by Clint Dohmen
Simon and his group were just grateful to see them go, but Ismail apparently was not. His horse galloped after them, and his scimitar slashed down again and again as he made the natives pay for having dared attack his plantation. Lone combatants, unarmored, on foot, and fleeing were easy prey to even the least trained of cavalrymen, and Ismail was not the least trained of cavalrymen. Simon was not sure how many of the headhunters would make it back to their boats, but he did not think it would be many.
“Well, that was a wee bit of excitement, now, wasn’t it?” Simon remarked. “Thank you, master carpenter!” he called out as he saw Magnani emerge from the trees. Magnani gave Simon a flourishing bow.
Aldo spoke. “The poor cannibals should be grateful they did not win. For, had they won, I think they may have regretted their actions once they got the taste of an Englishman in their bellies. That is, of course, if your flesh tastes anything like the overcooked flavorless cuisine that you English eat.”
“Quite right, quite right. No doubt you Italians are the tastier lot. A fact that I would have been more than happy to point out had they started lighting fires under giant cooking cauldrons.”
“Futari mo oishikunai, kamoshirenai. Ofuro ni hairanai to kusai.” Kojiro did not smile as he said this.
Aldo laughed. “He just said that it’s likely neither one of us would taste good since we both stink due to our infrequent bathing.”
Simon lifted an eyebrow. “I think he’s starting to like us.”
Kojiro found a well and some cotton cloth on the property and began cleaning his blades. Aldo ordered Neno and his crew back to the ship, just in case the natives thought to attack it. That is, if Ismail had left any of them alive.
The farm workers slowly emerged from their hiding places. They looked bewildered but grateful as they grabbed a hold of their rescuers’ arms and pumped them up and down. This continued until Ismail returned with his scimitar drenched in blood. He was no longer blindingly bright, as his armor and that of his horse were covered in crimson. Some of the blood was fresh enough or thickly pooled enough to still be dripping, while other spots had already dried to a rusty hue under the sun’s hot rays. Ismail removed his helmet and the mail hood underneath it.
“I am in your debt, my friends. Without your assistance, my workers would be on their way to someone’s belly, and I would be on my way to Allah. If you have a few days to spare, you will be my guests, and I will send for nutmeg and mace from the isles where the nutmeg tree grows. I’m afraid that as grateful as I am, I am still not allowed to disclose the location of those islands, but we will negotiate a fair trade.”
And so it was that after four days of enjoying Ismail’s lavish hospitality, including many cups of the remarkable beverage qahwah, the Tigre sailed for Egypt, with a fortune’s worth of clove, nutmeg, and mace.
Chapter 21
Tower of London, Summer, 1483
THE TOWER OF London was not in fact a single tower at all, but a series of towers, buildings, and walls that served as both palace and fortress for the royal family of England. The White Tower, the keep, was completed in 1100 by William the Conqueror, and at ninety feet tall, it was still the tallest building in London.
But the White Tower was not the only tower within the inner wall of the castle. The Garden Tower, pleasantly named due to its proximity to the Constable’s garden, also contained living quarters, and this summer, those quarters were all the more pleasant since they were filled with the sounds of children’s laughter. The two precocious youths housed in the Garden Tower could easily have spent their days moping about and wallowing in self-pity, but these two were made of sterner stuff.
After all, their father was King Edward the Fourth.
In addition to having a father who was a great champion in battle, their mother, Elizabeth Woodville, was no wilting violet either. Elizabeth had not been born into nobility, but she had been born with a sharp mind, a strong will, and remarkable beauty. Her strength and character played no small part in her husband’s successful reign. So with parents like these, thirteen-year-old Edward V and his ten-year-old brother, Richard Shrewsbury, Duke of York, did not dwell on the recent death of their father, or the semi-captivity forced upon them by their uncle, Richard of Gloucester. Instead, they played.
“You have offended the honor of my lady, Edward, and you shall pay with your life.” With those words, the slender ten year old brought his wooden sword down squarely onto the wooden shield held high by his thirteen-year-old brother.
