Sword of Justice

by Christian Cameron

  Any road, l’Angars and Boson led the company away to prearranged billets, guided by the heralds. When the Visconti organise, they do so brilliantly, and every man and woman arrived at his billet to find clean straw and a cup of wine at the expense of his hosts.

  I kept a handful of knights back. I put Fiore at the count’s side and Pierre Lapot at his back, and I kept Gatelussi by me, as his birth entitled him to join the wedding party, and I saw the count nod a very small agreement.

  Musard was seen to breathe a sigh of relief as we rode through the old castle’s gates and into the deep shadow of the tunnel to the courtyard, where a phalanx of pages waited to take our horses, and Galeazzo Visconti waited with his lady, the count’s sister, Bianca. I could see them, framed by the mouth of the tunnel up ahead, if I peered past Fiore’s armoured shoulder and the prince’s. I could see murder holes over our heads. Anyone foolish enough to rush the gate would be trapped here while boiling oil or red-hot sand was poured on their heads. I’d seen a man die that way at Alexandria, and it still makes me shudder.

  My wife reached out and took my hand. Bless her, she knew I was having one of those moments – all of you who fight for a living know them. It was dark in the tunnel and darkness and enclosure hits me somewhat. The murder holes …

  Bah, never mind. Emile took my hand, and I pulled off my gauntlet, the better to feel her smooth palm. She turned to me, and I felt, or heard, movement.

  One of the murder holes was open.

  ‘Ware!’ I shouted.

  Fiore touched his mount with spurs, and his horse, outraged, exploded into the count’s horse. The count was thrust against the wall of the tunnel, his left leg scraping against the rough stone, but he kept his seat because he was an expert horseman, and he burst from the tunnel, past the prince.

  A crossbow bolt flashed from the roof of the tunnel and went into the rump of Fiore’s charger. It went in up to the fletchings, and the horse screamed and fell.

  The Earl of Hereford and I were on either side of the prince by then and, whatever differences we’d had before, we covered him together. Which was as well.

  The count was trying to dismount; his horse was rolling its eyes. A dozen men with partisans went charging up the interior steps to the wall. Men were running in every direction, and I happened to see Gian Galeazzo. He wore an expression of intent interest that, in that moment, reminded me strangely of Robert of Geneva.

  He smiled.

  A knot of grooms came out of the stable block to my left. They were closer to the earl, who had his sword out, but he ignored them, his eyes on the tunnel and the murder holes.

  ‘That was meant for the count,’ I said.

  Bohun turned. ‘The count?’ he asked, incredulous.

  Richard Musard was shaking his head furiously.

  More guards ran by, and then two men in full armour appeared on the walls.

  Two pages took the count’s horse’s bridle.

  Fiore hovered over him, and Bonne was alone. I saw her, and in that moment I saw one of the grooms stumble. He was … drunk, perhaps, which seemed impossible.

  He looked at the count. He looked at Fiore, who was like a protecting archangel in steel, and then he looked at Bonne.

  I knew. I don’t know how I knew he was an assassin, but I knew, and I touched Juniper with my spurs. I went past the astonished prince, without apology, just as the groom raised the knife he had under his apron.

  Fiore was turning, also alerted. But too damn far away.

  But Lady Bonne was no blushing maid. She was a huntress, and she knew her horse. She backed, see-sawing the reins, even as the man went for her, his eyes glittering, not with malice, I think, but terror. His motions were jerky and unreal, like one of the walking dead that terrified me as a child when my nurse told me terrible stories.

  He lunged madly, and stabbed her palfrey. The horse reared, hurt and terrified.

  I had on the arming sword that the della Scala family had given me, and my draw was late, but the sword was short. Just the tip of my sword caught his wrist.

  He turned.

  Lady Bonne fell off her palfrey. It was a slow fall – her saddle had no high back, like a knight’s – and she couldn’t keep her seat as the horse rose higher and higher.

  She rolled to her feet.

  The dagger came down again, driving at her back, and my sword came down after it, following his wrist. He turned away, blood fountaining from his severed arm. Lady Bonne was on the ground. The dagger was lying by her side, the groom’s hand still gripping it.

