But that was not his true voice, flippancy not his style. He hesitated, losing his smile. “My lord… I can confess and promise to repent. But…but what if I sin again? In all honesty, I suspect I will.”
He looked so solemn and so trusting. Not for the first time, Bran wondered if he’d done Hugh a wrong by plucking him out of the peace of Evesham Abbey, putting him down in the midst of the de Montfort maelstrom. “Do not fret, lad. Priests expect you to keep on sinning, do not care as long as you keep on confessing, too. In fact, I think they prefer it that way, for if there were no sinners, why would we need them?”
Hugh grinned; if he was tormented by remorse, he was hiding it extraordinarily well, and Bran had not been impressed by the boy’s acting abilities. Picking up Hugh’s hastily discarded belt, still holding a sheathed dagger and money pouch, he dropped it onto the foot of the bed, while fumbling for his own pouch. “When my brother Guy was fifteen, Harry and I took him to the Halfmoon, the best bawdy-house in Southwark. He always swore afterward that it was our fault he’d developed such a taste for carousing, claiming that if not for us, he’d likely have become a priest!” He laughed softly, then shook several coins onto the bed. “Un’ altra volta per il ragazzo, signorina Serafina.”
Even Hugh could follow that without translation. As the door closed quietly behind Bran, he shook his head regretfully, giving Serafina an apologetic smile. “I doubt that I’m up to a third joust, lass,” he began, miming a yawn to get his point across. But Serafina paid him no mind, and when she put her hand on his inner thigh, he discovered—to his own surprise—that mayhap he was not too tired, after all. It was only later that he remembered what Bran had said about his brothers, realized that this was the first time Bran had mentioned Harry’s name. It pleased him very much, for he could not help thinking that this was a sign of trust, proof that Bran was coming to understand how absolute was his loyalty, a bond beyond breaking. Or so he believed on that Saturday afternoon in Siena’s best whorehouse.
Hugh’s first glimpse of Viterbo was a disappointment. It was an important town, a papal residence, site of the current cardinals’ conclave. But they arrived at dusk, and all Hugh saw through the gusting rain were streets narrow as any maze, churned up with mud, and shuttered, overhanging buildings of dark tufa stone, black and wet and foreboding.
Viterbo was filled to capacity, struggling to accommodate the entourages of two Kings, and the cardinals assembled to elect a pope. But a cousin of one of Count Ildebrandino’s brothers-in-law had a palazzo close by the cathedral. Lodging as many of their attendants as they could in the great hall, they managed to find beds for the rest in neighboring inns. It was a tedious, protracted process, though, for men who’d been riding all day in a steady downpour, and by the time they were settled in, tempers were raw and patience in scarce supply.
The palazzo cooks did their best to feed so many mouths, but the meatless Lenten menu did nothing to raise rain-dampened spirits. In the fourth week of this somber season of fasting and self-denial, most of the men were heartily sick of fish, yearning for forbidden foods cooked with butter and milk and cheese. While their host was able to provide stewed eels and fresh pike for the Count, Guy, and the fortunates seated upon the dais, those at the lower tables had to make do with the most disliked of all Lenten dishes, smoked red herring. Hugh usually had an appetite to put a starving wolf to shame, but tonight he could muster up no enthusiasm for the salt-embalmed fish on his trencher, and he was poking at it listlessly with his knife when Niccolò di Tavena generously offered to share the last dollop of hot mustard.
“Senape,” he said, “e pesce morto,” for Niccolò never missed an opportunity to increase Hugh’s Tuscan vocabulary. His own French was quite good, but he magnanimously forbore to laugh, no matter how Hugh mangled his native tongue, for he’d met numerous French and English knights since Guy de Montfort had wed the daughter of his lord, and Hugh was the only one who showed a genuine interest in the language of Tuscany.
Hugh dutifully repeated the words. “Senape—mustard, right? And pesce morto—herring?”
“No—dead fish,” Niccolò said and grinned at the face Hugh made. “I have another one for you, so pay attention—figlio di puttana. This is for Noel—whoreson!”
