the Rose & the Crane

by Clint Dohmen

  “No, you did not make a mistake. In fact, the total lack of emotion in your voice seems a bit too well suited to irony,” Simon conceded. “Have you quite finished?” he then asked Aldo.

  “Nearly,” Aldo managed to utter.

  “Okay, so I have transportation and one follower. I should like to see what Neno has been up to lately.”

  Chapter 24

  SIMON WALKED UP to the door of a particularly sketchy bordello in the red light district of Castelletto, where Neno was known to semi-permanently reside. After knocking on the peeling green painted door, he was greeted with, “Mi dica?” the tone of which conveyed anything but ‘May I help you?’

  “Neno,” Simon replied. The door opened and a small, dirty, rat-faced man gave him a look of vague recognition. The pimp jerked his thumb at the stairs then sat down in an entryway chair and went back to picking at a large scab on his nose.

  Simon made his way up a dark, narrow staircase that stank of mildew until he reached the third floor, where he knocked on the door of Neno’s regular room. His repeated knocks were not answered, so he hollered at the door in his unmistakable deep voice.

  “Good morning, Neno, I wondered if I might be able to engage your services once again.” He heard the thump of a large object falling from a considerable height. The thump was followed by very rapid cursing in Venetian and shortly afterwards, the door opened.

  “Come in, please.” Along with those words from Neno, Simon was treated to an odor of vomit, red wine, and only God knew what else coming from the behemoth-sized first mate’s unshaven face. Simon looked around the room to see a poorly furnished, cramped space with tattered red and gold wall hangings depicting famous Venetian personalities and battlefield triumphs.

  Times had not been good for Neno. He had received a fair portion of the spoils from the voyage, but he had a problem. In fact, Neno had several problems. One was that he liked women, a lot, and Venice catered to his needs. The City of Masks offered gambling dens, alcohol from all parts of the world, and of course, Neno’s favorite spot in the city: the “Bridge of Tits,” which just happened to be ‘on the way’ to nearly everywhere Neno went in the city.

  The giant proceeded to sit on a stool next to the bed and dunk his head in a bucket of water. Simon looked at the high clearance of the bed and assumed that Neno falling out of it was the likely cause of the thump he had heard.

  “So you are going on another trading voyage?” Neno asked.

  “No, I’m going back to England to either take back my land or lose my head. The latter, unfortunately, is a much likelier outcome than the former.”

  Neno did not have much to think about. “But there will be money?”

  “Yes. Aldo will pay you as first mate while we sail, and if you will fight for me, I will pay you the rate of a mercenary captain.”

  “I will fight.”

  Chapter 25

  Tower Hill, London, England

  THE SCREAMS ECHOED across the bloodstained ground. Four horses made the initial pull on the four separate limbs of an unlucky servant of Edward IV, one who claimed to have switched allegiances to the new king.

  “My lord, what about the drawing and hanging part of his decreed punishment? Doesn’t that usually come first?” Lord Percy Blythe asked.

  Lord Percy was thoroughly enjoying his first trip to the capital since Richard had become king. During the war against the Scots, he had served Richard personally, and they had struck up a nominal friendship during the campaign. Thus it was that Percy had maintained his fiefdom and privileges upon the change in regents. On this occasion, the king had summoned him to obtain an update on intelligence in the west country.

  “But I’ve always like the quartering best,” Richard replied, “and I want to make sure he’s alive for this part. As you know, when they’re pulled through the streets behind a horse, one bad bump to the head, and poof! Fun over. Likewise, when the hangman is having a bad day then the hanging kills him and the quartering becomes a moot point. Even when they survive those trials there is usually very little fight left in them, and the sport is practically taken out of the quartering.”

  “Oh, quite so, quite so, I never thought about it that way. This is much more entertaining,” Blythe replied as the handler of the horses cracked his whip. The horses stretched the victim’s body further apart, accompanied by much snapping and popping from his joints.

