by Anne Stevens
In moments, the three lines of cavalry have converged into a mass of horsemen, intent on riding down all before them. The priest shakes his head, and turns away. The battle is over, and he does not wish to watch the ensuing slaughter.
Pippa cannot turn away. She watches as Ando Baldini and his men try to storm the Swiss pike men. Horses rear up, and turn away from the twin line of steel, unable to bring themselves to close quarters. Men are unseated, and trampled underfoot, or despatched with a quick thrust of a pike, or sword. Then above the tumult, she can hear a single, loud voice, shouting in a foreign tongue.
“Rear rank, kneel!” Richard Cromwell shouts. “Kneel, you buggers. That’s it. Now, muskets pick your target, and … release!” There is a sudden volley of shot, and clouds of smoke drift up into the still air. The volley is accompanied by a hail of knives, axes and wooden belaying pins. Dozens more of the condottiero’s men tumble from their saddles, and the rest are starting to wheel about, and attempt a ragged retreat.
Will Draper sees that the moment is here. He draws his sword, raises it high, and urges his cavalry detachment to charge into the fray. A hundred eager Venetians raise a great cry, and spur their mounts forward. Mush sees the movement, and releases his own riders against the other flank. Though the Venetian force is outnumbered fivefold, the enemy have no wish to stay and contest the field for a moment longer.
They break, and scatter, even as Mush and Will’s twin assault strikes home. The Venetians ride in, blades flashing, and exact a terrible price on their panicking opposition. Men are cut down from behind by the score. For a half hour, they ride back and forth, hacking down any man who is foolish enough to stand his ground. The Swiss pike men, who are hardened soldiers, advance in a line, and begin robbing the corpses of their fallen foes.
“These scum are mercenaries,” a Swiss officer tells Richard Cromwell, with a twinkle in his eye. “They carry their wealth with them. A bag of gold or silver, a pair of fine leather riding boots, or a horse is always a welcome reward. Then there is the gold in their teeth, and earrings. As our commander, you will receive a tenth part of all the loot.”
“I have missed my way in life,” Richard says. “You, stop that!” One of the Swiss has found a wounded man, and is about to cut his throat. “I want prisoners. No killing of the wounded, Tenente Bruckner.”
The big Swiss shrugs, and orders his men to take prisoners, rather than cut throats. He reassures them that the wounded can be robbed, just as easily, and reports back to his English master.
“We have a dozen wounded, and a few who have just given up,” he says. “What now, sir?”
“Form a square about our musketeers, in case the condottiero army returns,” Richard replies. “Then we can count the spoils. I want a full tally, which we will add to that taken by our Venetian gentlemen. Fair shares for all, eh?”
“I doubt the men will like giving up their plunder, sir.”
“No? Tell them that our cavalry will have taken many horses, worth many ducats, and that they will benefit more by a collective action.”
“You think like a true Swiss, Capitano!” the man says, and goes off to spread the happy word. A horse is worth two hundred ducats, whereas a purse might only give up ten or twenty silver sou.
“Sound the recall,” Will commands, and the young trumpeter riding by his side responds by blowing three loud blasts. All over the battlefield men reign in their mounts, and turn to answer the call from their commander. Mush is first back, at the head of a dozen of his men, and is soon followed by the rest of his command, who are shouting, and exchanging stories of personal valour. “Casualties?” Will Draper asks.
“I’ll have a roll call taken,” Mush replies, “though I’m sure the Swiss, and our musketeers were untouched. I’ll count their dead too. About half of their men rode back to Rimini. I fear they might close the port to us.”
“Master Draper, I have prisoners,” Bartolommeo Rinaldi says, herding forward a young girl, and a black robed priest. “They claim to be friends, and wish to parley.” Will bows to the girl, who is quite well dressed, apart from being barefoot, and acknowledges the tall priest.
“Forgive us, father, but we are in the midst of a battle,” he says. “Might we talk later?”
