When we arrived at Milan, the whole of the Visconti heritage was there to wait for us: six hundred men-at-arms, whole legions of guild militia, and thousands of Viper banners. And the women: there was Bianca, Bernabò’s formidable wife, on a palfrey large enough to carry a knight; there was Bonne, the count’s wife, and her ladies. But otherwise, it was a very masculine turnout. It looked as if we were approaching an army – so much so, that Sam Bibbo turned to me and muttered, ‘If they want a fight, we can take ’em.’
The reason for the array was plain as soon as we approached, because in the exact centre of the Visconti army stood Galeazzo, and with him was his daughter, Violante. She did not look blank today; her eyes did not look bruised. Her hair blazed like white fire, and her eyes were wide, and so was her smile. She looked at Lionel, and he looked at her with joy.
I watched Gian Galeazzo, who was twenty horses away, with the knights of the household, the Casa.
He had his visor down.
As we rode into the city, the people shouted for ‘joy’, or at least earned their pay, shouting for England and the Visconti. It is not my favourite city, but it would have raised your heart – bright new crosses of Saint George everywhere, as if it was London itself. I was just behind Lady Violante, as she waved at people on balconies above her, and raised her head, and smiled.
Then I knew why Bernabò’s mistress looked familiar to me. She was an older version of Violante. The thought sickened me. It is the sort of thought you might be ashamed to confess to a priest. I spent the rest of the entry trying to rid myself of it, even as I watched the crowd for paid killers or madmen.
It was not until we reached the great palace in the centre of the city that we joined up with the rest of the notables. They were all waiting: hundreds of the most powerful men in Italy and, in some cases, the world. There were ambassadors from Venice, and Genoa, and even from the Holy Roman Emperor; an ambassador from Constantinople, and another from Florence, far more magnificently dressed. There was the Count de Turenne, and there, Robert of Geneva, the Archbishop of Cambrai. And with them, Florimont de Lesparre. In front of them stood the Bourc Camus and, towering over them all, the Prince of Achaea.
All together, in one place.
I looked at Emile, and she smiled.
‘I’ve lived my whole life with them,’ she said. ‘It’s best to keep them where you can see them.’
I have never loved Emile more than in that moment. Her courage was always magnificent; in that moment, facing a wall of enemies, she tossed out a jest.
I turned, allowing the column to pass me, and cut in between l’Angars and Bibbo.
‘You see them?’ I asked.
L’Angars smiled. ‘All of our friends,’ he said.
Ewan laughed, a rank back. ‘Fuckin’ miracle no one’s put an arrow in de Lesparre.’
I looked at Bibbo. I didn’t say anything – Froissart, you may not like this part. But Bibbo and I knew each other. He nodded. That’s all.
I made the rounds of my archers, and then went back to the head of the column during Bernabò’s speech of welcome. Archbishop Robert made a point of staring at me all through the speech. I ignored him.
At a signal from the count, I followed two Visconti men-at-arms into the vast palace. I had Richard Musard with me, and William Boson from Hawkwood’s company. The Earl of Hereford couldn’t leave the ceremony – too obvious.
‘These are the count’s rooms,’ the taller man-at-arms said. He showed me into a pair of rooms, really a full apartment, with a solar and two fireplaces and a sort of library, or office.
‘And the prince?’ I asked.
‘In the north tower,’ the second man-at-arms said.
‘Show us,’ I said, and we walked across two courtyards. I remained polite, even cheerful. Richard looked ready to commit violence.
We went through the kitchens.
‘I’d like to meet the head chamberlain,’ I said.
The younger man-at-arms shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ he said.
‘Find someone who can arrange it,’ Musard said.
Both Visconti men-at-arms stopped. ‘What did you say, Moor?’ asked the younger one.
I stepped between them. ‘Sir Richard Musard is a Knight of the Sword,’ I said. ‘And our lords will not be coming into this castle until we have met with the chamberlain.’
They both looked at me. ‘That’s impossible,’ one said.
The other said something like, ‘Who the fuck are you?’