“I am your king, and your lady has plotted against me. You will not live to see her again.” Edward then struck swiftly with his own wooden sword, taking care not to actually strike the cherubic younger brother that he loved with all his heart.
Richard laughed at his brother’s quick retort. Edward would make a good king someday. He was smart, strong, polite, and generous to a fault. The fact that their uncle and erstwhile protector had temporarily usurped the throne and was calling himself King Richard III did not concern him. They were the sons of the great King Edward IV, and someday they would claim their birthright. Meanwhile, there was the honor of imaginary ladies to protect and traitorous Lancastrian villains to dispose of. Neither brother gave it any thought when the captain of the guard entered the room and strode purposefully towards them. The captain of the guard was a renowned knight who had always been a loyal servant to their father.
Edward spoke while parrying a strike aimed straight for his heart. “Captain, it is a pleasure to see you. Perhaps you have come to give my brother some tips? His footwork seems to leave him off-balance too often.” And with that statement, Edward slipped to his brother’s right, pushed his brother in the back with his shield, and tripped him with his foot. Before his brother hit the decorative red carpet though, Edward grabbed the back of his doublet and gave a sharp pull upwards to lessen the force of his brother’s fall.
Chagrined, Richard stood up and brushed himself off, bowing to his brother. “You win again, my king. I guess I shall not live to see my lady again.” Richard then turned to the recently arrived knight and addressed him. “Captain, you have fought many battles; do you have any secrets that will help me beat my brother just once?”
The captain of the guard was a big, bald man in his mid-forties, whose body and face bore innumerable battle scars. He had been standard-bearer to King Edward IV, where he had earned most of those scars, and now he was part of Richard III’s personal bodyguard. There was a reason he had been given those prominent martial positions for two different kings; his loyalty to the Yorkist cause was without question, as a lot of Lancastrian souls could attest to. It was not unusual for him to visit the two princes in the tower.
The captain thought he liked the princes. They seemed healthy, they took their military training seriously, and they always treated him with respect. He knew for certain he liked their father. King Edward IV had been a steadfast leader, putting the sword to Lancastrian and Scot alike, oftentimes through the use of his brother Richard, whom the captain now served. So the chances were good that Edward IV’s sons would be children that he should like.
Only, he didn’t know for sure because his mind didn’t process emotions properly. He had known that he was different from a young age, but he was smart and he quickly learned to model other people’s behavior. He smiled when other people smiled and laughed when other people laughed, but it was all a show. He didn’t feel sad or happy and didn’t understand why people cared when things died. Whether it was a horse, an ant, or his own mother, he never shed a tear and couldn’t understand why other people did. So with Richard III’s orders clear in his head, when the young prince asked him to teach a lesson in swordplay, he proceeded without hesitation. “Certainly,” said the captain.
Richard watched in horror as his older brother’s chest exploded, to allow the captain of the guard’s sword through it. Richard did not think of himself at this time, but felt only grief for his beloved brother even as the captain’s sword swung again and
the blade entered his own torso. As he watched his intestines spill out onto the beautifully embroidered rug, and the life drained out of his ten-year-old body, Richard looked questioningly up at his murderer, but he did not see any answers in the captain’s face.
When he was sure both boys were dead, the captain wrapped them up in the carpet he had slain them on, leaving no bloodstains on the floor for people to question. He had been prepared to do some scrubbing, but as it turned out, it wasn’t necessary. It was not difficult for him to carry the boys down the stairs and out to his waiting cart as they weighed no more than a combined one hundred seventy-five pounds. Once he had loaded them onto the back of his cart, it was an hour-long trip to his estate outside of London where a pen of starving hogs waited to polish off all evidence that the princes had ever existed.
The captain of the guard crossed himself as he hacked apart the small bodies and tossed them to the pigs. He did so not out of remorse, because he didn’t feel remorse, but because he knew that was what you were supposed to do in such situations.
He really had borne them no ill will.