“No, my son, for we have news for you.” The priest points to the walls of the nearby town. “That is not Baglioni. His main force, like yours, is elsewhere. This young lady, Donna Pippa Micheletto, has braved many hardships to reach the condottiero’s enemies.”
“Then we are well met,” Will replies. “We will talk, but first, we must prise these fellows from under their stones.”
“The good citizens of Rimini hate Malatesta Baglioni,” Pippa says, quietly. “Speak to their leaders kindly, and they might well open the gates for you.”
“Come with me.” Will Draper beckons for a spare horse to be brought forward. “Will you ride with me to the gate?”
“I will, sir, with pleasure.”
“How old are you, Donna Pippa?” Will asks as they trot down the dusty road.
“Old enough,” the girl replies. “Baglioni killed my family, before my very eyes, and was intent on raping me. I escaped, and swore vendetta against him, and all of his bloodline, for all time.”
“That is some oath,” Draper says, smiling. “Can you not simply content yourself with his death?”
“Perhaps … we shall see,” the girl says. “Shall I act as interpreter for you?”
“Please. My Italian is not that good. Tell them that I mean no harm to the town, or its people, and wish only that they open the gates, and expel my enemies.”
“Very well,” Pippa tells him, and rides up to the gate. There are several prominent towns people standing on the parapet above it, waiting to hear the enemy proposals. “Mayore,” she begins, “This is the vanguard of a great army, sent to destroy the infamous condottiero Malatesta Baglioni. This man is a great, and famous English soldier, in King Henry’s army, and he tells me to say this to you. Cast out Baglioni’s men, and surrender the city, or he will blow down your walls with his canon, and put everyone within to the sword. You have one hour, before he unleashes death and destruction on you all.”
The mayor pales, and turns to Ando Baldini.
“Well, Signor?”
The recently defeated soldier has no answer for the man, and wishes only to escape his fate. He has lost over half his men, and doubts if the remainder will support him much longer. He looks down at the English general, and marvels at his comparative youth.
“There are ships in your harbour,” he says to the mayor. “Let my men and I board them, and sail down the coast. Then you may open your gates, Signor. I shall report back to Malatesta Baglioni, for I am sure he will remember your lack of support.”
“We are simple people,” the mayor says. “Our city has no interest in Baglioni’s plans to invade the Veneto. Now, you can warn him that a vast army is coming to destroy him.” The soldier scowls, and sets off to gather his men. The mayor turns back to the Englishman, and the young girl, waiting patiently for a reply.
“Well?” Pippa asks.
“One hour, and we will open up our city to you, in friendship,” the mayor shouts down. “Rimini respects, and loves the Doge, and wishes no further trouble between us. Baglioni‘s men will leave by sea, at once.”
“A wise decision, Mayore,” she says. “For once started, these English are like mad dogs, and cannot be called off!”
Pippa relays an inaccurate translation to Will Draper, who smiles his satisfaction. Before leaving Venice, he has agreed that the Doge’s two serviceable war galleons should sail down the coast, and take station outside the harbour of Rimini, ready to support his land based expedition.
“Then they will be taken by our ships,” he explains. “Once we are inside the walls, I will find you good lodgings, Donna Pippa, and you can tell me whatever you know.”
“Father, can you say a few words over the dead?” Tom Wyatt asks the middle aged priest.
“We suffered no fatalities, but theirs numbers over two hundred and fifty, and it is too warm to leave them above ground. The plague is back amongst us.”
“The lenticulae, I hear,” Father Geraldo replies, touching the cross hanging at his breast. “I was in Naples, five years ago, when it took hold. Almost half the city died, within two weeks.”
“Then you must understand the urgency,” Wyatt says. “Our English doctors think it is caused by bad air, and flies going from one corpse to another.”
“Really? Modern medicine is so far advanced these days, I am uncertain what to believe … other than the will of God. Come, I will help lay their souls to rest, if someone else can do the digging.”
“Master Cromwell’s Swiss are digging a trench,” Tom Wyatt explains. “It seems only fair, as they did the least of the fighting. My canon, and the sudden horse charge seems to have won the day.”