Richard leaned against the wall, took out a dagger, and began to clean his nails. ‘I’ll tell you who I am,’ he said in flawless Italian. ‘I’m a man who is going to walk back out to the Count of Savoy and tell him that, no, the rooms assigned are not acceptable.’
‘I’ll get somebody,’ said the younger man, and he walked off.
The older man shrugged. ‘These are the rooms assigned.’ He shook his head. ‘Just take them.’
He turned and led the way, obviously impatient, and we came to the north tower. It was almost completely separate from the rest of the yard, had its own entrance, and four floors. One of the floors was storage.
I walked up to the roof, from which I could see all the way to the Alps. When I came down, there was a tall man in a nice, dark blue brocade with a gold chain. His lips were pursed so tightly that I thought his cheeks might split.
‘Just tried to bribe me,’ Musard said.
Boson nodded.
‘We’ll take the tower,’ I said. ‘May I have your name and style, sir?’
Blue brocade bowed, not very deeply. ‘Manfredo Orgulaffi,’ he said.
‘Messer Orgulaffi, this tower will suit us nicely. Please have all the rooms cleared – the prince will have the upper two floors, and the count the lower two floors.’
Musard glanced at me.
Orgulaffi frowned. ‘That is impossible.’
‘Immediately, please, and then nothing further will be said.’
‘No,’ he said.
I shrugged. ‘You were told that they needed to be lodged where we could guard both of them at the same time. My men-at-arms will not be split up. You were told this.’
Orgulaffi was outraged. I think his outrage was genuine – no one had told him any such thing.
‘You are making work for my people,’ Orgulaffi said. ‘That is a storeroom.’
Musard shrugged. ‘Not our problem,’ he said. ‘Best get to it.’
I watched them clear the rooms. I looked in chests, raised an eyebrow over a pile of linseed-soaked rags, and watched their embarrassment as they found a rat’s nest. By the time they were almost through, the bells had rung for Nones, there were a hundred men and women working on the tower, and I was seeing something like the whole turnout of servants. By then, Gospel Mark and Ewan and Witkin came in, sent by Bibbo.
‘Watch them all. Get to know their faces,’ I said.
‘I want t’know that lass better, any road,’ Gospel Mark said, watching a slim girl stand on her toes to reach a shelf. ‘Let me help ye, love,’ he called.
Before Nones was done, the count’s belongings came in, and then the prince’s, and there were jams on the stairs. Richard created a sort of office, or guardroom, on the ground floor, and we installed Messer Ogier as soon as he was free from church.
I took Orgulaffi aside. ‘I do not wish to offend you, messire. But the Count of Savoy and the Prince of England are only going to eat what I see made for them and taste myself, and they will only drink what I see prepared and taste, or Messer Ricardo over there. This I promise you. And they will only be served by our own people and, by God, from this moment, no one but our own comes into this tower. We will empty our own chamber pots and sweep the floors and make the beds.’
He held his head high. ‘I have sent for the chamberlain,’ he said.
; The chamberlain proved to be Antonio Pallavicino, a man of rank; I had heard his name mentioned with respect by Nerio. I bowed, and repeated my injunctions.
‘This is disrespectful to my lord,’ he said.
I shrugged. ‘We mean no disrespect. Surely you were told that assassins attempted to kill the prince and the count and his lady, at Pavia.’
‘This is not Pavia,’ Pallavicino said.
I just smiled, as one would with an erring child.
‘I will summon Lord Bernabò,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘If you must.’
Ogier made his rounds and reported that all was well. We had a string of men-at-arms and archers from the courtyard, through the kitchens, to the tower, handing coffers and boxes and leather travelling cases, hand to hand, so that we knew that no one had touched them. One of Boson’s Hungarian archers reported that a tall man with light eyes had offered him money to put something in a box. Gatelussi went to see if he could catch him.
I was still in my armour, and my pretty red velvet was soaked with sweat.
