The Condottiero: A Tudor Deceit (Tudor Crimes Book 4)

by Anne Stevens

  “And if we are?” Wotton mutters, ill at ease.

  “We stop him there,” Draper says, firmly. “We block his path, and fight.”

  “It is almost forty miles to San Gemeni,” Tom Wyatt says. “If he starts right away, he will have a fifteen mile start on us. We will never get there first.”

  “Not all of us,” Will Draper replies. He can see the coming battle in his mind’s eye, and understands what must be done. “I want about thirty men, Mush. They must be the best we have, well armed, and all able riders.”

  “You mean to ride for San Gemini, without the support of our canon, and foot soldiers?” Edward Wotton asks. He is a cautious man, and seeks for a safer way forward. “What if Malatesta Baglioni gets there first? He’ll cut any advance guard to pieces, and still take the village.”

  “Then we must ride like the furies,” Will says. “Mush, select your men, quickly. We leave in half an hour.”

  “You intend leading this mad dash?” Tom Wyatt says. “I must find myself a swifter mount.”

  “No, Tom,” Will tells him. “You must remain in command of the main body. Keep both foot, and horse together, and advance on the village. If Richard can keep his Swiss marching, you will arrive half a day behind us.”

  “I’ll make the buggers run, if need be, Will,” Richard Cromwell boasts. “They may not understand a decent language, but they fight like Englishmen. Besides, my sailors will set the pace.”

  “Then we will meet at San Gemini, tomorrow, my friends,” Will Draper says, walking towards his horse. “Come on fast, and hard at them, Tom. Don’t let our boys see how tough the enemy look. Just push the Swiss forward, and hit them from right and left with the cavalry.”

  “I will do as you say,” Thomas Wyatt replies, clasping his friend’s hand in farewell. “Though I doubt the coming fight will be as easy as the last. I fear we will lose many good men.”

  “There is no other way,” Will tells him. “If Baglioni survives, and rejoins his army, Venice is lost.”

  “God’s speed to you all,” the poet calls, as Mush rides up with almost three dozen mounted men. Will Draper recognises a few faces amongst the volunteers, but Tom Wyatt singles out one face from the crowd.

  “Sir, I know you, do I not?”

  “Capitano Giovanni Ipolatto, at your service, Signor Wyatt,” the man says, bowing in the saddle. “You did me a small service, by delivering a purse of silver to my wife and family, in Venice.”

  “Then, sir, you should stand down,” Tom Wyatt replies. “This is not the sort of wild thing a married man with two small children should be undertaking. Tell him, Will. Let only single men go on your mad caper!”

  “What say you, Capitano Ipolatto?” Mush asks. “We are off on a dangerous bit of business. Think of your wife.”

  “And yours, sir … and yours, Signor Mush?” the Venetian retorts. “Or Bartolommeo Rinaldi, who I see amongst us? Do not dishonour us by making us stay behind.”

  “There is your answer, Tom,” Will Draper says. “Let each man know his own desires. Now, we ride!”

  Tom Wyatt watches the small party gallop off. If they make it to San Gemini before Baglioni, they will have to bar the gates, and hold the walls for at least half a day. He must follow at speed, despite half his men being on foot. He is cursing their lack of fresh horses when, a thought comes to him, and he turns to seek out the English zoologist, and part time spy, Edward Wotton.

  “Master Wotton, remove the canon from their carts, and spike them. Then, you will fill the empty carts with as many Swiss pike men as you can. Next, you must assign any men still on foot, to a horseman, so that they might double up in the saddle,” he commands. “In this way, we might raise our speed from three miles each hour to four, or even five.”

  “The horses will go lame under the added weight,” Edward Wotton advises. “They will be useless when it comes to the charge.”

  “Then we charge on foot,” the poet replies, sharply. “A line of pike men to the fore, and the rest behind. Once the sides meet, we will not need horses … just the nerve to stand, and fight!”

  “Come, child, let me find you a place on one of the ox carts,” Father Geraldo tells the young girl left in his charge. “Your scant weight will make no difference.”

  “No, father, I will keep apace on foot. As you will be doing,” Pippa says. “For I sense you wish to be there, come the reckoning.”

