by Dave Duncan
“Money!” he roared. The dieci were already behind in payments. That was to be expected. Veteran mercenaries were surprised when their pay wasn’t in arrears.
“Prices!” he howled. Horses were going for more than five hundred florins. The cost of wheat, of barley, of wine…
“The conclave!” he screamed. The darughachi had invited every knight and archer and man-at-arms in all Italy. The villa would not hold them, there was no place to feed them, and the Company was expected to pay for everything…
Toby listened sympathetically because being a scratching post was part of his job. The big Gascon was merely venting his frustration on a target he could not damage instead of taking out his feelings on his subordinates. The last time this happened had been two days ago, and then Toby had assured his treasurer of his continuing support and confidence and reliance. This time, for a change, he waited until the fires had died down a little and then laughed. Arnaud fell silent and began turning purple.
“Pardon me, old friend! I’ve seen you worked up too often. Oftentimes I’ve talked you out of strangling people—haven’t I?”
“Certainly not! Well, maybe. Once or twice.”
“More than that. You always tell me that the world is about to end, and you always solve the problems on your own. Always! Now, what are you going to do this time?”
Glowering, Arnaud began to list the measures he was planning to take, such as moving tents to Cafaggiolo for sleeping quarters. He had hardly begun when—
“Ah, there you are, Constable Longdirk!” The countess swished into the courtyard in a haze of russet-and-purple silk.
The men exchanged fraught glances, then rose and bowed low.
“I need a word with you, Sir Tobias—alone?” That aloneness would not exclude Lisa, of course, who had come scowling along at her mother’s heel in a yellowy green robe and was illuminating the courtyard like a goddess.
Realizing that he was gawking at her, Toby swung his attention back to her awesome mother. “Pray speak freely, my lady. Treasurer Villars understands no English.”
He registered his folly as soon as the words were out, for the countess had had dealings with Arnaud, and he, being a Gascon, spoke better English than Toby did. Fortunately, he never did so from choice, and the countess’s failure to react showed that he must have forced her to converse in French. She dismissed him from consideration.
“Constable …” She did not presume to sit, so everyone remained standing, but she was displaying an uncharacteristic lack of confidence. “Constable, tell me how you expect … how you see events unfolding in the next few months.”
“Months? I cannot see months, my lady. I expect the Fiend’s armies to invade Italy within two or three weeks. Armies loyal to the Khan will oppose him and, hopefully, will deal with Nevil as we dealt with his flunky Schweitzer.”
The lady was not pleased. She squeezed her lips together. “Under whose leadership?”
Her daughter was not pleased either. So they had learned just how bad relations now were between Toby and his employer, the republic of Florence, but why was Lisa not smirking her royal smirk at his downfall?
“That is for Prince Sartaq to determine, ma’am.”
Blanche hesitated, as if about to ask him what his chances were, but then she changed her mind. “Victory is by no means certain, is it?”
“No, my lady. Nor is it impossible.” What was she up to and why didn’t she get on with it?
“I fear for my daughter’s safety in the event of a defeat, Constable.”
Ah! “And your own, ma’am, of course.”
She sighed the sort of sigh that would have felled a royal court in her youth. “I am little concerned with my own fate, Sir Tobias. After so many years of flight, one wearies of the chase. But Lisa still has many years of life to look forward to, and I do not wish to leave her at risk. In the light of what you have said, I believe that we should withdraw to the island of Malta until the danger is past and you have won your great victory.”
“Probably a wise decision under the circumstances,” Toby murmured politely. What the lady was not saying—or had not said yet, at least—was that she was now penniless and had run out of friends to prevail upon. That would come.
She acknowledged his concession with a nod. “Then would you be so kind, Constable, as to have your staff make the necessary arrangements?” She indicated Arnaud with a fluttery gesture. “I plan on leaving as soon as possible.”
Doubtless. So did all the thousands of panic-stricken refugees already packed into every port in the peninsula. Ships were rarer than sea monsters.
