Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade: Volume Six

by Christian Cameron

  Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade

  Volume Six

  Christian Cameron

  Contents

  Title Page

  Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade: Volume Six

  Also by Christian Cameron

  Copyright

  Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade

  Volume Six

  The sun beat down like a hammer on an anvil, and the metaphor was the more apt because Thomas Swan, knight of Venice and donat of the Order of St John Hospitallers, had a severe hangover. The hangover alone might not have been so bad except for the exceptional heat, the merciless sun – and the steady, arrhythmic beat of a blacksmith forging iron nails just outside Swan’s tent. The tent resembled a tall bake-oven with white sides.

  Swan’s partner in excess had left him before first light. One of his ears had a bite mark on it, and there was a surprising amount of blood on his bedlinen.

  On his waist, just under his left hip, there was a black bruise the length of his hand and no wider than a finger, where a Turkish blade had not penetrated his mail. The pain of that bruise and the dull ache in his hips reminded him – unpleasantly – that there were worse situations available to him than a hangover on a hot summer morning.

  He might have been dead. Alive was better.

  He paused long enough to manage a prayer.

  He got his feet on the ground. There was a fine layer of dust over everything – every horseman going through the camp, every troop of halberdiers practising drill, every team of oxen moving lumber, raised the dust, and it sifted through everything.

  Swan got to his feet with some trouble and rolled his shoulders – and cursed. He picked up a small cotton towel – Turkish – which he’d carried now for over a year. He looked at it fondly and wondered why, exactly, he’d taken to fighting the Turks. He wondered whether Khatun Bengül had accompanied her father to war. He thought it unlikely. Military camps were bad places for women.

  Swan frowned. ‘And men,’ he said aloud.

  He would turn twenty-three in the next few days. But when he tried to reckon, he was unsure of the date. Was June over?

  He sighed, pulled on his Turkish kaftan, and walked out, barefoot, into the dusty streets of Hunyadi’s earthwork fortress of Kovin. As he walked, Swan had an easy time imagining the place as a Roman military camp as described by Vegetius – it was laid out in much the same way, and had earthwork walls with small bastions and gun platforms. Hunyadi’s money and a workforce of thousands of local peasants had constructed the fortress over the last few weeks. It smelled of new earth.

  Swan walked down towards the river, which, if not as broad as the sea, was broader here than the Grand Canal in Venice. He passed the Orthodox chapel built of new wood and the Catholic church, also built of wood, and then passed the rows of wagons parked in their own section of camp, all en route to the boatyard along the river.

  It was early, and Swan’s head was throbbing, but the river was beautiful and the blacksmith was now far enough away that the tink tink tink of his work was less a menace and more like music.

  There were two flat-bottomed boats under construction. A dozen men, all middle aged, stood around one of them while two more used a pit-saw to make planks. They ignored Swan, and Swan was happy to ignore them. He passed a row of guns – mostly iron, but a few bronze, all sizes – and then slipped out through the beachside sally port with a nod to the sentry, who paid him no heed whatsoever.

  Swan walked upriver fifty paces. Three other men were bathing, where a hale old tree stood out over the water.

  Swan dropped his kaftan and leaped into the water as the three men began shouting.

  It was among the stupider things he’d ever done.

  The water was deep – so deep that he was instantly swept away by the current. He fought panic, swallowed river water, got his head up – and caught a spear-haft extended out over the water.

  Sputtering thanks, he was hauled ashore at the end of a sixteen-foot Swiss pike. Even so, he was already weak, and it took him time to get up the bank, which was uncomfortably steep.

  The three men clucked and got him up the bank.

  ‘There is a current!’ one said, in Hungarian. In fact, Swan didn’t know the word for current, but he got it quickly enough.

  One of the men had a loaf of bread, and he gave Swan some, and the four men sat for a moment.

  Swan noted that his hangover was gone.

  He swam more carefully from the old tree, as the Hungarians directed him, dried himself, feeling much better, and walked back. He was clean for the first time in days, and he took an opportunity to take hot water from Willoughby’s fire.