Richard III was pleased with how the summer was wrapping up. After he beheaded Edward IV’s in-laws and servants without trial, all of London, and indeed the whole countryside, seemed to be coming around to his way of thinking. Now, he had just gotten word that everything had gone as planned in the Garden Tower.
Magnificent, he thought. He didn’t have anything personal against his nephews, but sooner or later someone was bound to have supported one or the other’s claim to the throne, and he did not want that hanging over his head. He would reward the captain of the guard richly for both his service and his silence.
The only thorn left in my side now is that damned Lancastrian Henry that isn’t really a Lancastrian at all, but a Tudor, he thought, as he dismissed the captain. The last true Lancastrian was that nutter Henry VI. If only that whoremongering John of Gaunt could have kept his trouser snake in his trousers, I wouldn’t have the great-great-grandson of a bastard claiming he has a right to the throne.
Richard shook his head in dismay. And to add insult to injury, he’s half Welsh! It’s so absurd as to be almost unbelievable. But the Lancastrians are nothing if not predictable. They would follow a cow into battle if its great-great-grandmother once gave milk to King Henry V. That’s why I’d like that last Lang of Exeter killed as well.
Chapter 22
Venice
THE PROSPEROUS VOYAGE had been very good for Aldo. He made enough money to open his own merchant house. Now he traded and commissioned ships to carry his goods from the comfort of his own home, an expansive three-story warehouse and residence situated on the Grand Canal. The magnificent structure sported a whitewashed façade with a majestic row of Gothic columns and arches both street-side and canal-side. The main entryway led into a giant, open-air courtyard where goods could be shuffled to and from the storehouses nearby. The second floor contained Aldo’s spacious residence, and the third floor housed apartments and offices for the merchants, traders, and accountants that he employed.
The lavish second floor suite had a wide, covered portico that overlooked the canal. It was here that Aldo frequently entertained guests with his tales of adventure and heroism. Alas, the view of the canal had its good and bad days. Bad days were those in the hot summer when the air didn’t move and the smells of sewage drifted up from the canal. Although Venice was at the forefront of modernity with its gatoli system of indoor plumbing, there was no avoiding the fact that all the waste transported through the gatoli pipe systems eventually ended up in the canals. On the bad days, Aldo entertained inside.
The prosperous voyage had been good to Simon, too. He had accumulated enough wealth to hire and equip mercenaries to assist him in reclaiming his ancestral lands. That is, if the chance ever arose. He also had gained the inestimable value of Kojiro’s services. The unintended negative consequence, of which he was not yet aware, was that the notoriety of the voyage had attracted Yorkist attention.
Aldo had been generous enough to offer Simon and Kojiro their own apartments on the third floor of his sweeping residence while Simon plotted his uncertain future. The trio liked to spend the late afternoons drinking wine, conversing, and watching the boat traffic on the canal. Kojiro did not converse as much as Aldo and Simon, but he seemed to smile at least once a conversation, which was a considerable improvement from the first time they had met.
During the day, Kojiro and Simon practiced sword fighting in the courtyard along the canal. Kojiro was surprised to discover that Western plate armor was not that much heavier than his own samurai armor had been. He learned to maneuver quite well with it.
Simon was not equal to Kojiro’s speed and agility, but he compensated with his size, strength, and superior reach. Nevertheless, he didn’t care to speculate as to who would win a duel to the death. They sparred for hours every day. Simon taught Kojiro the vulnerable points in western armor, just as Kojiro had done for Simon before the battle at Kannoura. Kojiro relentlessly drilled Simon in his own sword, wrestling, and takedown techniques, while Simon shared European fighting styles in return. Aldo watched and sipped wine.
On one particularly suffocating afternoon in the courtyard, Aldo, after consuming four glasses of a very light and slightly sweet pinkish wine from the Champagne region, could no longer hold his peace. “Enough! Please, enough! There is not a sane person in the city drilling on a day like today. Neither the Genoese nor the Turks are at the gates! Relinquish your weapons; less training and more fun! Cede to my command, or I shall evict you from my house!”