“Without the pike men, holding the line, you would have lost,” the priest replies. “They were very professional, my son.”
“You talk like a soldier, father, were you one?”
“Once. I served the Spanish, until I was wounded. Now I serve God. On the other hand, you do not seem very much like a mercenary,” the priest says.
“God forbid! I am a diplomatic envoy and, for my sins, a poet of small worth.” Tom Wyatt waves a hand at the setting sun. “I write about beauty, and love.”
“Oh, a modern poet, then.” Father Geraldo shakes his head at a world where a man can kill one moment, and write an ode to love the next. “I prefer the older bards.”
“Who wrote in Latin or Greek,” Wyatt retorts. “Poetry should be there for all the world to read.”
“Perhaps you should say a few words over the dead then?”
“My verse does not translate well into Italian,” Wyatt says, and smiles. “You are jesting at my expense, father.”
“No, my son, just jesting.” He stops, and opens the bag slung over his shoulder. From it comes a bible, and the paraphernalia of priesthood. “I hope you become more famous for your words, than your deeds, my son.”
“Good day, father,” Richard Cromwell says. “Come to add a little gravitas to the proceedings, I see.”
“Even the departed souls of enemies must be commended to God.” The priest looks the big man up and down, and sighs. “You are an unbeliever, my son.”
“I believe in my great strength, and in my good friends,” Richard replies.
“A great pity. God will forgive you, my son. Here, try this.” The priest produces a parcel, wrapped in waxed paper.
“What is it, some holy rubbish?”
“It is a spicy, red sausage, from Apulia, and you look like a man who might appreciate it.” The priest holds it out, as if in challenge.
“Will not the Bishop of Rome frown on you feeding a heretic?” Richard asks, accepting the food.
“Ah, you are a protestant,” the priest deduces, and frowns. “The Holy Father is bishop of the entire world, my son. His title comes directly from God.”
“Then God is a poor picker,” Tom Wyatt says. “I met with Clement, but the other day, and find him to be … quite …”
“Human?” Father Geraldo says, and laughs. “In England, you love, and support your king, whoever he might be. There are good kings, and bad ones, just as there is the odd bad Pope. I regret that the Medici do not enhance the power of the Papal throne, but they are all we have, at the moment.”
“You sound like a politician,” Richard growls. Then he bites into the sausage, and his face lights up in delight. “God’s teeth, but this is wonderful, father. Does it travel well?”
“They keep for years, if unopened,” the priest says. “Though I doubt you would keep them that long.”
“Not I,” Richard replies. “I must show this to Will Draper, at once. His wife will find it most interesting. Imagine, Tom, our little Miriam selling this from her stalls!”
“I can see smoke on the horizon,” Pippa says, staring from the high window of the house Will has commandeered for them.
“The Venetian ships have canon,” Will replies. “they will sink the enemy, and ensure they cannot rejoin the main forces.”
“So many men,” she says. “Drowning is not a pleasant death, I hear.”
“We are at war,” Will tells her. “To leave an enemy behind you, is to invite disaster. Surely, you have no love for these Perugians? Now, tell me what you know of Malatesta Baglioni.”
“He is a hard, dangerous man, who can kill without a moment’s hesitation,” Pippa starts. “He is older than you, though not nearly as handsome, and he is armed, wherever he goes.”
“I meant his dispositions,” Will says, though he is pleased to be thought of as attractive by the girl. “How does he set out his men?”
“The thousand he sent to Rimini do not matter any more,” says she. “My father convinced him that the Doge was going to take Rimini, and send his main army against Florence and Siena, so as to threaten Rome. He does not know that the Doge’s army numbers less than a thousand men, and two canon.”
“What of him?” Will presses. “Is he with his main force?”
“No, he sends Valdo, his best captain, to circle the Venetians, and cut them off from home. Then he plans to storm Venice, and sack it, before turning on Padua, and Verona.” Pippa comes, and stands by Will’s chair. “He is in Perugia, with less than eight hundred men. Strike at him now, and he will be caught unawares.”
