The men who were sick were among my best: l’Angars, Pierre Lapot and Gospel Mark.
‘I don’t think they have plague,’ Albin said, rubbing his face. ‘I’m sorry. I am so tired.’
‘Who does have plague?’ I asked.
‘The count’s people. But most of the ones who had plague are dead. My uncle was among the last; he probably caught it from them. Do you know that there are fools in my profession who do not believe that plague can be transferred from person to person?’ He shook his head. ‘My uncle was a famous man. He is dead, and the count has done nothing – no burials, no extra food …’
‘I will see to it that the count is informed. Things have been difficult.’ The truth was that my patron had apparently forgotten; he was sick himself. And he was short on ready money. Twice he had borrowed small sums from me, and I knew I’d never see that money again.
Despite which, I handed over about forty ducats in gold and silver, all I had on me, or rather, all that Demetrios, the braver of my Greek boys, had in my purse. Stefanos stayed with the boat, being too afraid of sickness to come into the entry hall.
I didn’t blame him. Have you ever had the experience of hearing someone describe an illness and feeling your skin prickle, or itch, in response to the description? Listen, then. I sat there in the entrance hall of the Lazzaretto, talking to Peter Albin through a grille as if he was a priest hearing my confession on a holy day, and I felt as if I could see the miasmas in the air around us. My skin burned, and my breathing was odd, and my heart raced.
I was perspiring freely.
I was afraid.
‘Venetian doctors are the best in the world,’ he said. He shrugged. ‘And there are three very good ones here. But everything costs money – every medicine, every cup of wine.’ His eyes went to a boat just landing at the side pier.
Half a dozen women came off, laughing and joking with the boatman about his pole. I could not understand much of their Veneziano, but enough to know a saucy joke when I heard one.
They were hard-looking, those girls, and none was what I’d call a great beauty, but they were well dressed and they could laugh. The prettiest one, who’d made a quip at the boatman, saw me looking at her and she made a little bob, a sort of abbreviated curtsy, and jutted her chin at me.
‘See something you like, sailor?’ she said in fair Italian.
I gave her a smile; her spirit was as pretty as her face. I got into our boat to go back to the Rialto, and after we were away from the Lazzaretto and Stefanos was crouching in the far corner of the boat from me, I asked the boatman.
‘Whores?’ I asked, pointing back at the landing stage.
He nodded. ‘Salted,’ he said. ‘Girls who have had plague as children, or marsh fever, or both.’ He shrugged. ‘Sometimes they get sick and die anyway.’
I crossed myself. ‘Jesus and Mary,’ I said.
The boatman looked back. ‘They are brave,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘By Saint Mary Magdalene,’ I said, ‘if I were dying, I’d rather one of them holding my hand than some bony-handed doctor.’
The boatman smiled with a world-weariness often found in Venetian boatmen. ‘And if you could pay, one would hold your hand,’ he said.
The next day, I took more money from the count to the Lazzaretto, and then I went along the Lido to look at our horses, which had been landed by strangers. Thankfully, none of them were missing. We had a fine herd, the best horse herd of any compagnia di aventura I have ever known – more Arabs, and better, taller, and in good condition. I talked to a farmer, paid a terrible price for another week of his pasture and grain, and pondered insolvency.
I sent Marc-Antonio back to Chioggia with orders for our people to be ready to ride to Padua on the fifth day of September, which was the count’s projected day to leave Venice, but he continued to be busy. I will note that he gave Guy Albin, who had been his personal physician, a very good funeral and burial, and Masses were said for him at Sant’Agnese. He arranged funerals for a dozen more men.
‘I lost more of my knights to this fever than to the Saracens,’ he said. ‘And I may miss the doctor most of all.’
I’m not telling this well. This was just after Master Albin’s funeral, and we were both dressed in our best; the count went in person, which was quite an honour, and Vettor Pisani came.