  “You are an astute young lady,” the priest replies.

  “Astute enough to know that you were not simply wandering about the countryside.” Donna Pippa likes the priest and, though she knows he has been lying to her since they met, she has, until now, been willing to accept his half truths. “You speak Italian well, but like a foreigner. You choose an Italian name, but are more likely French, or Spanish. Walking to Venice, indeed. Your shoes are remarkably under worn for that to be the case. You forget, my father was a spy for the Doge, and I am my father’s daughter, sir. I don’t know what is behind the cross, father, but I am trust you, and am content to stay with you.”

  “I am … or rather was, a soldier,” the priest replies. He wonders why he has kept his mission secret, even now, when he is amongst friends.

  “I guessed that by the way you fought those villains the other day,” says Pippa. “I guessed that you became too old for soldiering, and became a priest.”

  “Something along those lines,” the priest admits. “I was badly wounded, fighting in Spain. As you rightly thought, I am not Italian. I almost died from my wounds, but I had a vision, and it saved me.”

  “A holy vision?” Pippa is awe struck. In a society where religion, and devotion to the church is everything, a visitation from above is something to make your heart beat faster.

  “Our Lady came to me, and touched my brow. My wounds healed, as if by her will.” The priest touches a finger tip to the spot, and sighs. “I knew then, that my life must be given to God, and set about taking holy orders. Once I was a true son of God, I wanted to do more. I want to gather together men who have the strength of character to become soldiers of Christ. Not for temporal armies, you understand, but for God. I want an army to serve God in the darkest places of this world, where evil still reigns.”

  “You scare me, father,” Pippa says, shuddering. “Is that what you were about … looking for … soldiers?”

  “I was going to seek out those with a like desire.” The priest raises the cross at his neck, and kisses it. “My name is Ignatius of Loyola. My voices tell me to visit Venice, Milan, and Paris, where I shall find like minded men, ready to sacrifice their all for the kingdom of Christ Our Lord. When I have the beginnings of God’s great, evangelical army, Our Lady commands me to go to Rome, and offer ourselves to the Pope.”

  “He is a Medici,” Pippa says. “He worships gold, not God.”

  “He is God’s instrument,” Father Ignatius says. “When the time comes, Our Lady will guide me.”

  “Amen,” says Pippa. “In the meantime, may she guide us to San Gemini in time.”

  “Oh, we will get there in time,” the priest says, “and the Mother of Christ will watch over us. I have seen it.”

  “You know the future?” Pippa asks. She is spellbound, and believes every word the priest utters. After all, he has been touched by God.

  “I am not a magician,” Father Ignatius Loyola tells her. “I am only shown that which concerns me. I will gather my holy soldiers, and march on Rome, where the Pope will welcome me, and recognise my true purpose. He will send me forth, with my soldiers, to do good works in His name.”

  “I must find you a halo, father,” Tom Wyatt says, as he trots up, alongside the priest, and the spellbound young girl. “Does your God command you to fight with us tomorrow?”

  “He does not,” Father Ignatius replies. “It is my own wish to join you. I believe my mission in life is to seek out darkness, and fill it with light. Malatesta Baglioni is part of that darkness.”

  “Then take a place on one of the carts, or
behind one of the outriders,” the poet says. “Donna Pippa, you may ride behind me, if you wish.”

  “If Father Ignatius will consent to ride in the cart, I will accept your offer, sir.” Pippa gives a cheeky little curtsey, and raises a foot to the proffered stirrup. “Though we might get on better if I take the reigns, and you hold on to me.”

  “God’s teeth,” Wyatt mutters, as her soft, warm body nuzzles into his back. “Bartolommeo has his hands full with you!”

  The priest walks beside one of the carts. He is now forty years old, but as fit as any man in the company. His leg wound never seems to worry him, whilst he is about God’s work, and in going to destroy Malatesta Baglioni, that is what he is doing.

  “Bless me, father,” one of the Swiss says. The priest smiles at him, and raises his hand in blessing. Two more men jump from the cart, and force him to climb aboard. “Your presence will lend wings to our wheels, father,” the first man explains, and they all laugh.

