‘You dare—’ the archbishop said.
‘Do you understand?’ Hawkwood asked.
‘I will have you—’
Hawkwood glided forward. The Prince of Achaea flinched. Camus drew, pushing forward. I drew.
Hawkwood merely placed a hand on the archbishop’s great pectoral cross.
‘Tell me. Say, “I understand.”’
I had never seen Hawkwood like this. Suddenly he was Satan, or the Archangel Michael; he burned. He was …
Terrifying.
The archbishop stepped back, almost into Camus’s sword.
Hawkwood’s smile was steady.
‘No. You are not capable …’ The archbishop knew he’d flinched, and his usually well-modulated voice was shaken.
Hawkwood bowed. ‘I see that you understand,’ he said. He didn’t back away. He turned away, showing his back to a forest of drawn swords.
I was grinning.
The archbishop looked at me as Sir John walked away. His composure was already restored; two men at-arms pushed past him to cover him.
‘I have a little surprise for you,’ he said.
I bowed. I wasn’t John Hawkwood. I backed away, as I would have from a wolf baring its fangs.
That was Compline.
The next day was the day before the wedding. We cooked the count and the prince breakfast on a pair of ancient iron braziers we had in the company gear, and we heard Prince Lionel exclaim at the quality of the hot sausage. Sam Bibbo himself made the mustard.
After Prime, we had the whole day before us, and neither the count nor the prince was minded to cower in our rooms. So we traipsed about the city on foot, with a dozen men-at-arms and a lot of shuffling. At one point I posted Ewan in a church tower to watch the streets below. Most of the lads were keen for the game, and it was then that we had the first fruits of all our practice. Ewan spotted two men behaving oddly and signalled Gospel Mark. Mark followed them aways, and watched them watch us.
Interviewed an hour later, Witkin said he knew the men from the night before. He had been walking along an alley behind the main boulevard of elegant shops, pacing the two men, who wore long gowns to cover their jupons.
Now, Witkin was in many ways a strange man. He kept to himself, he was nobody’s comrade, and he was often in hot water with Rob Stone. But for all his strange ways, he was quick-witted.
And violent.
So while the two men-at-arms – Camus’s men, young, hard-eyed thugs – watched the count and the prince, Witkin walked up behind them with his five-foot oak staff in his hands like a bishop’s crook. He bellowed, ‘Stop, thief!’ once, and laid one of the men-at-arms flat with a swing of his staff.
The other man turned and got the butt of the staff in his throat-bole.
‘Stop!’ Witkin apparently cried again. ‘Thief!’
Then he kicked each of them a few times, and the Milanese joined him. A crowd is an ugly thing, especially when it thinks it is dealing with thieves.
An hour later, when he joined us, Witkin was his usual unrepentant self. ‘They meant you harm,’ he said. ‘Sir John, the count, the prince. Makes no mind which.’
I looked at him. Sam Bibbo, standing at my shoulder, was clearly not, for once, on my side.
‘You killed them,’ I said.
Witkin shook his head. ‘Nah, Sir William. Milanese killed ’em. I just fucked ’em up, like.’
In fact, they had been kicked to death. An ugly way to die.
Of course, someone had helped crucify the pilgrim back at Bolsena. Someone helped poison the wine that killed Demetrios.
Bibbo gave me a sketchy bow. ‘Word wi’ you, sir.’
We walked off under the portico of San Maurizio al Monastero Maggiore. Nuns scurried to get out of our way as if we were two demons from Hell, which may, sadly, not have been far from the mark.
Bibbo jerked a thumb at Witkin. ‘He did us a favour,’ he said. ‘Witkin is always in trouble. This should get a bone, eh, sir?’
‘He murdered …’ I began.
Then I simply changed my mind. ‘Right,’ I said.
Bibbo smiled. ‘Good. Thought you’d see it that way.’
We strolled back.
‘Well done, Witkin.’ I handed him the usual reward in my company for good service: a gold florin. ‘Don’t drink it all in one place.’