We were perhaps ten days after the attack in the rain. I was almost constantly in attendance on the count; I was getting to know him quite well. He was very reserved, as most great lords must be, and he needed to be right on all subjects, which is tiring for servants. Even attendants require a certain spirit, and leading can be fatiguing. Mostly he issued orders in a direct way, affable enough, but leaving no possible room for converse or question. So his comment about Master Albin was curious – almost an invitation.
The count was sitting in the shaded end of our loggia and he was looking out over the canal. The fever had not left him, and he looked drawn.
Across the canal, a boat was unloading furniture, coffers and what appeared to be rolls of tapestry.
‘He was a most engaging man,’ I said.
‘You found him so, did you?’ he asked.
I wasn’t sure what the count wanted. So I shrugged and spoke directly. ‘It was a pleasure to speak English,’ I said.
‘What did you two talk about?’ the count asked. ‘I saw you speak at the rail, often enough, while we were cleaning up the Dardanelles.’
‘The gospels, mostly. And medicine.’ I smiled and tried not to tell the count, who seemed to me very pious, about Guy’s pleasure in a little bawdy.
The count was looking out, not turning his head. ‘I miss him,’ he said quietly. ‘You have commanded a company, messire. You know what it is to always keep up your face?’
‘I do,’ I said softly.
‘A physician …’ The count took a deep breath, and recollected himself. ‘You will not repeat anything I say to you, monsieur?’
I sighed. It would be so easy to be offended by the count, or really, any of the other ‘greats’. I found Prince Francesco very much of the same cloth when I served him as a young man. ‘Never, my lord,’ I said, although, of course, I’m repeating it now.
That was the first time I saw any sign he might actually like me, or favour me as anything but his available sword. He had never confided in me before, and while I knew he had repeated meetings with de Mézzières and with the Doge and his officers, I had no idea what they were cooking up. I just sent my messages, looked after the horses, and made sure that the count was constantly guarded. Just after our conversation, if I can call it that, his fever took a turn for the worse, and he went to bed. He stayed there for several days.
August gave way to September, and I was falling into the pleasure of living in Venice. I wrote to Emile almost every day; in fact, I associate that time in Venice with writing as much as with Camus, because I spent so much time at it. When the count discovered that I could write a fair hand, he had me copy confidential letters from his bedside, through which I came to know that affairs with the Prince of Achaea were worse than I thought. There was insurrection in Savoy, and some garrisons had betrayed the count. The deaths of a dozen of his leading vassals, in battle or from fever or plague, had left important lordships in the hands of minors, or even rivals.
His wife Bonne was dealing with the crisis cautiously. I was given one of her letters to copy, and while she showed all the outward submissiveness that one would expect in the daughter of the Duke of Bourbon, she also wrote clearly and seemed completely at ease with the reins of power – also to be expected from Bonne de Bourbon.
I also made the tour of libraries, and my itinerary of Northern Italy grew in complexity as I mapped out – literally – the optional routes south from Padua and Verona. The worst of the heat was passing; there were no new cases of plague, and all of our people on the Lazzaretto we
re healing, but the count was no better. I had a letter from Emile, who had been home, rallied her vassals, collected some taxes, and gone to court, where she was supporting the Countess of Savoy, Bonne. It was a letter full of news, pleasant and cheerful, and it hid all sorts of anxieties, from travelling with children to recalcitrant vassals, and yet I could guess them. It held a tiny lock of wispy blonde hair, from our daughter Cressida, and I still have that. I kissed that letter a hundred times, for all that it was bereft of love talk. It had something better. Emile was pregnant. She was due in December, or so she guessed. I let out a whoop like a war cry.
There was even an enclosure from Sister Marie, containing specific reassurances about Emile, about politics in the county, and some suggestions for my prayers and soul, which she felt was somewhat neglected. At any rate, my wife was in good hands, and happy. She liked ruling; she had Jean-François and Jason and Bernard. And she liked being pregnant.