“I shall instruct messer Villars accordingly, ma’am. It may take him some time to find a suitable vessel, you understand.”
The countess smiled as if about to terminate the interview, then remembered another detail. A moment before she spoke, Toby guessed what was coming. That was not just dislike in Lisa’s eyes, although there was certainly enough of that. It was tension. And Blanche had it, too, although she was hiding it better. There was something between them that they were not revealing.
“My own staff was left behind in Siena, Sir Tobias, as you know. In particular, I feel the need for a steward, a majordomo. I have my eye on one of your chancellors, Master Campbell. He was of some assistance to both my daughter and myself in Siena, and I am favorably impressed with his qualities. We understand he has an indenture of some sort with the Don Ramon Company. May I prevail upon you to consider transferring this contract to my name, Constable? As a favor to the future Queen of England?”
She wanted to buy Hamish? Toby drew in a long, slow breath. Lisa was as taut as a bowstring, and he would wager that there had been a very stormy scene—several scenes, possibly a whole stage play-between mother and daughter before a compromise had been hammered out. Hamish was the price of Lisa’s cooperation. Not buying him, though. Blanche expected him to give her Hamish. He did not know whether to bellow with laughter or keep the game going until Arnaud exploded, which might not be very long at all.
“It is true, my lady, that everyone in the company has put his name or made his mark on a scroll, but in the case of senior personnel like Chancellor Campbell, that is only because our clients insist on formal records. I would not dream of holding him against his will. If he wishes to enter your service, either permanently or temporarily, I will never stand in his way.” So much for Master Hamish, who must have been the one to tell Lisa about the contract and who had, therefore, almost certainly been using it as an excuse to avoid making a commitment.
Meanwhile Lisa was having great difficulty in suppressing a leer of joy and triumph, and her mother was less pleased. So Lady Lisa thought she could talk Hamish into anything, and the countess was not as stupid as she pretended.
“Messer Arnaud?” Toby turned to Villars but was careful to avoid meeting his eye. “Kindly book passage to Malta for Their Ladyships and a small party of attendants. Charge it to the casa.”
“Sì, messer.”
“You are most kind, Constable!” The lady offered her hand to be kissed and paraded solemnly out of the yard, with Lisa floating blissfully at her back.
“How much priority do I assign to that last instruction, Your Magnificence?” Arnaud inquired acidly.
“Don’t move a finger on it,” Toby growled, staring after the disappearing visitors. “Spin her all the tales you like, but do nothing.”
Lisa was far too valuable a card to be allowed to float around loose. At least, he hoped that was his motive. He hated the idea that he might no longer trust Hamish.
THREE
April
31
The Marradi villa at Cafaggiolo was more of a palace than a family farm, but its formal gardens blended into fields, vineyards, and olive groves; it grew herbs and vegetables and raised some of the finest livestock in Italy. The greatest artists of Europe had decorated its halls. Now Toby had unwittingly turned it into a barnyard. An intimate meeting of a few had exploded into a conference
of hundreds. It seemed as if every city and town north of Sicily had sent its captain-general or collaterale, then backed him up with most of its signory, either because the politicians did not trust him or just because they wanted the honor of being guests of the Marradi. All these cavalcades of dignitaries had brought trains of attendants and guards. The Tartars were going to come later, perhaps even the prince himself, if they could lure him away from his romantic pursuits.
The villa had space for only a tenth, nay a fiftieth, of this multitude. They overflowed into the stables and outhouses, they set up camps in the fields and orchards, they filled up the nearby village and colonized the hills. When hunger bit, they were sure to start looting. Even before he reached the gates that first morning, Toby sent a squire galloping back to Fiesole to summon a hundred more lances to help keep order. Arnaud went with him to organize more provisions.