Witkin gave a pretty good bow. ‘I …’ He couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘Thankee.’
‘At your service, Witkin.’
‘And yours, my lord.’ He turned away and looked in wonder at his florin.
‘Thanks, Sam,’ I said to Bibbo.
He gave me a wry smile. ‘Glad I have somewhat left to teach,’ he said.
The count’s chamberlain met with Orgulaffi, and they arranged lunch for us at one of the city’s mercantile taverns, which, like this fine place, master innkeeper, was able to serve the highest nobility, and had no problem with allowing Ewan and Gospel Mark and William Boson into their kitchen. Stefanos served us at table, in a closed room. I glanced into the kitchen and saw Caterina sitting on a table, swinging her legs, and Peter Albin, in apprentice clothes, cutting meat.
Neither the prince nor the count had any idea how well covered they were.
After a light meal and some fine wine, we heard Mass, and I had a moment, as the prince and count were well taken care of, to browse the stalls outside Sant’Eugenios. That’s where I purchased this pin, engraved with the names of all three wise men. A nice token of a pilgrimage that made up in violence what it lacked in grace. I still wear it, as you see. It’s to remind me.
While I was chaffering for the brooch, Bernabò approached with a dozen courtiers and was entered into our party. Our men-at-arms had already come to understand the process – who could approach and who could not. Bernabò embraced Prince Lionel and then Count Amadeus and finally Sir John, waved his arms about, and strode off, like any lord.
I was just making my purchase when Count Amadeus came up, with Musard and Ogier and Fiore all around him.
‘A moment, gentlemen,’ the count said with a smile.
All three knights turned their backs. That’s all the privacy you can have when you are Count of Savoy and men are hunting you.
‘Messer Guillaume,’ he said. ‘I have been asked if you would fight tomorrow.’
‘Fight?’ I asked. ‘At a wedding?’
‘Galeazzo has planned a dozen entertainments for the wedding dinner, and he wishes to include a joust and a foot combat. Gian Galeazzo asked for Fiore for the joust, but I will send Ogier. Your Sir John agrees.’
I nodded.
‘But Galeazzo expressly asked for you to fight on foot. He was most pressing, as was his son.’ The count glanced at me sidelong. ‘So says Lord Bernabò.’
‘You know I am at your service,’ I said. ‘Fiore will be jealous.’
‘Fiore will be well rewarded,’ the count said. ‘Three things I feel you should know.’ He looked around. ‘First, my courts have attainted the Prince of Achaea for failing in his feudal duties. And further found him to have no case in the matter of his inheritance.’
Emile had already told me, but I wasn’t going to blab.
‘Second, your opponent during the dinner will be Camus.’ The count’s mild green eyes went to mine. ‘They mean to kill you. I do not know how.’
I nodded. Fiore was six feet away and hearing every word.
‘Third, I have written out for you a deed. It gives you the privilege of conducting a private war against my contumacious sub-vassal, the Bourc Camus. It is the best I can do to protect you.’ His eyes remained on mine. ‘Do you want to fight?’
My heart beat like a drum sounding the alarm. But I knew I could beat Camus.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘What weapon?’
‘The weapons of war, on foot
,’ the count said. That meant a spear or axe, with a sword on one hip and a dagger on the other.
I nodded and began, with trembling hands, to pin on my brooch.
Some time later we were all at the practice for the great ceremony, which was to be held in the square in front of the shabby old cathedral. We were all to process to the square in front of the new palace at Porta Giovia. It was all brick – that’s all I knew about it then. It grows more magnificent every year, or so I hear.
So we practised. We saw the Archbishop of Milan, and the Archbishop of Cambrai close beside him. I had a difficult time imagining that God’s grace would touch a wedding performed by Geneva. Then we processed to the new castle, about fifteen minutes for one man, but we had hundreds of guests, each with a claim to precedence, and hundreds more men-at-arms.
The entire route was lined with soldiers – every militia from every guild, all the men who were not at Borgoforte.
