The Green Count

by Christian Cameron

  Fiore was looking at a balcony. ‘What?’ he asked.

  She glared at him in the torchlight.

  Marc-Antonio wiped his short sword on a dead man’s cloak and began taking purses.

  Nerio looked at me. ‘Run? Or stay?’ he asked.

  It was our quandary. I knew that the marshal and the queen must now be hiding in one of the houses that had already been ransacked, but that, a plan born of desperation, was full of holes. Even while I paused, listening for the return of our foes, I heard a woman screaming that there were thieves … in Greek.

  Sister Marie solved our puzzle by calling to the queen. In a minute, the marshal came out of the second house door, and the four of us became a rearguard, covering the queen’s retreat. Marc-Antonio had a sack full of purses. Achille, Nerio’s squire, ran ahead.

  Sister Marie became the captain. She knew the street grid very well – she knew the convent where the queen was staying. We four were but swordsmen, and we backed through the gate, our swords in our hands. There was a half-hearted pursuit; twice, our opponents tried a rush at corners, but when we came to the gate, they vanished.

  There were still no soldiers there, which showed us that someone had been bought. I knelt once I was clear of the portcullis; I had to rest, and I had three wounds, as I discovered only then: a long cut on my right arm, a stab wound on my hip, and another on my lower left leg. To say nothing of the annoying wound in my posterior.

  Nerio had a gash across his left hand that had gone deep over the back of his thumb.

  He was looking at it, and I was trying to make sense of the whole thing, and Fiore took a little bit of linen out of his belt pouch and began wiping his blade. ‘That was … fascinating,’ he said.

  Nerio’s eyes met mine.

  And there, under the arch, our laughter echoed and rebounded, banishing terror and pain.

  Fiore was looking at his good gloves in disgust, because in the dark he’d got someone else’s blood on them.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ he demanded.

  The next day we expected to be arrested. The town was hushed; my wounds were stiff and painful, and Nerio’s thumb was infected.

  Sister Marie told all to Fra Peter before I rose to face him. He met me in our inn’s main room by the fire, and put a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘The rumour is that Lesparre and his retinue were set on by assassins,’ he said.

  ‘The marshal?’ I asked. I was sensible enough not to say the queen’s name or title in public.

  ‘Has a head cold,’ Fra Peter said. ‘They bury Father Pierre Thomas tomorrow. If the wind is fair …’

  ‘Thank God,’ I said. I wanted free of Famagusta.

  Fra Peter frowned at me. ‘There are more than a dozen corpses. Two of them are gentlemen,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘One is a Cypriote lord. The king is furious.’ He looked at me.

  I did not shrug. One did not shrug with Fra Peter.

  ‘Fifteen dead men for one foolish woman—’ Fra Peter began.

  I was stiff and in the black mood that usually took me after a fight. ‘Foolish?’ I said. ‘A woman who is blameless, and a vicious bastard trying to ruin her?’ I paused. ‘Sir?’ I said, as if a little courtesy would ease my hard words.

  Fra Peter rubbed his beard. ‘Are you sure she is blameless, William?’

  I thought of her very small figure, slim and strong in just a shift – as brave as Emile.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, meeting his eye.

  Fra Peter’s face cleared. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That puts a different face on it.’ He sat heavily. ‘I will apologise if you like, Ser William.’

  Fra Peter never called me Sir William. It was odd – brought tears to my eyes.

  I met Nerio’s squire Achille, who had a note that said that he and Fiore were in the market, shopping. Nerio knew no dark nights, or his code never admitted to it and he quietly slaked his fears with smooth skin and bright eyes. And Fiore – fighting for him was business, and passion. He was the epitome of the ordo of chivalry – fighting was what he did.

  I was the weak one. In the fight, I was a good knight, but afterwards, I saw them all – the men I’d hurt, and the men I’d killed.

  In other times, I’d have found a lass, and lost my darkness in her. But, while I knew which house Emile was in, I could hardly go to her while the court gossiped about her wayward ways and Turenne campaigned to have her stripped of her lands.