  The older Englishman was lying by the fire, playing with it, when Swan returned to shave. The Englishmen had acquired a trio of young women – sturdy, pretty in a country way, and clearly ready to work.

  The language barrier was obvious – Willoughby was attempting to explain to a Hungarian farm-girl how to maintain a constant temperature with a wood fire. She not only didn’t understand – she didn’t care.

  Willoughby looked at Swan in desperation. ‘We’ve got bacon!’ he said, as if this explained everything. ‘That fire will burn it to a crisp!’

  At the word ‘bacon’ Swan’s mouth began to water. He turned to the girl.

  ‘What’s your name, my sweet?’ he asked, in passable Hungarian.

  She frowned. ‘Maria,’ she said, as if this might be too much of a concession.

  ‘My friend wants you to understand,’ he began.

  The woman walked off. She wasn’t being especially rude. She came back with an armload of firewood.

  ‘See?’ Willoughby said.

  Swan shrugged. ‘I think you’d best cook your own bacon,’ he admitted. ‘In which case, I’ll take some.’

  ‘I cook,’ the woman said in recognisable English. She put her hands on her hips. ‘Where?’

  Swan switched to Hungarian. ‘My friend says the fire is too hot for his bacon.’

  The young Hungarian woman laughed. ‘What does a man know about cooking anything?’ she asked.

  Swan passed on her observation.

  Will Kendal appeared. ‘Tell the miss I’ve cooked me own bacon since I wore hose an’ shit brown,’ he said.

  On translation, she rolled her eyes.

  Swan retreated before the situation led to violence and began to shave in the shade of ‘his’ wagon, a wagon he shared, by arrangement, with the archers. He had a nail pounded into the wagon body at head height, and he hung his round bronze mirror on that nail, opened his brass-handled razor, and began to work away at the eight-day-old hairs on his face.

  His water was cooling faster than was fair, given that he was already sweating. But Mercia, his page, appeared with fresh, new-boiled water. ‘Šárka send this,’ he said.

  Swan smiled and began a second, more careful shave.

  Radu appeared with a plate of bacon. He said nothing and his bow was ridiculously low. Swan didn’t care.

  He rinsed his razor and made the bacon vanish so fast he could barely really enjoy it. There were five pieces, and he was aware that the other archers probably only had three. He ate them all anyway.

  Mercia appeared round the big wheel and handed him a steaming cup of hot hippocras, full of honey. Swan didn’t want it, but it proved, as it always did, to go very well with bacon.

  He rinsed his sticky fingers in his soapy shaving water and towelled himself off. Then he threw his kaftan over his shoulders and slipped through the English camp, responding to various ‘Hallos!’ and ‘Good days!’ and ‘Sele of the day to thee, Captain’s with appropriate re
sponses. He made it to his tent without being caught by any of the Hungarian lords or his own officers, all of whom thought his bathing habits scandalous.

  It was a matter of upbringing. Londoners who grew up by the Thames bathed all the year, even risking death or near-drowning on icy steps in midwinter. Venetians were the same – men and even women could be seen bathing in the canals after the tide changed and cleaned the city.

  In most other places, bathing was less frequent, although Swan had heard that Prague and Krakow had superb bath-houses.

  His ruminations on bathing were interrupted by the discovery that his current mistress, Šárka, a Bohemian woman who was prettier than the common run of army women and much less difficult, was washing herself in his tent. He quickly discovered when her bathing sponge hit him squarely in the head that she had no interest in casual lechery and was only interested in cleanliness.

  He respected her. She was far tougher than he would ever have to be, unless he ended as a Turkish slave. He withdrew after noting a magnificent pile of clean linen on his camp bed. Šárka ran a group of women who were, at least by day, laundresses.

  He cooled his heels behind his tent, became bored as quickly as he always did, and slipped into the supply tent to have a look at his injured prisoner.

  The Turk lay there. He’d taken a few cuts – one pretty bad – and his left leg was broken. No one had come to set it. Swan’s anger rose. He stood, pulled his kaftan around his waist, and walked back out into the sun.