Making excuses was not in Toby’s nature, but again and again during those terrible three days he found himself repeating, “I did not plan this!” The men he really wanted to see had all come—the top military leaders of Italy, all men he respected even if some of them he could not like, and he was proud that he could now regard himself as one of them. So he had invited them to a conclave and landed them in a bear baiting.
Even as he was trying to reach the main door with Hamish and half a dozen others at his heels, pushing his way up the steps through a yabbering, screaming, hand-waving mob of soldiers and civilians, he saw a face he knew looming over the throng and changed direction to reach it. Ercole Abonio, the Duke of Milan’s collaterale, was a gruff, rawboned man, almost as tall as Toby himself, more than twice his age. Lombard ancestors had bequeathed him red hair and fighting skills second to none, but he was also a true knight in the finest traditions of chivalry, as if all that was honorable in his bloodlines had come to him, and all that was tawdry and larcenous had gone to his brother, the ambassador. Ercole had taught Toby much of what he knew, and yet at Trent he had steadfastly refused to accept the supreme command, pleading Toby’s case instead of his own on the grounds of ill health. He had then fought like a maniac, being wounded twice and having three horses killed under him. There was no one that Toby admired more than the big Milanese, and the quirk of amusement that lit up the man’s craggy face was a knife twisted in his heart.
As the two full-sized warriors were clearing a path toward each other through the shrubbery of stunted clerics and burghers, Toby realized that Ercole’s companion was Giovanni Alfredo, Captain-General of Venice. That made a difference. Alfredo was not a personal friend, so this cozy little meeting of the three military powers of the north was going to be business, and it was also going to be conducted in the presence of their respective followers and a riot of onlookers. One careless word might overturn many apple carts.
Then Ercole was within reach and could grab Toby in a ferocious bear hug, roaring out his delight at their meeting. Toby gave as good as he got; they exchanged massive shoulder thumps as they parted. He turned to offer a more restrained greeting to Alfredo, who was already shaking hands with Hamish. They were cast from the same mold, those two—slim, dark, and quick of eye—and not far apart in age, either. Alfredo had been the unquestioned rising star of the younger condottieri until Toby had come on the scene. On paper he was still ahead, for he was captain-general of a richer, greater city than Florence, but he was ambitious and would not be satisfied to fight for others all his life. His brilliance at maneuvering around his opponents to turn up on their flanks or in their rear had earned him the name of Stiletto. He was reputed to have similar skill at politics, which many soldiers of fortune did not. Present company included!
Then the formalities were over, all the underlings acknowledged—
“I had not anticipated quite so many fellow guests,” Ercole remarked. His expression was superbly innocent, but his eyes were twinkling.
“I did not plan this,” Toby protested—for the first time, but knowing it would not be the last. “I don’t know where they all came from.” The entrance to the villa was now plugged solid by this meeting of the three warriors, their followers having packed in close around them to hear the exchange. Onlookers were openly eavesdropping on the outskirts.
“You should have learned by now, Sir Tobias,” Alfredo said, “how rare a thing in Italy is a secret meeting.” The glint in his dark eyes spelled satisfaction. He would not be human if he did not resent this brash foreigner who had upstaged him at Trent and was now looking very foolish.
“I should have known.” Toby sighed. “Especially I should have known if you did, for you have only to deal with Venetian politics, whereas I am faced with the Florentine variety, which are so much more … er, how do you say ‘Byzantine’ in Italian?”
“Milanese,” Alfredo countered.
Ercole and his Milanese were not afraid to join in the laughter, but the Venetians at Alfredo’s back remained carefully wooden-faced, recognizing that the joke was really directed at the Most Serene Republic and frightened they might be thought to be enjoying it. Venice was notoriously more Byzantine than Byzantium had ever been. Soldiers of fortune might be allies this year and next year enemies, but as professionals they bore no grudges. They all shared a healthy contempt for civilian rulers, whether they be the merchants of Venice and Florence, the aristocrats in Milan and Naples, or the acolytes of Rome. They would bleed or even die for those men’s gold if they had to, but only courage and fighting skill would buy their admiration.