I was walking along with my wife when I saw the lists. They were set up in a square halfway along the processional route and Gian Galeazzo, who was, apparently, the master of ceremonies for the next day, explained in his high-pitched, commanding voice that two knights would run three courses each, beginning as the wedding party approached, and then two knights would fight with weapons of war, on foot. He showed us where the married couple would sit, and how the movable barriers would create the space for the foot lists.
I thought that the foot lists were ridiculously small, with the royal box behind them and a well head on the opposite side.
‘At least we’ll have cool water,’ Fiore quipped.
And we would be right on top of the wedding party, who would be seated within weapons’ reach. I wondered if Camus was mad enough to throw himself on the count or the prince.
I was leaning on the solid oak barriers when Janet, of all people, came through the crowd. She was dressed as a woman, and she moved with the sort of regal grace you see mostly in great ladies, despite a plain woollen gown with very little decoration. Her only nod to her ‘other life’ was a plaque belt, a knight’s belt, worn low on her hips.
I introduced her to Emile. As we were all walking in apparent informality, Emile had taken the opportunity to buttonhole Violante, the bride. Her brother, Gian Galeazzo, was close by. My understanding was that he was not just master of ceremonies, but also master of the lists. He was talking to Boucicault.
Suddenly I knew which French knight would cross lances with Fiore. And there was Fiore himself, just making his bow to Janet, for whom he had an old passion.
She didn’t return the passion, but she seemed happy to see us all. She and Emile embraced on being introduced, and Janet said something unusual.
‘Your husband and Richard Musard saved my life,’ she said.
I’d never heard her say it.
I was testing the strength of the list boundaries. The corners were set deep in the square, and the cross-supports were as solid as the stone underfoot.
Janet was speaking low to Emile, and Violante looked shocked. Her hand went to her throat; her beautiful face was suddenly splotchy with colour, as if she’d failed to blush.
Emile just nodded and put her hand on Janet’s hand. Violante burst into tears. Emile hugged her close.
‘What are they talking about?’ Fiore asked. I looked past him to see Musard looking at Janet with unconcealed longing.
‘I assume you are running your courses with Boucicault,’ I said to Fiore.
He looked at the famous French knight. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Good. No, it will be me.’
Boucicault came our way, ducking under the crossbars of the foot lists. He was magnificently dressed, but there was something about him that always made me feel inferior – his grace, his clothes, his riches. Despite which, as you know if you’ve been listening, I like him – always have.
We bowed to each other. He was introduced to Fiore; there were more bows.
He took my arm. ‘Excuse us, gentles?’ he said. I glanced across a dozen heads at Sir John, who, with Ogier, had the escorts.
He nodded. The nod merely meant that everything was working.
I nodded back, and stepped aside with Boucicault.
‘I just heard from Turenne that you are fighting Achaea’s champion for his rights in his inheritance case. Is that true?’ He looked both ways.
I won’t say I was stunned, because it was so typical of Geneva’s usual methods …
I shrugged. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I am fighting a demonstration bout to entertain the visitors. Gian Galeazzo asked for me, but it might just as well have been Ogier or Musard or William Boson or Andy Belmont.’
Boucicault nodded, pulling at his beard. ‘I knew something was rotten.’
‘Surely he can’t just make it so by saying it,’ I asked, pointing at Achaea, who was visible due to his height.
Boucicault shook his head. ‘You know the poison de Lesparre has spread about the King of Cyprus. And now he’s saying that you and the Count of Savoy have called him a coward.’
It was my turn to pull my beard. ‘He’s a fool and a blowhard,’ I said. ‘But he’s no coward.’
Boucicault leaned close. ‘My point is that someone is going around saying these things, and they will gain currency. Who is this Fiore? He is your friend?’
‘Imperial knight, fought in all the actions in the Holy Land, has served on Peter of Cyprus’s tourney team. The best lance I ever saw, save mayhap you.’
Boucicault was a true knight. He broke into a broad smile. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘This I will enjoy very much, then. We will make friends after.’ He bowed to me. ‘Watch yourself. A great many people here mean you harm, and there are … people … in my own embassy …’ He looked around. ‘I disapprove of them.’