  One of the Visconti guards shot the dagger man with a crossbow. The bolt went in one side of his head and out the other, taking most of his face with it; the bones of his skull were shattered.

  He was dead instantly, of course.

  I turned, my light sword threatening the whole arc of my vision. I put my back to Lady Bonne and looked for Emile, who was under her horse, having dismounted – a princess who could always rescue herself.

  Fiore had his longsword in both hands. Count Amadeus was behind him. Prince Lionel was sandwiched between l’Angars and the Earl of Hereford.

  No one in the courtyard moved, and then we heard a scream, a loud crash, and the snap of several heavy crossbows.

  I looked up at John Hawkwood, who had a sword in his hand, for once.

  He wore a look of deep cynicism. ‘Someone was just shot trying to escape,’ he said.

  Neither assassin was taken alive, so Sir John’s comment was correct. The Visconti were outraged, and before the day was much older, the man who had posed as a groom was identified, and his house searched. A hundred gold florins were found, and his terrified wife implicated his brother, who was seized and executed. Without interrogation.

  The other man, the man who’d shot at us from the murder hole, was an enigma. He was small and dark. One of the Visconti men-at-arms said he’d seen the man before, in the kitchens – a southerner, or a Moor.

  Fiore and I, with a little help from Peter Albin, walked through the tunnel in the evening. We walked up and down, measured the sight lines, and then I went up into the rooms over the arch, lay full length on the floor, and peered at Fiore standing below me.

  Half an hour later, when all the food had been tasted and all our people were settled, I met with Sir John. I couldn’t think who else to tell. I found him sitting on the camp bed in his small room, Andy Belmont leaning against the wall, spinning dice in a cup.

  Hawkwood looked up and smiled. ‘William,’ he said, with a nod.

  ‘Sir John,’ I said.

  ‘The crossbow bolt wasn’t intended for Amadeus,’ I said. ‘It was intended for Prince Lionel.’

  Hawkwood sighed. His nostrils pinched; he put his right hand to his head. ‘Of course,’ he said.

  ‘What does Antonio know that we need to know about protecting the prince?’ I asked.

  Sir John looked at me. And shook his head, pointing at the ceiling. ‘Nothing,’ he said loudly.

  We put watches on Count Amadeus and on the Duke of Clarence. Bonne was uninjured and unbowed, a tough lady indeed. Countess Blanche, the Green Count’s sister, was more distraught than anyone that this should have happened in her own home. Galeazzo clearly felt that killing a few people solved the problem, and Gian Galeazzo, his son, was nowhere to be found.

  Some time later I got into bed next to my wife, who curled around me despite the warmth.

  ‘The lemon tree looks better and better,’ she said. ‘Before God, William – I saw you move in that tunnel, and I thought, sweet Christ, he’s going to die in front of my eyes. Why did we ever leave Lesvos? I miss my children. I am not ready to be parted from Edouard any longer. And my little Richard – it is cruel to leave a child at his age.’

  ‘We can send for him,’ I said.

  ‘We can just go back,’ she shot back. ‘I am not sure I can
let you have the life of arms, William. Sooner or later, you won’t come back. And then who will I be?’ She lay beside me, and I thought she might cry, but instead she said, ‘Turenne will be at the wedding in Milan. And perhaps de Lesparre.’

  I lay there, thinking of them.

  ‘I could just deed my estates to my son,’ she said. ‘And you and I could go to Lesvos and never come back to this cesspit.’

  In the morning, we took every precaution. Musard and Fiore and I worked with Lord Bohun and John Hawkwood, and between us, we arranged as perfect a cordon around our principals as we could manage. We held something very like a mostre in the courtyard, and we let every man-at-arms and every archer see every servant of the count, or the prince, and vice versa. We introduced Master Chaucer and Master Froissart here to the archers, and walked them around. I enlisted Chaucer to help.

  He had some experience, after all.

  We isolated table service to six people for each notable. We arranged for Froissart and Chaucer to be served at table with the prince, so that they could help cover him. Every morsel of food was tasted, first by mongrels, and then by people – Musard and me, mostly. I couldn’t bear to force some child, someone’s son or daughter, to take on such a hazard.

