“She has a duke to protect her now,” replied Acquel. “And the army that goes with him. How could any of us get to her?”
“She may come to us first,” said Volpe. “Which would save us the trouble.” He started to speak again and then fell silent.
“What were you going to say?” asked Acquel, touching the monk’s sleeve.
“There are ways—a middle path, neither black nor white—that could afford us a means to surprise her. Such means do carry great risk for the practitioner and those with him.”
Kodoris pushed himself up. “I forbid it!”
Volpe bowed his head. “We have not yet reached that point, Your Holiness. God willing, we will not have to.”
Acquel was not so sure but held his tongue. If Lucinda came to the Ara, it would be a time and place of her choosing, not theirs. Volpe’s words made sense to him: take the fight to her, before she had a chance to strike.
“And what word from the High Steward?” asked Kodoris, wincing and setting his head back down into his pillows.
“He has summoned me to dine with him. To inform him of our plans to defend the city. And also, his letter says, to deliver some intelligence that his men have gleaned of late.”
Kodoris nodded. “Yes, you go. But you must not mention any of this talk of incantations. Is that understood? Only martial means of defence. Tell him about the training of the Order.”
Acquel bowed. “He would scarce believe it anyway, Holiness. Of that I am sure.”
DRESSED IN THEIR black robes and white linen tabards bearing the ten-rayed sun in splendour, Acquel and Ugo Volpe made their way up the winding rock-hewn steps of the palace of Marsilius, High Steward of Livorna. The palace, a fortress in its own right, was nestled into the cliff side at the north-eastern corner of the city. It was a gloomy place, despite the bright orange-red tiles of its many roofs and turrets, and Acquel found himself choking back emotion as he thought of his mother. For years she had toiled at the washing tubs of the palace while he had lived the life of a street thief. It was at her urgings that he had taken holy orders. And then, the murders at the Ara, the blame falling upon him, and ultimately, her death from a broken heart.
Volpe paused, puffing, halfway up the stairs. “There had better be a generous spread laid for us after this effort. A few pitchers of decent Milvornan wine I hope at the very least. A count can afford his guests that, can he not?”
Acquel frowned. “I did not bring you here that you could sate your appetite. I want you to see what we’re up against on this side of the walls, at Livorna. And why the defence of Livorna is down to you and me.”
They reached the gates and were ushered inside by retainers who looked more bored than anything else. Their large green and white check livery made them look like acrobats at a fair rather than a household guard. Yet they bore short, double-edged swords at their hips to give proof of their martial purpose. The monks were led along long corridors of marbled floors and high ceilings illuminated by chandeliers, a blazing constellation of beeswax candles. The great hall of Marsilius was modest compared to the one he had seen at Maresto, but it was impressive nonetheless. High dark beams crossed the ceiling with a large carved golden rose at each intersecting joint. A tapestry thirty feet long and twenty high graced one wall and the long table could comfortably seat a hundred. Acquel watched as Volpe’s greedy eye scanned the table top, admiring the platters and the much hoped for tall ewers of wine.
They were left standing there some time, drinking in the beauty of the chamber, while they, in turn, were stared at by the guards. At length, another door opened and in came Marsilius and his councillor, followed by a retinue of servers. Marsilius was old but not ancient, yet Acquel noticed how he leaned on his castellan’s arm for support as he slowly shuffled across the inlaid floor in his robes of mulberry red. Kodoris had been right: for whatever reason, age had not treated him well. The councillor, no young man himself, guided Marsilius to the end of the long table and helped manoeuvre him into the high-backed chair. Marsilius waved a hand, motioning for the monks to join him at table.
“Magister Acquelonius, please sit and take some repast. Your companion monk too.”
Acquel bowed and took a seat, as did Volpe, on opposite sides of the count. Acquel briefly studied the man. His thin, wispy grey hair fell to the nape of his neck but a large bald spot shone brightly at the crown. He had a proud nose and brow, thin lips and strong chin. His eyes were dark and somewhat sunken, though from age or by birth Acquel did not know. No sooner had they seated themselves than servants began attending on them, first Marsilius, then Acquel and Volpe. Brother Ugo’s eyes lit as he quaffed a mouthful of wine, obviously to his taste. The castellan, not known to Acquel, hovered at the arm of the Count’s chair. Marsilius twisted himself with difficulty to make the introduction. “This is my advisor, Paolo Voltera. Lord Paolo and I have just returned from Perusia—to pay our respects to the departed king.”