  The first man he encountered was Father Pietro, the priest of the Dominicans who had joined them many miles before.

  ‘I need a doctor for my Turk,’ Swan said.

  The Dominican’s white robe was dirty, but his linen was clean – Swan tended to judge men by the standards they set themselves, and there was something about Father Pietro’s open face, nearly round, and his dignity, that made Swan like him immediately.

  Father Pietro narrowed his eyes. ‘Your company needs a doctor,’ he said.

  ‘If you’d just ask God,’ Swan said.

  Father Pietro looked him in the eye. The priest’s eyes were mild and brown, but his look of reproach was obvious. ‘That’s very like blasphemy, my son, and the worse from you – a servant of the church and the great Bessarion.’ But as he always did, he ended with a smile. ‘Never mind. I need no miracle from God. I have some training in medicine, and I know a good German doctor with a degree from Bologna right here in this camp.’

  Indeed, Father Pietro had been in Hungary and Serbia for three years, and seemed to know everyone.

  Swan went back into the supply tent. ‘A doctor is coming to set your leg,’ he said.

  The Turk was as pale as bone.

  Swan shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in Turkish. ‘I forgot you.’

  He took the Turk’s hand. The young man had bitten his lips until they bled.

  He had not cried out – if he had, Swan would have heard him.

  Swan did what he could. He had the Turk’s bandage off his right arm, and when it proved to be bleeding, he went to his tent.

  ‘Pass me the salve in the blue jar,’ he asked.

  A slim hand appeared under the tent wall, and the blue jar emerged.

  Swan took it back and smeared the unguent – honey, olive oil and vinegar – on the wound. Flies came, and a wasp. Swan was wrapping the wound when the German doctor appeared. He sniffed the bandage and the blue jar and nodded.

  ‘This is good,’ he said.

  A minute later, the Turk gave one harsh scream. Swan was outside the tent, and he saw every man and women within earshot stiffen.

  The doctor emerged wiping his hands. ‘It is done – the leg is set,’ he said. ‘I need a splint. I have a proper one – can you pay?’

  Swan bowed. ‘I am Ser Thomas Swan of London and Venice,’ he said.

  The doctor nodded curtly. ‘And can you pay?’ he asked.

  Swan nodded. ‘I can.’

  ‘Good. I will work for free, but I will not use my good splints on paupers and Turks. Send me a man to carry things.’

  Swan waved to Clemente, who was lying on the ground, apparently staring at a tent peg.

  Swan realised belatedly that his page was looking under the tent flap. But by the time he’d figured out what the boy had to have been watching, Šárka emerged, neat, clean, and dressed almost like a middle-class German woman – clean linens, a good wool gown with cuffs and a high collar that fitted her beautifully. But few women wore men’s belts, or a short, heavy sabre in their belts. Much less a knife, a purse and a pair of scissors, all of which adorned her.

  She had a fine linen cap on her head and a man’s hat – in fact, one of his round Italian hats.

  ‘I fancied it,’ she said. ‘Ah, you shaved! Now you are the handsomest man.’

  Swan bowed. He made as if to pass her.

  She shook her head. ‘Lise is now bathing,’ she said.

  Swan frowned. ‘This is my tent,’ he said, realising how weak this sounded.

  She made a motion with her head, neither nod nor shake, approval nor negation.

  ‘The wagons have been moved to another part of camp,’ she said. ‘Our tents are full. Your tent is empty.’

  Swan nodded.

  ‘But I would like to get dressed,’ he said.

  She frowned. ‘I will bring you clothes – no, I will send Clemente,’ she said.

  ‘And I dress outside,’ Swan said.

  ‘Yes,’ Šárka answered. ‘Listen, my lord. I lie with you every night, and I charge you nothing. Yes? You can let my girls have a bath.’

  Swan raised both eyebrows.

  But … there are times to protest, and times to let go. Swan compared his life before Šárka to the inconvenience of not having a private place to dress. He leaned down, and she kissed him.

  ‘I will send your clothes immediately,’ she said. ‘You are very reasonable, for a man.’

  Swan tried not to think what that meant.