  “See? You can barely hear the cracking over his screaming, which would never have been possible if he’d been drawn and hung first. The human body is fascinating.” Soon after this remark, both of the prisoner’s arms wrenched free from his body with a tremendous ripping sound. This freed the tension on the horses tied to his legs, and they took off at a gallop across the courtyard dragging the mercifully unconscious man behind them until he bled out.

  “We can hang him now if you’d like, my friend,” Richard joked.

  Lord Percy Blythe laughed. His king had nothing if not a brilliant sense of humor. “Do you think he was actually disloyal?”

  “I doubt it, but with that damn Tudor plotting against me again, it’s better to be safe than sorry. And by the way, is my wife dead yet?”

  “Very shortly, according to her physicians. They’re spreading the word that it’s tuberculosis.”

  “That should suffice. I can’t believe I had to poison her personally, but she insists on having her food tested unless it comes directly from me; paranoid shrew.”

  “Well regardless, the poison is taking hold now and your niece, Elizabeth of York, will make the perfect second wife. She is still hesitant because she believes the rumors that you murdered her two brothers, the princes, but she will come around. I told her that she should stop listening to the gossip of servants and peasants. We do need to go forward with the wedding as soon as possible, though. It is rumored that Henry Tudor wishes to marry her and join the House of Lancaster to the House of York. That rumor is causing unrest in my region, but even more so in Wales, as some people see it as a way to end these wars.”

  “They will see an end to these wars after I have Henry Tudor’s head on a spike on London Bridge! And why can we not just kill all the Welsh and be done with it? They are nothing but a blemish on this beautiful island.”

  Percy frowned sympathetically. “I wish we could, but I can’t hold the western border without the Welsh chieftains that are loyal to you, and the rest are too damned hard to root out of the godforsaken hills in that country.”

  “I know, I know,” Richard waved a dismissive hand. “The question was rhetorical, I’m not daft. So when is Henry expected to come, and how many men will he be bringing with him?”

  “Our spies are working on it now, my king.”

  “Well, then I certainly hope our spies are better than our assassins. I understand that even little Lord Lang is still alive.”

  Chapter 26

  Le Marais, Paris, France, Autumn, 1484

  “HARRY, MY BOY, how are you on this bright and beautiful morning?” boomed Jasper Tudor, Henry Tudor’s perpetually cheerful uncle.

  Jasper, born, raised, and having fought his way across nearly every inch of Wales, called Henry by his Welsh name. And Jasper was the one man who could call the Earl of Richmond and potential king-to-be, anything he wanted. Jasper had raised the boy after his mother, Margaret Beaufort, great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt, was taken away by Edward IV. Jasper had also rescued Harry from his birthplace (and Jasper’s former property) of Pembroke Castle, Wales, and smuggled him to safety in Brittany. From there, Jasper became more of a father than an uncle and raised the boy to manhood. Henry’s real father, Jasper’s brother Edmund, had died in Yorkist captivity before Henry was born.

  “I’m well, uncle, I’m well, and you?” Henry truly loved his uncle and counted on him almost exclusively for advice. Since a channel storm had doomed their attempted revolt in October, 1483, the relatives had spent many an evening developing the strategy that had led them to today. The clever political machinations
of King Richard III had forced them to flee Brittany, but in France, they found opportunity.

  “Oh, couldn’t be better. I love a good jousting tournament, and with the King of France putting up the prize money, we’ve got knights from all over Europe camped on the tournament field. And it must be said, the King of France was generous enough to let us use these lavish accommodations,” Jasper said with a smile.

  Henry Tudor looked around the bleak, cold, and empty room. “At least it keeps the rain off our heads.” He remarked in his typical undauntable fashion. Their room in the large monastic complex had some peculiar stone engravings on the walls that Henry had been meaning to ask about. “I’m curious about that symbol on the beam over my bed. What are the two knights on one horse?” Henry asked as he looked toward the high vaulted ceiling.