Bernabò appeared, in person. Despite the heat, he wore a man’s white gown to the floor, lined in ermine – a thousand ducats or more of fur. He strode up to me as if he might bowl me over, and I’m not a small man.
‘You’ve seized a whole tower?’ he asked me. ‘Fucking English, you’ll take anything not tied down.’
‘My lord, you ordered me, yourself, to defend the prince.’ I nodded at a passing leather case with the Royal Arms of England on it.
Bernabò nodded. ‘So I did. Orgulaffi, whatever this man or that black man tells you, that is my law, you understand me?’
Orgulaffi bowed.
‘Lord Bernabò, Messer Orgulaffi has made every attempt to co-operate with us,’ I said.
Bernabò smiled, and showed his many white teeth. ‘Good,’ he said.
I looked at Orgulaffi. He shrugged. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were following Bernabò’s orders?’ he asked.
I shrugged back and won a smile.
‘Bene,’ he said. ‘Let us see how we can prepare food your people will eat.’
In the end, Emile went and slept with the Countess of Savoy, and I had a single camp bed in the ‘office’ that Musard had arranged. You two will remember where they put you. First in another wing, and then Chaucer moved you in with Petrarca – a divine inspiration, since even Robert of Geneva worshipped Petrarca.
Most of our men-at-arms were billeted in the town. We assigned rotations and changed our guard in the courtyard, and then marched through the kitchens, a deliberate show of force. The Visconti men-at-arms didn’t like us, and they followed us, but at least we knew where we stood.
That night, Orgulaffi came around with a schedule of chapels and churches. That is, there were so many noble guests in Milan that the Visconti had prepared a list of churches and assigned guests to each of them. Sir John was asleep on my bed. He was forty-six that year, and I had already seen that he tended to hoard his strength. But he rolled off the bed, combed out his beard, and dressed neatly.
‘Church?’ I asked. We were assigned to Sant’Eustorgio, a fine, if old, brick church. The count and the prince both intended to attend Compline, which was supposed to be especially magnificent. I hadn’t been before, and it was a major pilgrimage site – the burial place of the Magi, the three kings of the Nativity.
Sir John smiled wryly. ‘I’m not after saving my soul, young William. By Saint George, the number of parts of a man that can ache after a nap.’ He stood there, rubbing away at his thighs; then he stretched his legs like a dancer. ‘If you are lucky enough to live so long, all this will come to you,’ he said. ‘Aches, pains, bad eyes, grey hair … what joy.’ He shrugged. ‘I assume there will be another attempt on our charges. I want to see it all.’
Before we departed, in close order, he walked through the tower and reviewed our watch list. He and I and Richard Musard and Count Amadeus had a complex set of ties. The count cordially detested Sir John, whom he viewed as a false knight and a traitor; Sir John saw the count as a pompous arse; Richard and I were in between these two poles.
But, that evening, all was cautious amity. The count came down to the guardroom and he and Sir John bowed to each other. But they didn’t address each other directly – rather, Richard and I spoke to the count. I spoke to Sir John. It wasn’t the best arrangement to protect the prince, and when you added in the Earl of Hereford, and his apparent jealousy of me, you have a rich wedding soup of bad feeling and envy.
Or it might have been. But Sir John viewed the protection of the two lords as business, and in the pursuit of his business, Sir John was very thorough. And his reputation, a little marred by two defeats and recently enhanced by a victory at Borgoforte, was sufficient to render the prince and Lord Bohun, Earl of Hereford, pliant, and even friendly. Sir John passed his orders, and they were orders, via me, to the count, and via Bohun to the prince. And he was obeyed.
‘You know what goes into wedding soup, in Italy?’ he asked.
I shrugged.
‘Anything you have to hand,’ Sir John said. ‘Don’t fret, lad. Geneva is just another rich bastard. Drunk on power. Willing to do something dark to get what he wants.’ Hawkwood’s face was impassive.
He looked at me. ‘Don’t make it personal, William. I know you and Musard hate Camus. Don’t make it personal.’
I took a deep breath and did my best.
