Carvajal was not a man to frown. Swan had met him four times, and the man had never shown a strong emotion except for pleasure. He was cautious and dignified – and very much in control of himself, about sixty years of age, small but spare, with greying hair in a full tonsure. He wore a good gown that would not have looked out of place on a rich merchant or a minor nobleman, but his only jewellery was his episcopal ring, and his staff was small.
‘Gold,’ Carvajal said. ‘Papal funds for the crusade, gathered here in Germany. The treaty forbids me to send the gold over the Alps. The Emperor – just like the Venetians – has allowed us to collect the tithe, but only if the gold stays here in the Empire.’
Swan sighed. ‘But all the soldiers—’
‘Are in Italy – or Hungary. Oh – I have dispersed funds as I could, to Hunyadi. I’ll send you east with some, if you go.’
Swan nodded.
The older man smiled gently. ‘My son, I wish I had better news for you or for my friend Bessarion.’ He looked out of the window. ‘Would you truly go to Belgrade?’ he asked. ‘Bessarion makes it clear that he has left this choice to you.’
Swan tried to read the man’s eyes. ‘I had thought to go,’ he admitted.
Carvajal nodded. ‘Good. If you will go, I will encourage you,’ he said. ‘The Emperor is not going, and neither, I think, is the King of Hungary. It is a sorry state of affairs. They all fear Hunyadi more than they fear the Turks.’ He paused. 'There are ten thousand men-at-arms camped outside this city, but they will not go east. No one will lead them--indeed, I suspect the Emperor does not want them to march.' He sighed a little.
Swan could not stop himself from blaspheming. ‘Sweet Christ,’ he said. ‘The Genoese fear the Venetians more than they fear the Turks, and the Greeks feared the Pope more than they feared the Turks, and the Egyptians fear the Tartars more than they fear the Turks …’ He shook his head and produced a sigh that might have melted a stone. ‘When the events of the last fifty years suggest that everyone should save effort and fear the Turks.’
Carvajal smiled at the younger man. ‘Most rulers live from day to day and no more,’ he said. ‘And most men believe themselves to be masters of diplomacy and duplicity.’
Swan wondered whether the apparently kindly old man could see right through him.
‘Do you have dispatches for Belgrade?’ Swan asked.
‘I have more than dispatches,’ Carvajal said. ‘I have two dozen crusaders with retinues who I will send east with you, if you will conduct and command them. I have been hesitant to let them go. They might be robbed – or they might become robbers.’ He glanced out the window again. ‘Capistrano is raising another kind of crusader – mobs of peasants.’ He shook his head and gave Swan a rueful smile. ‘The very same peasants he preyed on when he was the inquisitor now flock to his banner. He has promised remission of sins to the very people – heretics and homosexuals – that he persecuted last year.’ Carvajal shook his head.
‘I don’t remember him,’ Swan said. 'It should be quite an army.'
‘He was never attending the Emperor when you were here,’ Carvajal said. ‘But his impact is felt, even at court. Everyone fears him.’
Swan was standing to address the cardinal, and now he stepped back slightly, as if to make an offline parry against a strong attack. ‘So – Eminence – would it be fair to say that everyone here is hoping that Belgrade will fall, and swallow both the Inquisitor Capistrano and the Regent Hunyadi?’
Carvajal steepled his hands as if about to pray. ‘The only aid sent by the Emperor and the King of Hungary has been of very expendable persons,’ he said carefully.
Swan nodded. ‘I suspect that would describe me and my fifty lances,’ he said.
Carvajal looked down at his desk. Then he took a small slip of paper from a box on his desk and handed it to Swan. Swan unrolled it one-handed and read it.
‘May I keep this?’ he asked after a single glance. ‘I can use it with one of my men. He remains loyal in his heart to Malatesta.’
The slip of parchment contained the briefest note in three closely written lines, suggesting that the crusade would benefit from Malatesta’s former men-at-arms being included in any mission ‘intended to harass the infidel and with little chance of return’. The Italian was very pretty. It was in the hand of Alberti.
Carvajal fingered his beard. ‘Please cause it to be destroyed when you are done with it,’ he said. ‘The wolf seeks to cover his tracks.’
Swan nodded and put the parchment inside his doublet.