  I suppose I thought all these things often, but when I walked towards the city market with Marc-Antonio at my shoulder, carrying my sword, I admit that I walked past her house apurpose, and waved to Ser Jason in the courtyard. He gave me a little salute; he was wearing his jupon, and I could guess that he was training with his friends.

  I looked up.

  There was Emile at the balcony. She was hanging linen veils on a small line, like any matron. She looked down, caught my eye, her face brightened, and she vanished into the house.

  I kept walking, my day a little brighter.

  In the market, I found Nerio at the stall of a glover, with Fiore trying gloves and a small pile of them in front of him – chamois, stag, and some eastern leather.

  ‘I got blood on my best gloves,’ Fiore said. So much for conscience.

  I waved at my friends and went along to the old Genoese. Marc-Antonio stood close to me, my long sword in his arms. I was taking no chances. The law, which I was scrupulously obeying, said I could not wear a sword by day – but it didn’t say someone could not carry it for me.

  Messire Giancarlo bowed. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You have returned for your plume.’

  ‘I would like to see the book again,’ I said. ‘The Vegetius.’

  Messire Giancarlo nodded. He sent a boy to fetch the book and offered me a cup of sweet wine, which I accepted. It was warm and spiced – even better. I sipped it and flipped through the book. For some reason, my sister came again to my mind; I had been thinking of her a great deal of late, mostly because of Sister Marie. I had also been thinking of Janet. Of women, and men.

  Well.

  ‘How much today?’ I asked.

  The Genoese sat back. He took the book from me, and flipped through it.

  ‘I have something else to sell you,’ he said. He met my eyes. ‘A little information.’

  I probably smiled. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

  Giancarlo nodded at Marc-Antonio, standing close with my sword. ‘There is a large sum of money offered for your death,’ he said. ‘And there is a man in this town who kills for money, or so they say.’

  I thought of my invasion of the stews on behalf of my archer. ‘There must be quite a few of them,’ I said.

  ‘This one is extraordinary,’ the Genoese said. ‘And very expensive. I can tell you more. How much is it worth to you?’

  I shook my head, and it wasn’t bravado. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘A dozen men attacked me last night, and most of them are dead.’ I moved stiffly; any fighting man could see I’d been in a fight, and the way I sat must have told any homme armee that I’d been stabbed in the buttock. Don’t laugh! It’s bloody annoying. ‘How much for the book?’

  ‘I think I suggested sixty ducats?’ the Genoese said, obviously displeased.

  I rose. ‘You said florins. And sixty was too high,’ I said. ‘I thought you’d have seen sense since then.’

  The Genoese held the book in his hand. ‘I ordered this book from home because I thought that an army of professional soldiers would provide me a customer,’ he said with some bitterness. ‘All summer and autumn this book has sat in a trunk, and you are the second man to look at it. And the first was the man they are paying to kill you.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I can name him.’

  ‘Fifty ducats,’ I said.

  The Genoese shook his head. ‘My price is sixty,’ he said. ‘You and I both know that a book like this represen
ts hundreds of hours of labour by an educated man. This is a book on the making of war, full of secrets. Full of knowledge. And knowledge is power, my English friend.’

  ‘Marc-Antonio?’ I called.

  He stepped forward with my purse, and counted down sixty florins and some local silver change to make up the difference. Of course, if you are a strict moralist and you have paid attention, you know that about thirty of those pieces of silver came from the corpses of my foes.

  The Genoese watched it, weighed two of the local coins on a balance, and after some discussion, received another clipped coin to make up for the lack.

  ‘They call him László, or Ladislav. He comes from the east – his surname sounds like a curse: Makkrow.’ Giancarlo shrugged.

  ‘Why tell me this?’ I said.

  ‘My friend tells me that this man was paid to kill the legate,’ the Genoese said. ‘I am only a merchant – but I loved the legate. And everyone says you are the legate’s man.’

  I shook his hand as if he was a knight. ‘If you hear more …’

  ‘He was in my stall two days ago, with the Count of Turenne.’ The Genoese shrugged. ‘They mean you harm, and the lady.’ He looked away.