  He dressed by the wagon wheel. He was virtually in public view, but then so he had been swimming and shaving. And of course, all the rest of the soldiers dressed in the streets of the tent city – their tents were too small to stand in and pull on hose or doublet.

  Swan accepted his lot, dressed, pulled on boots, and finished his second hippocras. He wore his doublet open and his sleeves untied, and his broad straw hat gave him instant relief from the sun – the last provided by a smiling Hungarian girl who bowed, presented it ‘from Šárka’, and smelled of his best Venetian soap.

  Swan then wandered through his own camp, found Grazias, and led him to Hunyadi’s magnificent pavilion.

  Lord Hunyadi was not, for the first time Swan had seen him, in armour. Instead, he wore German hose and a big shirt and no doublet at all. He had only his sons and servants in attendance.

  Swan removed his hat and sketched an elaborate bow.

  ‘Ah, the hero of yesterday. Ser Suane! I was just sending for you.’

  Swan bowed again. ‘My lord Ban, this is the man I described yesterday – my stradiote.’

  Hunyadi nodded and spoke in yet another language Swan didn’t understand.

  Grazias bowed and replied in Greek, ‘I am Greek.’

  Hunyadi nodded. ‘I had hoped we would get Castradiot and the Albanians with us,’ he said. ‘As it is we’ll have no more than a few hundred, if that. And then only if they come in before the Turks close the south to us.’ He waved, and servants began to put out stools. ‘Do you know Serbia or Albania, Master Grazias?’

  Grazias sat, declined wine, and waved a hand over the table. ‘I know a little of Serbia and less of Albania,’ he said. ‘I am from the Morea.’ He looked at Swan. ‘Two of my men are Albanian,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ Hunyadi said. He leaned forward. ‘Would you consider crossing the river – north of here, of course – and trying to find our Albanians? They can’t be far. They should have marched three weeks ago.’

  Swan looked at Grazias. ‘The Ban sa
ys all the fighting will be on foot now, or in boats.’

  Grazias frowned. ‘I confess I have little interest in such fighting,’ he said. ‘But if the Turks come between me and the city—’

  ‘Then ride north to Peter Wardein and cross there,’ Hunyadi said. ‘They cannot invest Belgrade and Peter Wardein too.’

  Grazias looked at Swan.

  Swan shrugged. ‘This is entirely your decision,’ he said.

  Hunyadi put his elbows on the table. ‘Listen, then. Our victory yesterday may not be worth much – but it is worth this. We drove their scouts and their advance guard right back over the Danube. Mehmet will not be surprised – but I think we bloodied them a little more than they expected. For three or four days, I think we have the north bank to ourselves. I would not send you if I thought it was suicide.’

  Grazias narrowed his eyes. But he nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Where do we cross?’

  ‘You can ride north back to Peter Wardein,’ Hunyadi said. ‘Or my ships can have you across in two hours, if your horses will swim.’

  ‘How did the Turks cross, then?’ Swan asked.

  Hunyadi shrugged. ‘They can buy boats too,’ he said, pointing at the small fleet of fishing boats and barges that were gathered under the earthwork and palisade walls. ‘And the Sultan will have part of his fleet. The Turks train all their horses to swim. It would not have been so difficult.’ He frowned. ‘If I had been able to send Tepes into Wallachia earlier, I could have prevented Mehmet from getting across at all, or made him pay. As it is …’ He frowned. ‘Without the Albanians or the Serbians, we are alone.’

  ‘I will fetch any Albanian volunteers, then,’ Grazias said. ‘We’ll be ready in an hour.’

  He bowed, shot Swan a slight smile – Swan wondered what it meant – and, bending almost double, left the tent.

  When he was gone, Hunyadi raised an eyebrow at his son. ‘László tells me that you have fought the Turk before,’ he said.

  Swan nodded. ‘Yes, Lord,’ he said.

  Hunyadi nodded, as if to himself. ‘You have faced them at sea,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, my lord. I have served on Venetian galleys and on the galleys of the Order.’ He held out his hand so that the ring of his order showed on his hand.