  The pressure was relentless. Far worse than war. And we were in Italy.

  Two hours after Prime, we rode out into the sunny plains of Lombardy. Now we had the whole of the Visconti clan and their escort, as well as Violante and Gian Galeazzo. Bernabò was gone to prepare the extravagance of our entry into Milan.

  It was a twenty-mile ride and it was, in itself, an extravagance. I thought we’d do it in a day, but that was not what the Visconti had in mind for us. Instead we rode only as far as Cascinetta, a town so small it was not on my itinerary, but there was a castle and a hunting lodge – one of Bernabò’s.

  When we were in sight of our destination, I left Fiore and rode back along the column to Messer Antonio, who was riding with the Visconti men-at-arms.

  ‘Race you,’ I said, without preamble, and I gave my riding horse her head.

  Of course, Antonio could not resist a challenge, and we galloped out over the wheat fields, earning the curses of a dozen peasants, and then leaped a ditch and raced along the next parallel road. My Arab was fleeter than his Italian nag. When we were close to the castello, I turned my mare in a broad circle and brought Antonio to a stop in an oak wood of perhaps a hundred trees.

  ‘Why does Bernabò feel that the prince needs protecting?’ I said.

  Antonio looked around. He flushed bright red.

  Then he swore for a while – a rich, blasphemous stream that suggested a lifetime of practice.

  I waited him out.

  ‘Antonio,’ I said softly.

  He looked at me. He couldn’t meet my eye, or rather, he met my eye like a young girl just learning to flirt. Touch and away.

  ‘Antonio,’ I said again.

  ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’

  I walked my horse over to him, and pressed in so close I could have kissed him. I pitied him, but at some remove; I couldn’t let him go. ‘Antonio,’ I said for the third time. ‘In the last year, I think I’ve saved your life three times.’

  It’s a rotten thing to say. My advice? Never remind a man you saved his life. But there’s a time and place for everything.

  ‘I fucking know,’ he spat.

  I shook my head. ‘What is the threat to Prince Lionel?’ I asked.

  Antonio looked at the ground. ‘A lot of people want him dead. And his death would … unravel … Galeazzo’s position on a great many things.’

  I reached over and lifted his chin. A pretty insulting gesture, between men. I needed to see his eyes. ‘Does Gian Galeazzo hate his father?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ Antonio said, struggling to look away. ‘No, fuck your mother. No. He just loves his fucking sister.’

  It’s one thing to think it, and another to hear it said. ‘Gian Galeazzo is trying to kill Prince Lionel?’ I asked.

  ‘No!’ Antonio said. He looked away. ‘No. But. Maybe, when someone else is trying to kill the Prince, some guards … look the other way. Listen, we are all very close. Galeazzo does not like to hurt his son, but this is a thing that must happen. Bernabò says it must happen. Bernabò says …’ He looked away. ‘My father makes the decisions, and he says the little couple must part, yes?’

  ‘Gian Galeazzo hates your father,’ I said.

  ‘Eh. Maybe. Everyone hates my father.’ Antonio looked at me. ‘Please …’

  I shook my head. ‘Antonio, I will just tell you, because I am mild – pious, even. If my wife dies, if my count dies, I will make it as ugly as possible. You understand? I make no threats.’

  Antonio shook his head vehemently. ‘No one would touch the count. His sister made us promise …’

  He turned white.

  I nodded. ‘So all this has been discussed. We are caught in a family quarrel. In the middle of a war with the Pope and the Emperor.’ I looked at him. ‘Man to man, now. The Prince of Achaea and his people will stop at nothing to kill the count. And my wife. And me. I’m sorry to make this personal, Antonio. But you owe me.’

  Antonio shrugged. ‘Family comes first,’ he said.

  I had the words in my mouth – the same words Camus said. I almost said them. I will kill everyone you love. I could taste the words, because, in truth, I knew that I could. If the Visconti killed my Emile … my count, even.

  He saw it in my eyes. He flinched. ‘I will see to it,’ he said. ‘My word of honour.’