  I collected my book, and with a flourish, he produced the fine red plume. ‘Wear this in your helmet, and think a little better of merchants,’ he said.

  I carried the book back across the market to where Nerio and Fiore seemed to be buying every pair of gloves in the south end of the fair; a dozen glovers stood around them.

  ‘I’ll take a pair as well,’ I said. ‘Two pairs,’ I added.

  I was showing Nerio my book.

  ‘You read Latin all of a sudden?’ he asked.

  I laughed. ‘A little. And I’ll learn more.’

  He shook his head, but Fiore took the book and began to flip through. ‘A book on war,’ he said. He smiled at me as if I had done something clever. ‘What a fine idea,’ he said. He flipped through and came to a diagram, a sort of illustration I hadn’t ever seen, and while glovers circled us like horseflies in a summer pasture, the three of us tried to puzzle out the Latin.

  It took me time to realise this was not even Vegetius. I flipped back and forth and found a new title page. ‘By the saints!’ I laughed. ‘I got a free book! This is someone called “Onasander”.’

  ‘An illustrated book would be better,’ Fiore said. He had his faraway, not-with-you look. ‘Now, if I drew the pictures myself …’

  Then, our squires and John the Turk carrying stacks of new gloves and other purchases, we swaggered to the tavern at the south corner of the market and sat. From there we could see everything. The wine was terrible – sour, stale, and old. But the position was excellent and so were the sausages, and we sat back, and my burdens eased a bit.

  We began to talk, guardedly, of the fighting. I was describing the first part of the fight, with Nerio adding his own details – the only reason I can recall it for you now – when I suddenly realised where I knew the foreign voice in the darkness, and I stopped and swore.

  ‘What?’ Fiore snapped.

  ‘The bastard in the dark, telling us he’d have us pulled to pieces,’ I said.

  John leaned forward, fascinated.

  ‘Was that Lesparre?’ Nerio asked. ‘Didn’t sound like him. Too high-pitched. And an odd accent.’ Nerio shrugged as if it was of no moment. ‘I knew it, however.’

  ‘That’s the Hungarian,’ I said.

  ‘Sweet Christ,’ Nerio said. ‘What are we into?’

  ‘He was paid to kill the legate in Alexandria, and now, I believe, he’s been paid to kill me.’ I was watching the market more attentively.

  Fiore scratched his hairline. ‘I have seen the Hungarian fight,’ he said. ‘He is quite brilliant. I hope I can meet him.’

  John looked at me. ‘George and Maurice have very much respect – hate – for this man,’ he said.

  Miles, who usually sat silently, managed a smile. ‘Unless your Hungarian has a ship,’ he said, ‘he won’t be much danger. Fra Peter says we bury the legate tomorrow. And weigh anchor as soon as we can get aboard.’

  ‘Three cheers,’ I said, and we all agreed.

  The legate’s burial was like a great, solemn festival. The king participated, and so did most of his court; all the knights on the island, including the knights of my Order. The Brother Knights guarded the bier; the donats, in surcoats, came next, carrying our swords point upright in our hands. And behind us, the Carmelites and the Franciscans and some nuns – Sister Marie – then a great concourse of priests and bishops; then more knights; the Order of the Sword all together, and the king and queen, who rode together in what appeared to be amity, and then the court.

  I chose to walk with the Order of Saint John, as I said before – with my friends, and close to the man I loved. I had watched over his body for days, and I can attest as well as any the sweet, uncorrupt smell that came off him, which was the more remarkable as my poor Father Pierre Thomas, in life, seldom washed and often submitted to the harshest asceticism, so that he was never the sweetest smelling man. I will also say that in eight or ten days of standing watch, I saw three miracles that I attribute to his intervention … Ahh, but I’ll leave this aside – you wish for deeds of arms and not a canonisation trial.

  At any rate, I walked with Miles Stapleton, and Fiore and Nerio were close at our heels, and all our squires, and John the Turk, and some of our archers, and we walked from the Carmelite Priory to the cathedral in a hard rain. We heard a solemn funeral service, and women wept, and mayhap my own face was damp. I own it.