Both boys laughed, for Hugh’s relationship with Noel, fractious from the very first, had soured beyond redemption once Noel learned of Serafina. “Fair is fair, Niccolò. Let me teach you a blood-curdling French oath, one you—”
Hugh got no further. Voices were rising; the table rocked suddenly, and a bench overturned with a loud thud. Hugh swung about just in time to see one of the Florentines draw a dagger upon his neighbor. Evading that first thrust, the second man snatched up a table knife, slashed his assailant’s sleeve. By now the hall was in an uproar: men shouting, shoving, dogs barking, other daggers being drawn. Into the very center of all this turmoil strode Count Ildebrandino. His own sword never left its scabbard, for his was the authority of blood and privilege, authority that took compliance for granted. Moving between the combatants, he quelled them by the very arrogance of his assurance, by his obvious disbelief that they would dare to disobey.
In minutes it was over, the transgressors rebuked, banished from the hall. As calm returned, Niccolò explained to Hugh what had driven the men to daggers. “They fought over a past wrong. Florence and Siena have often been at war. This time the Florentines won, and after plundering Siena, they took a number of the city’s young women back with them to Florence.”
Hugh was instantly on the side of the Sienese. “That is an outrage! Women are to be protected, not treated as spoils of war!”
“Easy, lad, I agree. But ere you offer to lead a rescue mission, you ought to know this—that abduction took place more than forty years ago, before either man was even born!” Niccolò laughed at Hugh’s look of bemusement. “You see, Hugh, we Tuscans nurture our grievances, tend them well from one generation to the next. Forget not, forgive not; we live by that.”
Hugh nodded slowly. “The Welsh live by that creed, too.” Within the hour, he was to be given disturbing, dramatic proof that so did the de Montforts.
The quarrel set the tone for the night. Once the food was cleared away, men settled down to drink—and to trade stories of other war atrocities, of kingly cruelties and crimes of statecraft. It was a macabre game, but the men—bored, restless, stranded indoors by the storm—entered into it with gusto, sought to outdo one another, and Hugh and Niccolò and the other squires listened in appalled awe to sagas in which soldiers raped nuns, stole from the dying and from God, melted down church chalices and candlesticks, sold false relics to gullible pilgrims, and broke each and every one of the Holy Commandments.
As the evening advanced, the tales grew grimmer; men dredged up gossip steeped in blood. The Tuscans told of wars in which entire towns were put to the torch. The French countered with accounts of the siege of Castle Gaillard, in which citizens who’d taken refuge within were expelled by the garrison, only to find themselves trapped between the castle walls and the besieging French army; huddled in this hellish no-man’s-land, the wretched villagers began to die of hunger and cold and plague, and so desperate did they become that they seized and devoured a newborn baby. That reminded the English of their King John, who had cast into a dark dungeon the wife of a rebel baron, then starved her to death. Hugh thought that last story was rather tactless, given that King John was Guy and Bran de Montfort’s grandfather. But they made no comments; they had so far taken no part at all in this grisly contest of griefs.
Someone then brought up John’s brother Richard, the King called Lionheart, who had put to the sword at Acre more than two thousand Saracens, most of them women and children. Others were quick to point out, though, that infidels had no souls. Walter de Baskerville mentioned John again, this time for hanging twenty-eight Welsh hostages at Nottingham Castle, many of them mere lads. But as with the Saracens, the nationality of the victims diluted audience sympathy; Wales was too for
eign to the Tuscans and French, and too familiar to the English, to stir up much pity for its murdered children.
Count Ildebrandino now came up with a crime so cold-blooded that Hugh involuntarily crossed himself, for this was a brutality not safely shrouded in the past. Twelve years ago, Michael Palaeologus was chosen as regent for his six-year-old cousin, rightful heir to the Byzantine Empire. Michael insisted upon being crowned with the boy, but swore a holy oath that he’d relinquish all authority once his young cousin came of age. Instead, he ordered the boy blinded, thus effectively rendering him unfit to rule.
Men murmured among themselves. For the moment at least, the Count seemed to have won the bloody laurels. Glancing toward his son-in-law, he queried, “You’ve been curiously quiet, Guy, for a man who has seen so much of war himself. What say you? What wrongs do you judge beyond forgiving?”
Guy raised his head, and there was something in his face that silenced the conversation in the hall. “That,” he said, “is a question I find very easy to answer. What more despicable, cowardly act can there be than the mutilation of the dead?”
