessandro took a spoonful of Alceste’s soup, smiled at Antoine, and shook his head. ‘No, this is just where you are wrong, Englishman. I have made war.’ He laughed. ‘Here, the food is much better.’
In late afternoon, Giannis, who was much recovered, and Peter, who was bored, went out through their defences to reconnoitre.
In the meantime, Swan led the kitchen staff in dismounting glass windows from their window cases and closing the heavy shutters, whose presence he had never fully understood. With the shutters – two-inch oak with loopholes – closed, the elegant palazzo was much more like a fortress.
‘Why did the Wolf want his men-at-arms back yesterday?’ Swan asked Di Bracchio.
Di Bracchio was sharpening his dagger. Di Brescia was trying to read, but the pain of his left hand was clearly distracting him. He had refused the opium left for him by Master Claudio.
‘I’ve been down that road,’ he said.
Alessandro leaned back. ‘Why does the Wolf do anything?’ he asked. ‘He was testing us, I think.’
‘Oh,’ Swan said. ‘I certainly don’t think he needed the men. Montorio had enough—’
Alessandro made the sign for silence.
Montorio himself came in. ‘Your men have been timely in relieving mine,’ he said. ‘Are we really off duty?’
Alessandro nodded. He pointed at two tables, boards just laid and groaning with food. ‘Your meat awaits,’ he said.
The Malatesta men-at-arms came in one by one and sat.
Swan counted them and counted them again. A man left, and another came in. Two men had a tiff. A third man borrowed needle and thread and began to repair his doublet while a fourth began to flirt with one of the pages.
‘There are only nine,’ Swan said quietly.
Di Bracchio turned and gave him a questioning look.
‘I swear they had ten men-at-arms when they came this morning,’ Swan said.
Alessandro took a deep breath. ‘Uh-oh,’ he said.
They made a hasty search of the perimeter of the palazzo and its yard.
‘We could just ask Montorio,’ Swan said.
Alessandro shook his head. ‘No. If he has smuggled a spy or an assassin into our midst …’
Swan was brought up short. ‘Good Christ, Alessandro! I thought Malatesta an ally!’
Alessandro looked at his younger lieutenant with something like pity. ‘Malatesta is accounted the best friend of Sforza, in Milan, despite which he has betrayed him on numerous occasions – for his own profit. You English must live in perfect harmony – you are such a trusting lot.’
Swan sighed. It could be tiresome to be always the student – in the fencing salle, in the tiltyard, and here, in the game of princes.
But then he nodded. ‘Very well. Where can he be?’
Alessandro shrugged. ‘You may have miscounted. Or there may be an assassin in the cardinal’s apartments, but just now, that’s the least of our worries.’ They had walked around the outside of the grounds, examining their posts. They had arrived back at the front entrance – the great stone steps rising between stone balustrades with Roman urns decorating the finials.
The steps were suddenly crowded. It took a moment for Swan to adjust to the fact that he was hearing Greek, not Italian. He recognised the Trapitzou housekeeper, and a pair of women who sewed for the cardinal, and Apollonaris, one of the cardinal’s mimes from Constantinople. He buttonholed Apollonaris.
The handsome young man grabbed his sleeve. ‘My lord – they are killing Greeks in the streets.’
Alessandro tugged at his short beard and swore.
Swan made a wide gesture with his arms. ‘Good people!’ he shouted in Greek. ‘The Cardinal Bessarion will offer you refuge.’
‘Any one of them could be a spy,’ Alessandro hissed.
‘A Greek-speaking spy?’ Swan asked, eyebrow raised.
‘You speak Greek. And you are, my young apprentice, a splendid spy.’ Alessandro managed a laugh. ‘But yes – I concede your point. Just see that everyone knows everyone else, eh?’
Swan took Apollonaris aside and put him in charge of mustering the Greeks. ‘Make sure everyone is actually Greek,’ he said. ‘If there’s a man – or woman – with no one to vouch for them …’
Apollonaris gave him a hard smile. ‘I was in Constantinople,’ he said. ‘I know the rules. Where is Irene?’
‘Out of the city,’ Swan said. ‘Where is Nikephorous?’
‘We were working at the Theatre of Pompeii,’ Apollonaris said.
Another clump of Greeks appeared, and then two families hurried in from different directions.
And then a dozen armed men. They looked like very dangerous brigands – curved swords, mail shirts, round skullcaps of iron. A few wore turbans.
Swan backed up the steps. ‘Look sharp in there – GUARD!’
Peter appeared, as if by magic – in a chain shirt with a breastplate, and carrying a heavy English bow as thick as a lady’s wrist.
Giannis appeared at his shoulder. But he didn’t draw. Instead, he waved.
‘I know that man – and the man behind him. Eh – Dimitri! Christos Aneste!’ Giannis shouted.
The man so addressed had a young girl in his arms. He looked up the steps and grinned, his white teeth shining in his black beard. In Greek he called, ‘Eh, Giannis! Are you turned heretic? Christ will rise in ten days or so.’
Swan wanted to shout at them that the divergent views on the date of Easter would eventually get every Christian killed. But instead he attended to the quick conference between Dimitri and Giannis. His Greek wasn’t quick enough to follow every word, every intonation.
Giannis turned to him. ‘They are mercenaries for Venice – they were here with the Venetian ambassador. But he
… died. And now the Orsini are killing Greeks.’
Swan bowed. ‘Please enter,’ he said with a sweeping gesture.
The ten men, as well as two obvious doxies, a wife and some children, trailed in – a miniature Greek military camp.
Swan left Giannis and Apollonaris at the gate and went to find Di Bracchio.
Di Bracchio nodded. ‘With a dozen stradiotes we are impregnable, even if we starve.’
Swan looked at Montorio. ‘I thought to take half of them on horseback – to try and fetch Master Nikephorous. The cardinal …’
Alessandro swore. ‘What a day! Yes, of course. Go – but ride like the devil was on your horse’s rump. I smell a whole horde of rats. The Orsini aren’t killing Greeks – they’re driving them all here. We have a spy lose. Hurry.’
Swan saluted. Peter helped him shrug into his breast- and backplate, and the arms of his harness, all of which were now a little small and a little short. His last growth spurt on Rhodes, augmented by food, sea air and heavy exercise, had rendered his lovely armour too small for his frame.
But in a Roman street fight, armour made a man virtually invulnerable. Swan put on his burgonet – it still fitted, but it had some remarkable dents. The lining smelled bad.
Peter got his sword belt around his waist and gave him a heavy-headed partisan.
‘Very nice!’ Swan said. The head was blue, with a verse of the Bible inlaid in gold, and two wide flanges – razor sharp – either side of the foot-long blade.
‘It’s mine.’ Peter smiled. ‘Don’t lose it, or I add its value to my back wages.’
Swan gathered five of the stradiotes and Giannis.
‘We’ll collect any Greeks we find,’ he said. ‘But the man we must find is Maestro Nikephorous.’ Swan knew that the older Greek man was Bessarion’s friend – but more than that, he was a living library of Ancient Greek plays.
Pages and stable boys handed out mounts – both of Swan’s horses, both of Alessandro’s, the cardinal’s riding horse, Peter’s, both of Giannis’s, and a fine mule. The stradiotes chose from what they were offered and looked with disgust at the heavy saddles. But in minutes they were all mounted, harness jingling, iron-clad hooves snapping on the cobbles in the chilly air.
Tom Swan and the Head of St George: Part Seven Page 5