And then there was a letter from Sir John Hawkwood. I feared that letter, I confess it – it sat unopened. I was busy; I had a boatload of supplies to take out to our people on the Lazzaretto, and I had hired a new pair of men-at-arms. I had a dozen little concerns, but the flat truth was that I feared I had done ill by Sir John in taking service with the count.
I went back out to the Lazzaretto with the count’s boatman, Ambrogio, and Marc-Antonio. Most of the survivors of the fever and the plague from the count’s household were ready to be released, and I was to fetch them. The men-at-arms looked like well-dressed scarecrows, and I had a long conversation with Peter Albin through the grille. I gave him more money, and told him of our travel plans.
‘I will need you, and l’Angars,’ I said. ‘Can you take ship here for Ancona?’
Albin looked much better; he’d had sleep, and he was recovering from his uncle’s death. ‘Venetian ships don’t land at Ancona,’ he reminded me. ‘We’ll be clear in ten days. I’m not a soldier, but I’ll guess as a physician that twenty men with good horses will double the distance the count makes.’
I thought about that. ‘Make for Florence, then, and the Via Francigena,’ I said. The Via Francigena, or Frankish Way, was the old pilgrim route to Rome. I explained about Camus and the Prince of Achaea.
Albin managed a laugh. ‘After the plague,’ he said, ‘I’m finding it difficult to be afraid of a mere man.’
I sent my regards to l’Angars and Lapot and went down to the boat. The count’s people were just coming out onto the landing stage, and our boatman was putting them aboard. We had a larger boat than usual, with four oars and space for a dozen passengers.
One of them looked better than the rest. It was Antonio Visconti, the scion of the Milanese family. He was a famous condottiere in his own right, and I had rescued him the year before in Bulgaria. He hooked his thumbs in his knight’s belt and shook his head, looking over the Lagoon.
‘I don’t want to go to Venice,’ he said, catching sight of me. ‘Can you drop me on the Lido? And loan me some money?’
It was a bold request, but we knew each other, and I certainly knew he was good for money.
I motioned to Demetrios and he came out of the boat and handed over our purse. I counted out twenty ducats, mostly in silver soldi.
‘You are a good friend,’ Antonio said. ‘My brother Ambrogio is fighting in the south, and he wants me. I don’t need to linger here.’
‘The count will leave for Rome in a few days …’ I began.
Lord Antonio shrugged his eloquent Milanese shrug. ‘Messire Guglielmo,’ he said, with a deep and somewhat sarcastic bow. ‘The Green Count will take twenty or thirty days to cover what I can ride over in five. And if I never see your pompous count again, it will be too soon.’
Well. I once thought as he thought. On the other hand, I had rather counted on his sword for the trip south, the more so as he didn’t seem as reduced by illness as the other Savoyard knights.
‘My brother is fighting against the Pope in the south,’ he said again. ‘It is finally starting. All my life, my father and uncle have talked of luring the Pope to Italy where we can finish him.’
‘Milan is at war with the Pope?’ I asked.
Antonio looked around, afraid to be overheard. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘My brother is deniable. I am deniable. We are by-blows – mercenaries.’
I may have rolled my eyes. I did not yet know the Visconti the way I would come to know them over the next year, but I knew them well enough to know that they hung together; their family was their creed. I doubted that the Pope or anyone else was fooled.
It concerned me, as I knew that the Count of Savoy was a close neighbour of Milan, and yet was trying very hard to work with the papacy.
‘I hear you have many excellent horses to sell,’ he said. There are no men in the world more confident than Italians and, in particular, the Visconti. Antonio stood on the landing stage of the Lazzaretto, penniless, thin, and lacking everything but will, despite which, he burned with confidence.
‘You mean, you’d like me to sell you a horse and then loan you the money to buy it?’
‘Four horses,’ he admitted. ‘The best.’ He leaned forward. ‘No one in my family will forget it,’ he said. ‘And we are a good family to know.’
‘Antonio,’ I said, because I don’t like to be snowed, ‘I saved your life last year, as I remember. I am not sure I need to give you my best horses to win your family.’