  I chose to accept this. Anything else would have meant a dagger fight right there.

  We rode into Cascinetta together. We were the last to arrive, and what we found looked more like a market than a fortress or a hunting lodge.

  Bernabò had said the company would ‘have everything new’. He wasn’t jesting. Even as the count’s household and the men told off as the day’s guards separated the count and Prince Lionel and took them to their rooms, Sam Bibbo and William Boson and I were briefed by a dozen senior servants. There were tailors sitting in rows on clean rugs in the bright sun. There were saddlers and armourers and even, God save us, a glover.

  It was a little like soldier’s heaven. Every man walked forward when his horse was unsaddled, brushed and hobbled. He received a neat pile of cloth, wool and linen and silk, and then walked from station to station, where cloth was measured and cut, quickly marked with a cross-stitch tailor’s mark, and then on. Every man got two new shirts, two pairs of braes, two pairs of hose, and a handsome doublet in the Italian style, with a long row of brass buttons down the front – every one of which bore the Viper. A pair of shoemakers repaired, or offered from ready stock, both shoes and boots, for every man, knight, man-at-arms, page or archer. A trio of cutlers sharpened swords; armourers repaired, restrapped, or replaced. A waterwheel and three sweating Bohemian archers polished helmets to a mirror shine.

  The steward approached me with a bow and escorted me around. I didn’t receive a pile of cloth, more’s the pity, but I was measured several times.

  ‘My lord will be expected to dine with the prince at the wedding table,’ the steward said. ‘What is my lord’s best colour?’

  ‘Scarlet,’ I said. ‘The brightest red that can be found.’

  The steward looked at me carefully. ‘We will see,’ he said.

  I was happy to have my arming sword sharpened. I’d come to like it, despite its short length, and I was surprised when I drew it to find that it didn’t have as much as a single nick. But the cutler found marks with his thumbnail, and he ground it smooth in seconds.

  More than a hundred soldiers, and they were all served in two hours. And then the sempsters and seamstresses sat around under awnings, on the ground, and sewed. It was remarkable; I’d never seen so many people sew all at once. I gathered that Bernabò
had hired most of the mature women of the village to sew for him.

  ‘My mother is from this town,’ Antonio said. ‘My father takes good care of these people. They would give their lives for him.’

  ‘He is spending a fortune on our company,’ I said.

  ‘Wait until you see the wedding,’ he said.

  We had a pleasant evening – at least, until one of the green-clad huntsmen started screaming. I was lying with Emile, wondering whether I had waited long enough after pregnancy, and how she might receive my advances. She was chatting about household matters. At the first scream she produced a dagger – that’s how on edge we were.

  I rolled to my feet, drew my arming sword and ran to the little portico of my cabin, which was the company guardroom. Hawkwood was emerging with a baton in his hand.

  The man screaming was Bernabò’s chief huntsman. A dozen of his hounds were dead – poison. Only three dogs were left, and their mournful howls proved that dogs know when death has come. The huntsman was beside himself. He loved those dogs more than most people, I expect.

  No poisoner was found. I combed the woods with a small band of men and torches, but we found nothing.

  In the morning, we rode out of the gates. I had taken a shift guarding the prince and the count; we had them on one corridor. I managed to get another hour of sleep with my wife, and awoke to find an entire suit of clothes in scarlet velvet and salmon pink silk laid out for me. I enjoyed Emile’s teasing admiration. I had enough spirit to chase her round the solar in her dishabille, and then enough sense to praise her taste in clothes: blue and buff and red, in magnificent Milanese brocades.

  I was proud to find that Marc-Antonio and Stefanos had my armour polished like a set of interlocked mirrors, and as clean inside as out, allowing me to wear my new velvet finery under my breastplate. I was not the only one looking splendid – the company looked like a prince’s bodyguard. In one night, a set of craftspeople had transformed them from some well-trained English routiers to characters from a chivalric romance. They closed in around the prince and the count and countess, leaving the army of Visconti men-at-arms to cover their own lords. And we sent them first, and the Devil take the laws of courtly precedence.