Prayer always helps me, and off we went, a column of armed men, to pray at Compline.
I believe that I have said that I often meditate on the Nativity – it was the first meditation that Fra Peter taught me, long ago when I was his squire. So the church housing the relics of the three wise men at the Nativity was likely to have special meaning for me. And I loved that church. I was fascinated by the beauty of the side chapels. I was busy looking for the tombs of the Magi when I realised that the ‘other’ Savoyard party had been assigned to the same church. I saw the Archbishop of Cambrai coming down the nave. He was dressed in all his vestments, and carried the staff of his office. At his shoulder was the Prince of Achaea.
I was between them and our party. Prince Lionel was praying at the main altar, and the count and countess were arranging cushions in preparation for the Benedictus. I should note that Italian churches can be both more and less formal than English churches – people sometimes come and go, men chat, women gossip.
Geneva stopped, perhaps an arm’s length from me. Monks were singing the first psalm behind me. I had my little book of hours in my hand, and my paternoster wrapped around my fist, as I had just been praying.
‘Out of my way,’ Robert of Geneva said.
I am not sure I had ever been so close to him. Usually we were farther apart – last time, he’d had Camus between us.
Trying to keep Sir John’s strictures in mind, I bowed, correctly.
‘Perhaps it would be best, my lord, if you and your party stayed here, or went to one of the side chapels.’ I was glad that I got it out.
‘Out of my way,’ he snapped.
‘No,’ I said. They had perhaps twenty men-at-arms with them, all armed. Not as many as we had, but enough. But, for whatever reason, Geneva was in front, with the Prince of Achaea just behind. Camus and de Lesparre were well back.
The archbishop raised the shepherd’s crook so that the iron-shod base was at my chest. ‘Move,’ he said. ‘You are impeding your betters.’
And then Sir John appeared at my shoulder. He must have been watching. He stepped up, and he wasn’t in armour. He looked, in fact, like a prosperous burgher in a small English town. He didn’t radiate menace; he didn’t suggest violence.
‘My lord Archbishop,’ he said. ‘Is there a problem?’
He might have been a notary or a lawyer.
Geneva glanced at him. ‘Move! Out of the way. The front of this church is ours. S
it at the back.’
Hawkwood nodded. ‘Of course, Eminence. Only – no. You may sit at the back, or in the side chapels. You are late, and we have the front. And, my lord, with great respect, you are merely an archbishop; everyone here outranks you.’
Geneva’s eyes widened. ‘You dare? Do you know who I am?’
Hawkwood smiled. ‘All too well.’
I can only admire, even now, Hawkwood’s imperturbability. I was shaking – Geneva always had that effect on me. He was not human. If an angel of God came and told me that Geneva was possessed by a demon, I would have not a whit of surprise in me.
The gangly Prince of Achaea flushed. ‘I am the best born here,’ he said, but there was more whine than force to him.
Turenne’s men-at-arms were pushing forward, spreading on either side of us. But not for long. Musard slammed a spear haft against the floor, and our men-at-arms came out from pillars, and formed up. They were forty feet away. They were in armour, and carried spears and swords.
Geneva’s eyes narrowed. ‘Send me the Count of Savoy,’ he said. ‘I do not speak with servants, except to chide them.’
Hawkwood nodded, as if the request were reasonable. ‘Alas,’ he said, ‘the Count of Savoy is at prayer.’ He stepped up, very close to the archbishop. I had never seen anyone, not even Camus, get so close. ‘Perhaps I should make my position clear, my lord.’ He smiled. ‘For my own part, I am here to protect the count and the prince. From … anyone. And if anything, anything at all, should happen to either of my employers …’
‘Don’t threaten me,’ snapped the archbishop.
But he stepped back.
Sir John looked at his hands. ‘No threat, my lord. I have three hundred Englishmen under my hand. I promise that you, and these worthy gentlemen, and all your servants, would die. In a bloodbath. And that nothing – not the Visconti, and not your little band of criminals, and certainly not this amateur,’ he indicated Camus casually, ‘would stop me.’
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