He had the good grace to grin. He bowed. ‘I suppose what you say is true,’ he said. ‘But I still need those horses.’
I did make him sign a little scrap of parchment, as he now owed me almost five hundred ducats, and I was running out of money.
He arranged a boat to the Lido, and I helped him with his harness and his squire’s harness, and then he rowed away, headed towards a war in Naples that I might have been fighting in myself.
I was coming back up the pier when I saw the pretty whore sitting with her bare legs dangling almost in the sea. She was fishing, and as I watched, she caught a fish. I rather enjoyed watching her play it; she had her tongue between her teeth like a cat, and yet she knew her business, and she brought it in deftly.
Marc-Antonio, who was always eager to serve a lady if there was a chance he might come to her favours later, got down and hoisted the fish from the water – a good three or four pounds.
She took the fish, but not the casual hand that Marc-Antonio tried to place on her breast, and she laughed and kicked him as she went up the dock.
Marc-Antonio tripped her, quite casually, and then ran a hand up her leg as he caught her. The boatmen laughed. She kicked again, almost helpless now.
I caught his shoulder. ‘Let her go,’ I said.
‘She’s a whore, common to all,’ Marc-Antonio said. ‘I’ll have my turn, my lord, will she, nil she.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You will not. Go to the boat, if you please.’ Perhaps I was so firm because I fancied her.
The girl, on the other hand, was sheathing a small knife in her hair. She gave me a broad smile. ‘Eh, Signore. I like the way you give orders.’ She blew me a kiss and skipped away quickly.
We got into our own boat and were rowed across the Lagoon, past San Marco and into the Grand Canal. I spoke gently to the men who had been sick; most of them still looked terrible and I realised that none of them were going to be any help in the ride south. I had counted on a dozen more men-at-arms. I will admit that, after a fortnight of the Green Count, I liked him better, and yet I would have been content to have Musard take charge of his escort while I rode south to Hawkwood. I regretted that I hadn’t read Hawkwood’s letter yet; I suspected he’d be in the south, with Ambrogio, as they had served together before.
Marc-Antonio was sullen. He resented my action, and he was considering saying something really unforgivable, as young men sometimes do. Marc-Antonio often made me feel old. I was thinking all these thought
s as we turned into our own small canal. The boat we were in was considerably larger than the usual canal boats, and the count’s hired boatman was yelling some surprising imprecations at a heavy cargo vessel that was unloading opposite our fondamenta on the narrow Calle del Ponte Storto.
I was still trying to understand what he had just yelled. Something about a pack of hyenas?
The rival boatman snarled a reply, and I realised a great many things in a sort of crescendo, like the moment when all the choirs come together at San Marco in the elevation of the Host.
I realised that this cargo boat had been unloading now for two full days. That was not possible.
I realised that it had rained the night before, and that the boxes and carpets rolled on the cargo boat’s deck had been left out in the rain. No sane working man would do that.
I realised that the angry boatman yelling at us was a man I’d seen in the rain: a man who had been wearing a black headscarf when I had seen him abandon his friends and run …
And, of course, Black Scarf knew that I knew. My face, no doubt, gave me away. That or my hand going to my dagger.
My sword was twenty feet away, being held by Stefanos in the stern. I was in a boat full of virtually defenceless men. And I had to wonder if they’d already killed the count. There was no other reason for them to be there; they were watching the little palazzo. All this, as our boat glided towards theirs. Ours was lower in the water, but not enough to make much difference; the two boats were much of a size, and there was no way they could pass each other on the narrow side-canal.
Black Scarf was turned away from me, bellowing orders.
‘Those men mean to attack the count,’ I said to Marc-Antonio and the Savoyards nearest to me.
Thank God, they all believed me.
Black Scarf appeared with a crossbow – a light one, the kind you use for hunting birds.
I didn’t even have a stone to throw.
It is a terrible thing, a fearful thing, to stand and wait to take a lethal bolt. I can’t describe it: the boats moving together … the sheer terror of the crossbow. He was aiming at me, the bastard.
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