Hugh instinctively looked toward Bran. He’d made no outcry. Nor had he moved. But there was an unnatural stillness about him; he scarcely seemed to be breathing, his eyes riveted upon his brother’s face. All other eyes were upon Guy, too, as he shoved his chair back. “Let’s drink to that,” he said loudly, “drink to the victors of Evesham. May they not be forgotten!”
Walter de Baskerville was also on his feet now, rather the worse for wine. “To William de Mautravers and Roger de Mortimer, sons of perdition, spawn of the Devil!”
Others were raising their wine cups, echoing this bitter toast. Hugh leaned over, whispered to Niccolò that de Mautravers was the man responsible for hacking Lord Simon’s body into bloody pieces. “And de Mortimer sent Earl Simon’s severed head to his wife—as a battlefield keepsake! They put it up over the gate of their castle at Wigmore, left it there till it rotted…”
Guy reached for a wine goblet, held it aloft. “And what of his God-cursed Grace? Edward Plantagenet, my father’s godson, my kinsman who would be King! Why do you think scum like de Mautravers dared to butcher my father as he lay dying in the mud of Evesham? Because he knew—they all knew—that Edward would approve, that Edward wanted it done! No, give credit where due, Walter, to my cousin Ned, may we meet in Hell!”
And with that, he flung the goblet into the fire. Hissing flames shot up wildly, ashes and embers rained into the floor rushes, clay shards ricocheted off the hearth stones, and men watched, mesmerized.
Later, when Hugh had time to think upon what he’d witnessed, he would decide it was the unexpectedness of Guy’s fury that was so frightening. Lightning searing a sky without clouds. A sudden burst of flame in a doused hearth. It was over almost as quickly as it began. Guy glanced at the clay fragments, said in a normal tone of voice that he owed his host some new crockery—as if that flare of killing rage had never been. Others did not find it so easy to forget. Hugh in particular was unsettled by what he’d seen, for it made him doubt his own judgment. He knew that Bran still bled, but Guy had seemed impervious to the past, so much so that Hugh even resented him a little for it, wondering why Bran must bear such deep scars when Guy bore so few. Now he knew better and wished he did not.
The one most affected by Guy’s outburst was his brother. Bran began drinking in earnest even before the broken crockery was cleared away. By midnight he was well and truly drunk, and was still badly hungover when he stumbled down to the great hall the next morning. Christians were expected to abstain from breakfast during Lent, but even the devout often found appetites overcoming obedience, and a number of men were helping themselves to tankards of ale and chunks of bread, soothing their consciences by eschewing butter. Others, those who had followed Bran’s example, slumped on benches looking greensick, sipping ale or herbal potions supposed to cure a morning-after malaise.
Waving aside Noel’s offer of hot bread, Bran drained a flagon of wine much too quickly, and, to the dismay of his squires, demanded another. Hugh had attempted to coax Bran to bed the night before, and in consequence, got his first taste of the fabled de Montfort temper. He was not eager to sample any more of it, but he watched Bran with growing unease, for they were meeting that forenoon with Charles and the King of France. In their months together, Hugh had never seen Bran publicly drunk, except for that night in Wales, when fever and mead had proved to be such a potent mixture. But he’d never seen his lord start drinking so early in the day, and he hovered about anxiously until Bran curtly told him to help Noel in saddling their horses. Even then he retreated from the hall with reluctance, with backward glances that Bran was determined to ignore. As fond as he was of Hugh, he was in no mood this morning to bear the burden of the boy’s devotion.
Noel was worried, too, about Bran, but he and Hugh were well past the point where they could share anything, even a mutual concern, and they headed for the stables in sullen silence. Friday the 13th was believed to be a day of ill omen, but after yesterday’s torrential rains, the morning seemed off to a promising start. The sky was an infinite, azure blue, and the air was cold but very clear, as if the night’s storm had washed the world clean.
Niccolò di Tavena was already in the stables, tightening the girth on the Count’s flashy white stallion. He beckoned hastily at sight of them. “Who is Henry of Almain and what is he to the de Montforts?”
It was an unexpected question. They exchanged quizzical looks, then answered almost in the same breath, Hugh saying, “Their cousin,” and Noel, “Their enemy.”
Niccolò frowned. “Which is it?”