  “I am blessed in falling in with such a company,” Ignatius Loyola replies, hurriedly blessing the entire retinue. “We are on God’s work, my sons.”

  “And when it is done, we will be about our own,” one of the Swiss says. “The condottiero’s men will all have their wealth with them!”

  “Let us not dwell on earthly things, my children,” Father Ignatius tells them. “Though I must remind you all that, if I fight tomorrow, it is as god’s mercenary … and he will expect to receive his reward.”

  “Well spoken, father,” one of the Swiss captains replies. “Our commander says that we shall all have equal shares. With luck, you might end up being the richest priest in Umbria.”

  “What profit’s a man with gold, if he loses his immortal soul, my son?” Ignatius says, and lays a hand on the man’s arm. The grizzled Swiss soldier cannot take his eyes away from the priest’s, and he crosses himself.

  “Father, if I am spared tomorrow, I will put off my armour, and follow you. Will you have me?”

  “Can you renounce all worldly goods, and walk in the valley of the shadow, my son?” Father Ignatius asks. “If so, then you shall be the first soldier in my company of Christ.”

  The rest of the cart’s passengers cross themselves, convinced they are in the presence of something beyond human understanding.

  “Don’t steal away too many of my men just yet, priest,” Richard Cromwell calls from the next cart. “After the fighting is done, you may have all of the bastards, with my blessing!”

  13 Il Moro

  Alessandro Medici cannot help but be angry at the messenger who, still dirt stained from the road, is grovelling at his feet. He recalls from his school days, that in ancient times, those who bring bad news were often executed, and he is sorely tempted to have the terrified man taken out, and beheaded.

  Instead, the almost twenty year old, newly installed ruler of Florence, gives the man a swift kick in the ribs. He is still a youth, but his tall, muscular build, coupled with his suspiciously dark skin tone, makes him a feared potentate. As the next Duke of Florence, he promises to be a strong, but harsh ruler.

  “How many are they?” he demands of the man, who can only shrug his lack of knowledge.

  “They filled the sky line, sire,” he says, for wont of anything better to say. “A man might spend a week counting them.”

  “How far off are they?” the duke demands.

  “A day’s march.” The man sees a chink of light. “They did not seem to be heading straight for the city, My Lord.”

  “Your Magnificence?”

  “Pardon, sire?”

  “I am to be addressed as Your Magnificence, or Serene Highness,” Alessandro Medici informs him.

  “A thousand pardons, Your Serene, and Magnificent Majesty.”

  “Oh, I like that one,” the duke replies, softening his stern stance. “Yes, that sounds quite splendid, Giuseppe, and to think, I was going to have you killed!”

  “I thank you for your kindness in sparing me, Your Eminence.”

  “Not Eminence,” Alessandro says. Though it is a closely guarded family secret, Alessandro Medici is, in fact the illegitimate son of Giulio Medici, and an attractive African serving girl. As his father is now Pope Clement, it might be disrespectful for him to purloin one of his titles. “You say this army is not coming here?”

  “I cannot say for sure, My Lord … Magnificence… but they have camped out across the high road to Verona. Perhaps that is their intended destination?”

  “Perhaps,” the duke mutters. He is not party to his father’s various machinations, and wonders if this is part of one of his schemes. The Pope, who he visits rarely, is not the usual sort of father figure, and often invites him to orgies, where vast quantities of wine and women are consumed.

  Alessandro Medici does not suffer from the same vices, and prefers to stay with the same mistress. Donna Taddea Malaspina is a beautiful courtesan, who has sworn to remain faithful to him. This eliminates any chance of catching the dreaded French disease, or one of the lesser forms of sexual malady.

  Just that morning he has received a long, rambling letter from Pope Clement, in which his natural father talks about some obscure English legal matter, his new mistress, and a thinly disguised hint that he is about to arrange a magnificent marriage for him, to a French princess.

  This, the astute Alessandro knows, is one of his father’s worst ideas to date. He recalls that it was his father who allowed the Florentines to establish a republic in the city, and throw the Medici family out, and that it was only the Emperor Charles, his army, and the traitor, Malatesta Baglioni, who restored the status quo.