Voltera nodded and smiled. “Welcome, brothers of the Ara.”
“This is Brother Ugo Volpe,” said Acquel as he gestured across the table. “He is... someone who has long experience of martial matter, despite being in holy orders.”
“I welcome you both to my house,” said Marsilius reaching for a chunk of roasted fowl. “I must say that I am exhausted from our travels. Still, I did not want to delay our talk. Better that we discuss these urgent matters now.”
“That is most gracious, my lord,” responded Acquel as he watched Marsilius attack the guinea fowl with the rapaciousness of a starving man.
Marsilius swallowed and reached for his silver goblet. “And how fares the High Priest? I have heard he was somehow injured in the crypt. Not more to do with the earlier attack on the Ara I hope?”
“No, my lord,” lied Acquel, “He was bitten by a spider as his hand swept over a column. The creature had made its web there. He received good physic from the brethren and is recovering from the wound.”
Marsilius nodded. “That is good. Luck runs very ill of late. What with the murder of your predecessor a few weeks gone by... not to mention the unpleasantness of last summer.”
Acquel felt himself blanch at the mention. Marsilius gave him a long look. “I fully accept your innocence in that matter, Magister. An awkward time. And we also fully accept your revelations of the holy mysteries. Of the will of Saint Elded.” The Count’s eyes fell to the chain around Acquel’s neck. “May I see the amulet, Magister?”
Acquel shot a glance to Volpe, who in turn gave a slight shrug. Acquel lifted the golden disk from out of his robes. The count’s unsteady hand reached across the table and gently took it up, still about Acquel’s neck.
“A pretty, if somewhat rude, piece of craft. But to think what it has afforded you.” He released it, nodding thoughtfully to himself. Acquel tucked the amulet back into his robes.
The count dug into his meal again. Volpe was enthusiastically wolfing down his own, his plate now piled high with meats and cheese. “It was a sad business in Perusia,” continued Marsilius. “To see the queen so distraught by such an unexpected tragedy. Brought tears to my eyes. But it was instructive to see that not only was Duke Ursino absent, he sent no one else from Torinia either. Not a man. Milvorna sent only two from Duke Ridolfo’s council. A clear insult as the Duke himself should have been present. Mind you, Ursino’s insult was far worse....” The Count trailed off, as if lost for words, his face frozen, eyes looking straight ahead. Acquel leaned forward, waiting for the Count to finish his sentence. But as the moment lengthened into more than just a pregnant pause, the Count remained still and silent, stuck on his last thought. Volpe stopped chewing, his eyebrows raised in bewilderment.
Finally, Voltera cleared his throat nervously and stepped forward, leaning over the Count who now appeared as if he had been dropped in aspic. Voltera extended his right hand which held a round silver pomander with a red ribbon and carefully waved it under the nose of the Count. “Brother monks,” he said quietly, “I apologize f
or this. The count is often afflicted by this disorder.”
A few moments later, Marsilius blinked and closed his mouth. His brow furrowed. “Ah, what was I saying?”
“You were speaking of Duke Ursino sending no delegation to represent him,” reminded Acquel. Volpe was looking at Acquel to see what he had made of the episode.
“Yes, that is correct. Torinia’s slight is as good as a declaration of war against the crown. He will announce the throne his by right of blood despite the existence of the young prince.”
“But on what grounds?” asked Acquel. “The prince is the rightful heir. Perhaps he manoeuvres to be regent.”
“I know he is kin to the late king. Cousin of some degree. Just what scrap of law on which he would base his claim is...” And once again Marsilius stopped as if enchanted, mid-sentence. Acquel winced and looked up to Voltera. The advisor leaned forward and waved the strong smelling medicine once again under the Count’s motionless face. But this time, it did nothing. Volpe pulled a sprig of rosemary out of his teeth and watched, frowning.