  “Ah, that is the symbol of the Poor Knights of the Temple of King Solomon, better known as the Knights Templar,” Jasper said as he looked in the direction Henry was pointing.

  Henry had heard of the Knights Templar and their famous Crusade battles, as every child had, but he knew few details beyond that.

  Jasper looked carefully at the Templar’s Latin inscription and read it out loud. “Sigillum Militum Xristi, the Seal of the Soldiers of Christ. Two knights riding a horse together symbolized the Templar’s vow to poverty. Unfortunately for them, it was also used by the King of France as conclusive proof that the Knights Templar dabbled in homosexuality, which in turn, helped he and the pope to disband the order. This conveniently freed the good king from all his debts to the order.”

  “Fortuitous.”

  “Indeed. This monastery we are quartered in was once called Le Temple. It was their headquarters.” Jasper looked out from one of the tower’s windows and pointed to the lush fields below. “Those fields where the tournament is being held were once marshland. The Knights Templar spent a small fortune draining the marsh to create the fields and farmlands you see now.”

  “When you say they were disbanded, what exactly do you mean?”

  “Well, the French King burned some of them alive, but most of them simply joined other orders, moved to friendlier countries, or renounced their Templar vows and retired. The common belief is that they were all tortured and killed, but I find that propaganda unlikely; many of them were highly intelligent men with no small amount of martial experience. If you look on the fields below, however, you will see that their legacy lives on.”

  Henry gave his uncle a quizzical look. “You mean other than the fields themselves?”

  “Yes, look at the tents of the men who have come here to compete. Notice the flags and pennants with red crosses that end in wide footings? Those are Templar crosses, and as you can see, they’re part of the design of many flags.”

  “There are a lot of them.”

  “There were tens of thousands of Templars, and they controlled banking from Europe to the Middle East. You can’t erase that sort of legacy by kingly proclamation or papal decree.”

  “I suppose not. So, some of the men who fight may be descendants of the Templars?”

  “Without doubt; certainly some of the knights from Portugal, Leon, and Switzerland will have Templar blood in their veins. It is rumored a high percentage of the Templars fled to those countries.”

  “I do appreciate a good historical story, uncle, and it seems you never fail to oblige. Unfortunately, I’m afraid our men will have to miss the opportunity to test their mettle against that warrior blood.”

  Now it was Jasper’s turn to look quizzically at Henry.

  Henry knew he was taking a chance here, but it was a calculated decision. “Our men will be forbidden to fight in the tournament.”

  Jasper looked at Henry as if he’d lost his mind. “They’ll ignore that order.”

  “They’ll try, but I’m going to send the Brandons and Sir John Cheyne to oversee the registrations.”

  “It will be terrible for morale.”

  “Understood, but we’re too close to returning to England, and we only have, what, five hundred Englishmen loyal to the House of Lancaster here with us?”

  “Yes, give or take,” Jasper answered.

  “They must be given orders that they are to watch only. We can’t afford to have any of them hurt.”

  “I understand your reasoning and I admire your foresight, but it’s not going to make you popular. As you can imagine, the French will be ceaseless in their accusations of cowardice when no Englishmen partake in the games. You may lose in morale more than you gain in the health of the men.”

  Henry sighed. “Yes, it’s a valid point, and it’s one that I have considered, but we are too few. I trust that the men who have put their titles under attainder and their heads on the chopping block to join me here will not be dissuaded by a singular event of sport. Additionally, we desperately need French help if I’m to have any chance of gaining the crown, and I don’t want a tournament to spawn any personal grudges between our men and the French. Please find William Brandon and have him spread the word.”

  “I will do as you command, nephew.” That boy has a sharp mind; sharper than mine for sure. I hope he lives long enough to become king, Jasper thought as he headed towards the tent of William Brandon, one of Henry’s fiercest knights.

  Chapter 27

  IF KURO NEVER saw another boat again for the rest of his life it would be too soon. He hadn’t gotten nearly the exercise he’d desired on the crowded streets of Venice, and the walk across the French countryside, while pleasant, could hardly be considered taxing exercise.