  Charles will not tolerate a marriage into the French royal family, even if the girl is illegitimate. Only two years earlier, the emperor and Pope Clement had made an informal deal to marry Alessandro off to one of his own illegitimate daughters.

  One hint that this new marriage is to take place, and an army of Spanish and German mercenaries would appear at his gates, to put a stop to it. No, he must write, and decline the offer from his befuddled father, whilst making the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V aware that he is still a good catch for little Margaret.

  The emperor has several illegitimate children, and marriage to one of them, Margaret, aged seven, will bind the Medici clan to the Holy Roman Emperor, the most powerful man in the world. The union must proceed without hindrance, the duke realises. He calls for a scribe, and begins to dictate an urgent reply to his father.

  It is clear to him that Clement has accepted something in return for the marriage into the French royal house, and wonders what kind of a mess his father has created. He hopes that it is only a matter of a bribe, which can be repaid, and not something dangerous. Then he remembers the muddled paragraph about England, and he decides to re-read the letter.

  After a second perusal of the document, he groans to himself. His father, Pope Clement, supreme head of the church, is giving King Henry the perfect excuse to rip apart the Papacy. The young duke can see what will happen, and realises that with a protestant England, northern Europe in a turmoil of religious reform, and dangerous Lutheran doctrines flying about, the map of Europe will change forever.

  “Your Magnificence?” The messenger who has brought news of an unknown army asks. “Have you any further need of me?”

  “Yes, I have, Giuseppe,” Alessandro, Duke of Florence replies. “You must have them bring you a fresh horse, and prepare to ride to Rome, at once.”

  “Yes, Majesty.” The young man hesitates. “May I ask why?”

  “An urgent message for the Pope.”

  “Oh.”

  “What in God’s burning Hell does that mean?” Alessandro demands. “You sound as if I am asking you to ride to the moon!”

  “No, sire, but if the message is important…”

  “Spit it out man.”

  “It’s just that … His Holiness swore at me the last time I tried to deliver a letter from you, and uttered profanities. Then he made me wait, in an ante room, for thr
ee days and nights. Finally, he took the letter, called you a filthy word, and tossed it aside, without even breaking the seal. Why will the same not happen again?”

  The Pope, in his declining years, has come to mistrust everyone, including his own illegitimate son, and suspects intrigues in every missive. Alessandro understands, and makes light of being called ‘an ungrateful bastard’, and ‘Il Moro’, a reference to his African blood, but this French nonsense must be stopped, at once.

  “Have them saddle up two horses, and inform my bodyguard that we ride for Rome, this very morning.”

  “But, Your Highness,” Giuseppe says. “You have only been back in power for as few months. Is it wise leaving the city?”

  “Have the sons of the mayor, and his council arrested,” the new duke says. “Any trouble, and they are to be flayed alive, then impaled on the city walls.”

  “An excellent solution, Your …”

  “Oh, cut out all the titles, I’m getting bored with them. From now on, ‘sire’, and ‘my lord’ will suffice. And you can stop kneeling every time you are in my presence. A few grovelling bows will do, for now.”

  “Too kind, My Lord,” Giuseppe replies, climbing to his feet, but still managing to put in a deep bow. “I shall have the hostages collected at once, and arrange for the bodyguard to assemble.”

  “Not all of them,” the duke says. “Perhaps fifty, or sixty will suffice.”

  It takes a couple of hours, but Alessandro Medici, Duke of Florence is on the road for a face to face meeting with his father, Pope Clement. His bodyguard, bedecked in the latest steel breastplates, and with visored helmets, and armed with either an arquebus, or steel tipped lances, ride close behind, three abreast, and fifteen deep.

  The going is quite easy, thanks to the old Roman Clodia Way, which will take them to their destination, without having to ride through rough terrain. The cobbles beneath their feet are sixteen hundred years old, and the sound of horses hooves makes it sound like an army on the march.

  With such men at his back, the duke feels safe enough, and knows that no robber band will be foolish enough to try their hand with him. He is contemplating riding on, through the night, with reed and tar torches to light the way, when he sees the first soldiers, marching ahead. They are on foot, and seem ill disciplined.