“Both.” Before Hugh could elaborate, Noel seized control of the conversation. “He is the eldest son of the English King’s brother Richard, which makes him a first cousin to the de Montforts and the Lord Edward. They’re all roughly of an age, grew up together, and he was once a fervent supporter of the Lord Simon. He claimed to believe in the Earl’s reforms, but then he renounced his allegiance, at a time when Lord Simon most needed his backing. The de Montforts saw it as a betrayal, and there has been bad blood between them ever since. Why? The last we heard, he was on crusade with the Lord Edward. What put him in your mind this morn?”
“He’s here—in Viterbo. It seems he arrived four days ago, with the two Kings. A couple of the English knights saw him in the marketplace. I heard them a few moments ago outside the stables; Walter de Baskerville was vowing to tell the de Montforts, and the other man was arguing against it, right vehemently, too. So I wondered who he was—”
“De Baskerville? We just passed him in the courtyard, headed for the hall!” Hugh spun around, started to run, with Noel and Niccoló right on his heels.
They heard the shouting even before they reached the hall. Guy was gripping Walter de Baskerville by both arms, shaking the other man in his urgency to get answers. “Are you sure, truly sure it was Hal?”
“Guy, I saw him, crossing the piazza bold as can be! It was him, I swear by my very soul!”
Guy seemed stunned. “That God would deliver him into my hands…” He swung away from de Baskerville, looking about for his squire. “Ancel, fetch my sword! Bran! Where in Christ did he go?” His eyes were sweeping the hall, singling out English exiles. “Walter, Geoffrey, Alan, you fought with me at Evesham. Are you with me now? Bran! Damn him!” Snatching up his scabbard, he buckled it with shaking hands. “Ancel, get to the stables, saddle my horse! What of the rest of you? Who rides with me?”
It was like watching a fire blazing out of control. Some caught the contagion, too, began to shout for their own swords and horses. Others were backing away, as if the very air around Guy had become hot enough to singe. But when he turned to his father-in-law, the Count did not hesitate. “Of course I go with you,” he said, quite matter-of-factly. “A man must avenge his own.” And it was then that Bran emerged from a corner privy chamber.
He paused, blinking in the surge of sunlight, looking puzzled and a li
ttle wary to find the hall in such turmoil. Grabbing Bran’s scabbard from the back of a chair, Guy strode forward, thrust it at his brother. “We’ve no time to lose, Bran. Hal is here, right here in Viterbo! I still cannot believe it, cannot believe God could be so good to us. But Christ, why could it not have been Ned?”
Bran had always believed the folklore that a sudden shock could sober a man. He discovered now that it wasn’t so. No matter how he tried to focus his thoughts, to banish the wine-fumes from his brain, he could not cut through the confusion. Drink did not numb as easily as it once had, so why now? Why now when he had such need for clear thinking? He looked at his brother, seeing not Guy but Harry, his constant, unseen companion, for who was more faithful than a ghost? Who understood better than the dead that there was no forgiveness, in this life or the next? What did Guy know of remorse, relentless and ever-present, goading a man toward madness? What did Guy know of that? And he must not ever learn!
“Guy, listen to me!” Why did his voice sound so slurred, echo so strangely in his own ears? Why could he not find the right words? “But it is Hal, not Ned. Hal. And he…he was not even at Evesham!”
He saw at once that he’d not gotten through to Guy; the look on his brother’s face was one of disbelief, not comprehension. “Why are you so set upon destroying yourself? What will it change? You cannot even say that Papa would want this, Guy, for you know he would not!”
It was a cry of desperation, honest as only a plea utterly without hope can be. But Guy reacted as if he’d been struck a physical blow. His head came up, breath hissing through clenched teeth, eyes narrowing into slits of incredulous rage.
“You dare to talk of what Papa would have wanted, you who killed him! He and Harry died because of you, because of your criminal carelessness, your God-cursed folly! Where were you when we most needed you? Camped by the lake at Kenilworth Castle, out in the open so your men could bathe, by God, so Ned could come down upon you like a hawk on a pigeon! And Papa never knowing, keeping faith in you till the last! Even when we realized that Ned had used your banners as bait, we assumed you’d fought and lost, not that you’d let yourself be ambushed like some green, witless stripling, never that! Does it comfort you any, that our father went to his death still believing in you, never knowing how you’d betrayed him? I watched him die, damn you, and Harry and all the others. Not you, Bran—me! And mayhap this is why I did not die that day myself, so I could avenge our father, avenge Evesham!”
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