  Now, as his human coaxed him forward, he liked what he saw. The plains outside the walls of Paris were overflowing with tents, each sporting its own brilliantly colored flags and banners. Men wearing armor and brightly colored surcoats strode about the makeshift encampment leading horses in matching caparisons. Men and horses enveloped in this much color could only mean one thing: battle, and Kuro longed for a fight.

  The large man who’d killed his first master still accompanied them. This was a minor irritation, but the large man had ignored him and he returned the favor. Kuro was surprised to see a number of horses nearly matching his own size in the camp, but it did not overly concern him. He knew he was without equal on the battlefield. Kuro snorted in the direction of a large bay horse that eyed him as he pranced by.

  Simon guided his horse, a fine, tall, light gray Andalusian stallion towards a crowded tent at the edge of the combat arenas. He let Kojiro lead the way, of course, because Kuro got fidgety when he wasn’t in the lead. Simon sometimes wondered if the big black charger wasn’t part human. It had taken longer than Simon hoped to get to Paris: Aldo had insisted on waiting three months for his large, new ship to be finished. Probably over-compensating for something, Simon thought.

  As he suspected, the tent was for registration, and he moved to sign them up for three-person combat. They had heard of the tournament upon landing in France, and he thought it would be the perfect opportunity for Kojiro to practice fighting against European knights without getting killed in the process. And just as importantly, he hoped the tournament could serve as an opening to meet his distant Lancastrian relative, Henry Tudor.

  Simon gave his name to the registrar and was surprised that he did not write anything down. Instead, the registrar turned quickly to a rough-looking, armored nobleman behind him. This nobleman was, in turn, flanked by a nearly identical man on his left and a freakishly large man on his right.

  “Are you English?” the first rough-looking noble inquired of Simon.

  “I am.”

  “I don’t recognize you, but Lord Henry has forbidden his men to participate in this tournament.”

  “Oh?” Simon uttered, surprised to hear this information. “And why is that?”

  “You know damn well why it is. You’re not one of those thick-os are you?”

  “Well, that would depend on who you ask. My good friend Aldo here would swear that is the truth of it.”

  Aldo nodded once in agreem
ent.

  “But based on the assumption that I am a ‘thick-o,’ can you please tell me?”

  William Brandon was perplexed that someone hadn’t gotten word that the English were not to fight. He had posted notices in all the English quarters; there had been no end to the griping about it. “What’s your name and where are you from?”

  “I am Simon Lang of Exeter. My father fell at Towton fighting for Henry VI, the rightful King of England. Well, formerly of Exeter, we are now the Langs of Nowhere in Particular. And did I say we? I meant me. The Yorkists executed my mother in front of me and I’m all that’s left of ‘the Langs.’”

  A look of recognition crossed the face of the behemoth on the right. He spoke up.

  “I know your family. Your father fought well at Towton. I was for King Edward.”

  The giant had just announced that he fought against King Henry at Towton, but Simon detected neither malice nor gloating in his voice. Simon nonetheless could not prevent the anger from entering his voice.

  “My father died at Towton, and the Yorkist pigs butchered his body.”

  With this statement the two noble Englishmen accompanying the giant put hands to sword hilts. Simon unconsciously did the same.

  Kojiro did not react at all while standing next to Simon, but Simon had learned that a lack of motion on the part of Kojiro did not indicate a lack of preparation. In fact, the more settled he became, the more likely he was to strike. Aldo touched his sword hilt as well, and Neno bulled his way forward until he too stood next to Simon. Neno, giant though he was, did not equal the height of the man who just announced he had fought for the Yorkist cause at Towton. Though he did outweigh the bruiser by a good three stones.

  The tension subsided nearly as quickly as it had begun. The giant behind the table darted out to stay the hands of his compatriots. He bowed his head towards Simon. “You are correct. The Yorkist actions after the battle were shameful. It is one of the reasons I fight for Henry now.”