“Ah gentlemen,” said Voltera, in a tone of sadness that Acquel was not entirely convinced was genuine. “Sometimes these spells do last some time. The scent normally brings him around. Doesn’t seem to be working though.” He shook his head and then gently pulled the Count back into his chair so that his head rested against the carved back. “Allow me to continue for the Count, if I may. I was in attendance with him.”
Acquel sat back and raised both hands in acceptance of the offer.
“The intelligence we gathered upon our return was more alarming,” began Voltera as he leaned upon the trestle. “A great army is heading north from Torinia city to join the forces already at the border near Persarola and Palio.”
“How do you know this?” demanded Acquel. “Did you see them?”
“No. But we met travellers who had come from the south of the duchy. They told of a vast force, several thousand strong, moving northwards. Mercenary companies, the Duke’s own army and guardsmen, perhaps even Ursino himself among them.”
Acquel was not surprised. “Perhaps they will turn east and try and invest Perusia.”
Voltera shook his head with certainty. “No. They are too far north for that course, Brother Acquelonius. Their objective must surely be Maresto’s northern reaches. Or us. Livorna.”
“Or both,” said Acquel, looking over to Volpe. The old monk inclined his head in agreement.
“There’s more I am sorry to have to relate,” said Voltera. “We ourselves saw a second great force coming from Milvorna. It was at a distance, but it was sizable, horsemen and infantry. We did not linger to learn more.”
“Across the Duchy of Torinia? Then Duke Ridolfo must have right of passage.”
“Worse. He is an ally of Ursino now. It must be so.”
Acquel looked down at his plate, untouched. The war was coming and just as quickly as he had warned. Maresto had to be informed. Strykar would have to return without delay.
“I know the Count wanted to know what your preparations are in the event of a siege,” said Voltera, somewhat awkwardly. He glanced to his lord and then back to Acquel, grimacing. “Perhaps this should wait for another time...”
“You are the castellan, sir. Does not the soldiery fall to your command? I was told that the count had confirmed that all of your militia—all his men-at-arms—would now be under command of the Ara?”
Voltera frowned. “Ah, yes. He did mention that a few weeks ago. Nothing since, I’m afraid.”
Volpe shook his head and reached for his wine goblet again.
“Well,” said Acquel, “How many men do you have at your disposal?”
Voltera rubbed his chin. “I would have to summon the captain of the guard for the exact number. I am, you see,” he gave a nervous twitter, “in more of a ceremonial capacity. But, if you press me for a rough count, I’d say two hundred... thereabouts.”
Acquel watched as once again Volpe’s brow raised in a mixture of disbelief and derision. He turned back to Voltera. “We must get the folk that dwell in the hamlet, just outside the east gate, inside the walls. Can you give the order to bring in all forage and livestock from the surrounding area? There’s nothing we can do about the crops in the field. They will be torched.”
Voltera looked again at the Count and raised his hands. “When he’s like this it’s hard to know when he will return. Do what you think best, Magister.”
Ugo Volpe wiped his mouth and pushed back his bench. “We should leave now, Magister,” he grumbled.
Acquel bit his lip and then too got to his feet. He gestured over to Marsilius, whose eyes still stared upwards, as good an impression of death as Acquel had ever seen. “Should we leave him... like this... Is there nothing—?”
Voltera smiled, remarkably composed thought Acquel, and waved his hand. “No, worry not. He won’t even know you’ve left. Be on your way. I can summon you when he’s in a better state for conversation.”
Their escort left them at the palace gates and they made their slow progress back down the stone steps to the courtyard and the gate which led out into the city. “Worse on the knees going down than it was going up,” said Volpe pausing for breath halfway. “Now I see what you meant by letting me see ‘what we’re up against’ as you put it earlier. How long has he been addled like that?”
“He was worse than I last remember. Sweet Elded save us. I have never fought in a battle. Never defended a town under siege. I barely know where to begin.”
Volpe leaned against the rough stone face of the cliff. “Well, you started off right. Getting folk in from the outlying villages with what food they can carry. Imagine we have another week yet, God willing.”