It was an empty threat, but Simon and Kojiro were sweltering in their armor. As partial payment for Kojiro’s service, Simon had ordered the samurai a custom suit of armor designed by the finest craftsmen in Venice. He even paid extra to have Kojiro’s blue crest of the crane engraved on both shoulder plates of the black steel armor.
“Because you insist, we will desist.” Simon grinned at his clever word play.
Aldo rolled his eyes.
Kojiro, not understanding Simon, nonetheless gauged from Aldo’s reaction that the Englishman had once again said something that only he found amusing. Kojiro looked at Aldo and rolled his eyes to show comprehension.
Aldo clapped. “Precisely, Kojiro, precisely.”
Simon pretended to feel hurt as he sheathed his sword and walked over to Aldo. “And what is this fine-looking potion that you have been sipping on?”
Aldo poured the flat, pink liquid into two Venetian glass goblets and handed them to Kojiro and Aldo. “I acquired some barrels of this at a bargain since the Champenois are not particularly known for their winemaking skills. I was going to trade it to some Hungarians for furs, but I find it quite refreshing so I’m thinking now that I may hold onto it. It goes down well on a hot afternoon, no?”
Kojiro, who had developed a taste for Western wines, took a sip and nodded his head in appreciation.
Simon agreed. “Wonderful wine, but it isn’t doing your waistline any favors. You must be buying your clothes at that establishment that panders to the well-proportioned people these days. I think the shop is called The Fat Venetian?”
Aldo patted his belly and smiled. “Yes, I’m afraid this is my just reward for prosperity, and a tribute to the fine food and drink of Venice. I can’t understand why you two insist on all this training business. It’s embarrassing, really. I tell my friends that you’re both ‘touched by the Lord.’ They believe me without hesitation.”
“Doubtless, your equally rotund friends will find themselves on a Turkish spit roasting over a fire one day and wonder how it possibly came to pass. But enough talk of obese merchants. What did you have in mind for this afternoon?”
“Why, I thought a relaxing stroll along the piazza would be nice. Perhaps I shall purchase some more paintings for my living quarters, or perhaps we shall just enjoy wine and some female companionship? Of course, I won’t be bringing either of you until you’ve bathed.”
Aldo knew Kojiro would have bathed anyway. He always did after training. Kojiro was the most hygienic man Aldo had ever met. He was certainly no barbarian. Simon, on the other hand, gave no thought to offending others with his body odor. “It doesn’t offend me,” he would grin and say. And Simon was English nobility! The Lord be blessed, but the English were a dirty people. However, Simon did like voluptuous Venetian women and those who did not charge for their services would pay him no attention when he smelled like a wet dog. “Yes, yes, I’ll have a bath, but none of that aqua mirabilis crap you Italian pretty boys cover yourselves with.”
Within an hour, the three of them were strolling along the Piazza San Marco. Aldo wore a fancy, red- and gold-striped silk tunic with a white ruffled collar, red sheer leggings, and a wide-brimmed black hat that had an ostentatious white ostrich feather protruding from its showy gold band. His tunic swelled at the waist, where his ample belly gave evidence that he was a man of wealth, and from his belt hung a medium length, emerald-hilted broadsword, proving that he was a man due respect in this prosperous city-state.
Kojiro wore the bashofu kasuri yukata he had picked up in the Ryukyu Kingdom. This was a light but stiff kimono made from the fibers of banana plants. Kojiro’s yukata was dyed in various shades of blue, creating an intentionally blurry pattern of swallows. The yukata was perfect for the heat and humidity of the swamp city. On his feet he wore thonged, straw zori sandals, also very comfortable in the heat.
Simon was envious. Kojiro not only looked comfortable in his clothing, but he walked gracefully, never seemed to sweat, and looked to the entire world as if he weren’t wretchedly hot. “Kojiro, would you kindly try to act a little more miserable for me, please? People will think me a sniveler if I’m the only one who gripes about the heat.”