I nodded. And bowed. ‘Thank you, my friend.’
He nodded. ‘I like to see who you have become.’ He put a hand on my shoulder, the man who had once tried to hang me, and walked away.
I burrowed back through the crowd, mindful of pickpockets and assassins. Violante was smiling at Emile, and the two were quite animated. Gian Galeazzo was surrounded by his own courtiers – all young men. I pushed in, as gently as I could, but Gian Galeazzo parted them for me.
‘Ah, my famous English knight,’ he said. Seventeen-year-olds are not that good at dissimulation. Even when brilliant and ruthless. I could tell he was up to something, but, complicated boy that he was, I could also tell that his admiration for me was genuine. He showed me off to his friends like a prize horse or an art object.
I asked him for the rules of the contest and he rattled them off in a fair way. They were very Italian – that is, more was left unsaid than was said. We would bear our own weapons, we were to fight in war harness, and each of us would be allowed six blows. There would be small pavilions at either end of the square where we could change for the grand dinner.
‘You and this Bourc, you hate each other very much, yes?’ he asked, a little too excitedly.
I shrugged. ‘No, my lord.’
‘We hope to see some blood,’ one of the young men said.
‘Perhaps you should come and fight yourself,’ I snapped. I was not best pleased with the proceeding, which seemed framed, as far as I could see, to allow someone to cheat.
Why? Because axes and spears can be long or short, heavy or light, can have spring catches, hidden blades – all sorts of tricks. A dagger can be poisoned. ‘Weapons of war’ didn’t ‘allow’ such things, but it made them almost impossible to detect.
‘You are the best fighting knight I have ever seen,’ Gian Galeazzo said to me. ‘I look forward to seeing you defend us.’
‘Defend?’ I asked.
It turned out, that, according to the luck of the draw, I was the tenans, the defender. I would be in the Visconti corner, with the new bride and groom at my back. My opponent, Camus, would represent the �
��visitors’ or venans. He would, in effect, represent the French and the Pope and all those who opposed Violante’s marriage.
Including Gian Galeazzo himself, I suspected. And he was up to something. He had that excess of energy that betrays a man who is plotting.
Not much I could do. I exchanged glances with Sir John. Violante had rejoined her father, and we were all moving again. I slipped under the edge of the lists, and there, of course, was Geneva, watching me with his voyeur’s eyes.
‘I look forward to tomorrow,’ Geneva said. He nodded. ‘Many of my debts will be paid off.’
Janet, of all people, came up to me. She was the only woman in the whole crowd to wear a rondel dagger, which she wore rather provocatively. She smiled at Robert of Geneva. ‘Are you a friend of William’s?’ she asked.
‘This is the Archbishop of Cambrai,’ I said.
She took that in. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘In that case, fuck off.’
The shock of being spoken to in such a way, by a woman, was worth any inner torments I was suffering. Geneva’s face went paper-white, and then red.
One of his attendants, mistaking Janet for a woman, so to speak, stepped up threateningly. He only meant to tower over her. She stamped on his instep and drew his sword as he fell.
People screamed.
Janet tossed her hair. ‘William?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘No, Janet.’
‘Ah bien. Au revoir, monseigneur,’ she said to Geneva. ‘Like I said: fuck off.’
He retreated faster from Janet than he had from Sir John. In fact, he scuttled, and he was hurried on his way by a dozen of our people mocking him.
Someone, probably Stefanos, threw a clod of horse dung. It was accurate.
In the shoving that followed, Janet turned to me. ‘They are saying that your wife is accused of adultery and murder, and you are defending her in the lists tomorrow. Do you know that?’
‘Who is saying that?’ I asked.
‘I heard it from Violante Visconti,’ she said. ‘Who, for my money, has the same experience of men I have.’ She nodded.
I will not go into details, but Janet has been attacked, and survived. I knew what she meant.
Sword of Justice Page 49