“We need to send a rider south, to reach Duke Alonso—or at least get word to the Black Rose and Strykar.” He grasped the old monk’s shoulder. “Brother Ugo, I cannot lead this defence on my own. I can’t. Maybe Lieutenant Poule...”
Volpe smiled and laid a finger aside his crushed medlar of a nose. “You’re forgetting that I know a thing or two about war too. We’ll sort out the rest as we go along!”
Caught between an advancing army and the black arts of Lucinda della Rovera, Acquel began to feel the world close in upon him.
Fourteen
STRYKAR TORE OFF his gauntlets and quickly ripped open the seal on the letter he had been handed by a courier of the Count’s retinue. He re-entered his tent, its gaily coloured flaps now tied back to allow in the afternoon light, and dumped himself into a field chair. He gestured to his server for his goblet and then unfolded the message, hastily scrawled in a thick hand, ink smudged and spill-stained.
It was from the apothecary.
Messere Julianus, my honoured patron,
I have felt compelled to write to you rather than wait until you are next in Maresto (and knowing full well of the exigencies of the battlefield). Since your departure, the reception of our acqua miracula in the town has surpassed all expectation. As fast as I could distil the precious liquor and bottle it, it is spoken for. All stock is sold, and alas I have but one sackful of the prime ingredient which you alone can provide. I have collected 372 ducats in totothus far having found that the wealthier sort of Maresto are willing to pay huge sums for our elixir, given its remarkable qualities.
Strykar’s mouth split into a wide grin as he read. His pay as a commander was not insignificant he knew, but an added source of income was welcome indeed. Why should the nobility get all the sinecures on wine, silks, or spice? This was his monopoly: acqua miracula. His black-rimmed fingernails ran across the page as he read further.
Yet it is with heavy heart and much dismay, good sir, that I must relate the most difficult of news regarding our venture. News of the elixir has reached the Duke’s exchequer and, alas, it has been adjudicated (most cruelly I fear) that our liquor is in breach of law regarding tax and duty owed upon it, for you were never given the right to sell. I have now settled with the exchequer men, having paid the lev
y and the fines which leaves the enterprise still in profit I am happy to report. I will hold the remaining ten ducats for you when next we meet. Given that you still must obtain a warrant, I shall refrain from distilling any further until you return. May I enquire of your next expedition to the northern reaches that we might obtain more of the leaf?
Strykar balled the letter in his fist and flung it across the tent.
“Money-grubbing bastards!” He kicked over the tripod table for good measure, sending his serving boy dashing out of the tent for fear of his life. He retrieved his goblet from the grass and refilled it with the pitcher that had thankfully been set down upon his blackwood chest near his camp bed. He took a long swig, topped the brass goblet up again, and walked out. The walls of Istriana were just visible above the makeshift stockade of the encampment: palisades of hacked-down saplings rising up over a hastily dug three-foot ditch. Wagons had been pushed into position too, helping to create a wall around the encampment where some four thosand soldiers—whether knightly men-at-arms, spearmen, swordsmen or bowmen—went about the business of preparing for war. As one of three Coronels for the company, it was his captains who directed the rank and file of the rondelieri, spearmen and bowmen that were in his column. His duties were to work with the quartermaster to arrange food and billeting and to help devise strategy along with the other Coronels and with Malvolio. The Count himself commanded the thousand-strong heavy cavalry of the Black Rose, delegating to one or two of his noblemen friends to lead the lances into battle.
It was no doubt a similar arrangement on the far side of little Istriana where the Company of the Scarlet Ring had made their camp. Six and a half thousand men combined, thought Strykar. More than enough to deal with the Torinian companies to the east. That was if they would only stop digging in like badgers and begin to get moving across the broad rolling countryside. It was terrain that favoured boldness not passivity. He drained his goblet and pulled on the gauntlets that he had looped into the belt of his doublet. It was time to go into town to meet Malvolio and the commanders of the Scarlet Ring. He made his way through the sprawling encampment, the tang of rusting steel mixed with that of leather and horse strong in his nostrils, and fetched his black courser at the paddock. The grooms saluted, handed off the reins and he trotted out of camp and across the field to the main gate of Istriana.
The Witch of Torinia Page 15