“It is a heaven sent opportunity,” Will says, just as Pippa stoops, and puts her lips on his. He can feel her body pressing against his, and her hot mouth against him, and wants to pull her down onto his lap, and have his way with her. Instead, he gently pushes her away, and moves, so that the table is between them.
“I too am a heaven sent opportunity, Captain Will,” she says.
“You are a girl, Pippa,” he says, trying to think of a better reason to refuse her generous offer. “I am too old for you … and … I am married!”
“In England,” she replies. “I am a virgin. Don’t all men want a virgin in their beds? Take me, and make me into a woman, Englishman. Then kill Baglioni for me!”
Will starts to smile. The girl wishes to reward him for doing something he is tasked to do anyway. He thinks for a moment, then decides to sleep with his friends, next door. There is safety in numbers, he thinks, and besides, he has no wish to betray his love for Miriam.
As he takes his leave, he meets with Bartolommeo Rinaldi, who is detailed to patrol the city walls that night, with a dozen of the Swiss guards.
“Ah, Bartolommeo, the very man,” Will says. “Donna Pippa is sleeping within tonight. Pray, sir, guard her well, and call on her, to ensure she is safe. Such a precious jewel must be cherished.”
The Venetian youth is flattered, and enchanted at the prospect of being so close to so pretty a young girl. He swears, on his honour to do his duty.
“Mind you do,” Draper tells him, “for she is a virgin, and unsure of the ways of the world.”
There, he thinks, as he goes next door, that should ensure a betrothal by morning. Donna Pippa is far to hot blooded to be left without a protector. By morning, Bartolommeo will be as jealous as can be, and telling everyone who will listen that he will marry the girl. Father Geraldo might even come in useful.
11 Rat Catchers
“They call us the blacksmith’s boys,” Rafe Sadler says, as he stacks a pile of reports on his master’s desk.
“Who do?” Cromwell asks, smiling to himself. “The children in the street, or those idlers who hang around the law courts, looking for work?”
“You know of whom I speak, master,” Rafe says. He is not as thick skinned as he needs to be, Cromwell thinks. He places a soothing hand on his young assistant’s back, and waves the other in the air, as if shooing away an annoying fly.
“They seek to belittle us, because they fear our strength,” the Privy Councillor tells him. “Who is it who must attend the king twice a week, and who is
it who fills his vacancies for him? It is I who am the prime councillor, and it is my ‘blacksmith’s boys’ who light his fires, tend his clocks, help him dress, and wipe his arse. Am I right, Rafe?”
“Yes, master, you usually are.”
“Only usually?” Cromwell puts on an alarmed look. “You mean I am wrong, now and then?”
“Never, Master Thomas, never,” Rafe says. “I know they fear us, but does that not make them dangerous?”
“Only like a cornered rat,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “If you wear a thick glove, one may easily screw the rat’s neck. It is so with these people. They see that they are on the wrong side, and either wish to switch sides, or strike out, wildly. Apart from their insults, what else do you hear?”
“One of the Lord Chancellor’s men wishes to spy for us.”
“Who is it?”
“Aubrey Brierely, one of his under secretaries.”
“I know him. Write to Sir Thomas, and let him know he has a traitor amongst his staff.”
“He will not thank you,” Rafe says. “Why must you be so fair to the man?”
“Because … because … he was a friend, once,” Cromwell says. “I remember how we used to discuss politics, and exchange ideas. He was not always so stern a foe.”
“He is now.”
“I know.” Cromwell understands, and knows that the time will soon come, when he must ease Sir Thomas More out of his office, and replace him with a cooler head. It will not be easy.
“How did your meeting with Lady Boleyn go?”
“It went,” Cromwell replies. He has no intention of discussing how he was forced to bring Elizabeth Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire, and mother of Anne and Mary, to heel. It is one thing to sleep with a young Henry, to better your family’s future prospects, but quite another to boast of it, after the king has swived one of her daughters, and intends marrying a second. “She will take her secret to the grave with her.”