“Possibly in the next day or two we can arrange a private chat apart from the main meetings,” Toby suggested.
“If a secret meeting is rare, one from which politicians are excluded is like the phoenix.” Stiletto’s eyes conveyed warning. Venice was always suspicious of its condottieri and had been known to chop off their heads. So, of course, had Florence. If those limp-eyed flunkies behind him had been sent along to keep an eye on him, who was keeping an eye on Toby?
“My dear brother is around here somewhere,” Ercole remarked, including himself in this unstated brotherhood of the sword against the poison pen. “But I am more worried by the real foe. How many spies do you suppose the Fiend has sown in this conference?”
The three men exchanged grimaces as if they had all heard footsteps walking on their tombs. Alfredo smiled thinly. “Perhaps that’s where everybody came from, messer Longdirk?”
32
Fiesole was a dull, dull place without Hamish. Lisa had her lady’s maid for company—Beritola knew some wonderfully scandalous stories but not much else—and Sister Bona could be entertaining when she was not occupied being dam to her litter of children. All the other women had duties and interests that left them no time for frivolities such as conversation. There were men, some of them mildly amusing at times, but men just reminded her of Hamish and increased her misery. And of course there was Mother, who was admittedly much more endurable than she had been a few weeks ago. She had mellowed so much that she sometimes laughed now and would talk of her childhood and marriage—astonishing!
But the villa was dull. Life itself was dull without Hamish. Every moment they shared was as precious as rubies because they both knew their idyll could not last. The war would come; Maud would drag Lisa off to some safe refuge. Hamish refused to commit himself on what he would do then, but what could life hold for them but more agony? Their love was doomed. She had offered many times to renounce her royal heritage and marry him, and he would not hear of it. Men were stupid!
As she trotted her horse back to the villa on the second day of Hamish’s absence, with her escort following, she was disturbed to see a large and impressive carriage standing at the door. Real glass in the windows, gilded moldings and bright enamels—a very splendid vehicle indeed, and the eight matched grays in the traces must be worth a king’s ransom. Half a dozen saddle horses were being held by two men in blue-and-yellow livery. She ought to know that livery. Hamish had pointed it out to her in the city. Who had come calling with an escort of six men-at-arms?
A crowd had gathered at a respectful distance to stare—soldiers, women, children. With so many of the senior men in the Company currently absent, she did not doubt for a moment that this ominous intrusion concerned her. A strange knot was tightening in her insides, palms damp, heart pounding. Hamish! She needed Hamish, but he was leagues away at that fatuous conclave he admitted wasn’t going to achieve anything. Even Longdirk, she decided. She would not mind at all seeing that overgrown lout planted near the coach, because he always got his own way, and so far he had provided her with admirable protection and hospitality, even if he was a merciless butcher and his manners would shock a rookery.
Her approach had been noted. Down the steps came Mother and several other people—saturnine Marshall Diaz, madonna Anna, and three others not recognizable. Behind them strode the six guards, glittering bright and dangerous.
She could not avoid the encounter. When faced with the inevitable, pretend it’s what you want. That was what Hamish said when she warned him she was going to have to kiss him again. Or he would insist that no true lady would kiss a man of her own volition, and he would not allow it. In either case he would then crush her in his arms and preempt her kiss with one of his own, long and lingering and passionate. How dare he be missing when she needed him!
She reined in behind the coach and jumped down from the saddle before there could be any nonsense about bringing stepladders. She shook her skirts out, straightened her bonnet, and walked around the vehicle to face the group now waiting for her. One look at Mother’s face was enough to confirm her worst fears.
Maud held out a hand to her. Lisa moved quickly to take it before anyone else could notice how it was shaking.
“We have company?”
“Elizabeth …” Her mother’s voice was a croak. Her eyes were as round as a trout’s. “We are honored by a visit from Her Grace, the dowager Duchess of Ferrara…”