  And when we emerged into the great square in front of the cathedral, the sun had burst through the clouds, and men smiled, and women peeked out from under their veils.

  I had been aware all through the long service of Emile standing not so very far behind me. I’d taken the time to address a writer – one of those letter-writers you see in any public square – he had a narrow stall and a set of quills and a bottle of ink.

  ‘I need a note,’ I said. ‘Quickly.’ I was watching Emile. I could have found her in total darkness; it was as if I had a lodestone that pointed to her. And her people were gathered around her.

  I dictated a note to Bernard, and my writer dutifully took it all down while I watched the squire. Marc-Antonio paid the man and I walked back to where I had been standing with Fra Peter and the other knights of the Order.

  She had been standing by the doors, and now she came down the cathedral steps. She had a veil of black silk and she let it flutter in the breeze, leaning on Jean-François as she walked.

  I excused myself from the older knights and sent Nerio’s Davide – no, of course, Davide died at Alexandria. I sent Achille with my note for Ser Bernard. He delivered it under my eye and came back, almost running, and I looked beyond him to see if Bernard was looking at the note – he could read. I was just turning to John, who had my sword, when …

  Just beyond Bernard, I saw the Hungarian. He had his thumbs in his belt. He did not look overtly threatening, but he wanted me to see him, and his close proximity to Emile.

  He smiled. And nodded. And then, as bold as a street-strumpet, he began to walk towards me.

  ‘That’s him,’ Fiore said, or something equally useless. ‘The Hungarian.’

  John seemed as eager as a terrier.

  The Hungarian looked different – his hair was cut short, and he wore a well-cut doublet and the sort of over-doublet just then coming into fashion.

  I walked to him. I was not going to show any fear to this monster, this assassin who had tried to kill Father Pierre Thomas in the flame-shot inferno of Alexandria.

  ‘Now he is beyond your reach,’ I said, as we drew close. We were surrounded by the rich and powerful – by priests and nuns. There were even Jews and a handful of Moslems.

  The Hungarian smiled. ‘What makes you think so
?’ he asked with good humour. ‘Doesn’t it seem to you that he is dead?’

  It had not occurred to me unto that moment that the Hungarian had killed him, and I felt a total fool.

  ‘Eh, Sire Gold, you bested me the other evening,’ the Hungarian said. ‘Although I confess that I am mortified that you did not know me.’

  Fiore came up on one side of me and Stapleton on the other.

  The Hungarian smiled with his excellent teeth at all of us. ‘Please do not get ideas, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I have people here in the square. And while I know who you are, you do not know who my people are.’

  ‘You mean, those that are left,’ Nerio said. ‘What have you got – two cripples and a blind man?’

  Just for a moment, the Hungarian’s mask dropped, and his anger showed. ‘Enough,’ he said.

  Nerio, bolder, I think, than I, shook his head. ‘No, my dear man. I won’t have it. I imagine we’re supposed to live in fear of you, but really …’ He shrugged. ‘I suspect your people shit themselves when they think of facing us.’

  The mask was coming off. The Hungarian was not used to being bullied. ‘Listen—’

  ‘No,’ Nerio said. ‘You listen.’ He grinned his mad Italianate grin. ‘I am quite rich – you know this?’

  The Hungarian unhooked a hand from his belt.

  ‘How much would you charge me to kill your employer, eh?’ Nerio said, smiling. ‘For anything that Turenne can pay you, I can probably put down ten times as much.’

  The Hungarian took a breath, mastering himself, and set his face. ‘I don’t want to kill the Count of Turenne,’ he said. ‘He is not my employer anyway.’

  ‘Bah, the Bishop of Cambrai, then,’ Nerio said.

  ‘I look forward to killing you gentlemen,’ the Hungarian said. ‘I will do my best to humble you first, for my entertainment and that of my employer.’ He had his smile back now. ‘And this lady,’ he said, nodding towards Emile, ‘will be—’

  I kneed him in the groin. One thing I have learned from Fiore is to never show preparation. When you mean to strike, strike. Two nuns passed behind me and pushed me a little towards him; the thing was there, I did it.