Carvajal went on as if the slip of paper had never existed. ‘I will have dispatches for both Capistrano and for Hunyadi. They seem to have separate armies.’
Swan nodded. ‘Hunyadi speaks Italian?’ he asked.
‘Yes, and so do many of his captains,’ Carvajal said. ‘They all know some Latin. The Serbs often know Greek as well.’ He met Swan’s eyes. ‘The Serbs – they are on both sides. They have to be. Hunyadi had used them for his own ends too often, and the Serbs are tired of Turkish armies raping and burning their lands.’
‘And they follow the Greek rite,’ Swan said.
‘You really are a very well-read young man,’ Carvajal said with a small grin.
‘I served the Order in the East. I know the Greek rite and most of the details of theological debate.’ Swan nodded. ‘Out East, it’s table talk.’
Carvajal steepled his hands again. ‘Yes. I regret it, but most of my colleagues view those who follow the Greek rite as … more of a threat than the Turks.’
Both men shook their heads together.
‘My master, Bessarion, says we are not a crusade. We’re a conspiracy to commit a crusade.’ Swan scratched under his chin then made himself stop. His old breastplate was too small, and it rubbed. He’d worn it every day for three weeks, and now he was paying. ‘I need a good armourer,’ he said. ‘And money. I’ll be here at least two days.’
‘I know less of armour then of psalters,’ the cardinal said. ‘But I believe it is said here that all the best armourers are either Milanese or Bohemian. The Bohemians are all heretics.’ Carvajal smiled again, and for a moment looked like a much younger man. ‘I like them. There are many bankers here, but the best are Italian.’
Swan nodded. ‘I know them. I have a bond to negotiate, and then I’ll collect your dispatches after matins on Saint Constantine’s day. Is that satisfactory?’
‘You are a useful young man. Where did Bessarion find you? And you read Greek, I understand.’ Carvajal shook his head. ‘Were you intending to be a priest?’
Swan looked down. ‘No,’ he said. He thought of the innkeeper’s wife. And smiled.
The Medici had a pair of offices – one was stacked floor to ceiling with furs, and the other had three very loud young men yammering in Florentine Italian.
‘They’ll cut off your hands, Alessio!’ shouted the tallest of the three.
‘Pig shit,’ Alessio spat. ‘I will never be caught, and in fact, I’m not breaking their law.’
Swan pulled his hat off his head and waved it to get someone’s attention. A small boy grinned like an imp and shrugged so expressively that Swan knew that he, too, was Italian.
‘And who the fuck are you?’ snarled the third man. He glared at Swan.
Swan put a hand on his sword. ‘A customer of this bank,’ he said, as equitably as he could.
Alessio jumped down off the counter. ‘Peace, Bernardo!’ he said. ‘We must apologise, Ser …’
‘Tommaso Swan,’ the Englishman said. ‘Of Rome and Venice.’
Bernardo bowed and waved a hand in front of his face. ‘Apologies, Excellency. We have had a difficult day.’
Swan nodded coolly. ‘I need to cash a letter of credit,’ he said.
‘Everyone does,’ Alessio muttered.
Swan was quick on the uptake. He looked at the pile of furs and the truculence and made his calculations. ‘You have no gold,’ he said.
The other two young men looked a
t Alessio, and Alessio flushed. ‘I would not say that.’
Swan shook his head rapidly, as if to indicate frustration. ‘My master is a friend of your house,’ he said. ‘I’m off east to Belgrade and I need gold. Shall I go elsewhere?’
‘It would be a sad day to see a famous knight like yourself …’ Bernardo began unctuously.
‘Which is to say,’ interrupted the third man, hitherto silent. ‘How much do you need?’
‘A thousand gold florins, and a bill on an armourer,’ Swan said.
‘What armourer?’ Alessio asked. ‘Who is your master?’
‘My master is Bessarion,’ Swan said proudly.
‘Ah,’ said all three Florentines.
Alessio bowed again. ‘You have no idea how many men come through that door claiming to be friends of Cosimo or the Illustrious Lorenzo or some other Medici.’ He rubbed his beard with thumb and forefinger – thoughtfully. ‘Must it be gold?’
‘You have a shortfall in specie?’ Swan asked again.
Alessio looked outraged. ‘I have not said any such thing,’ he said.
Bernardo put a hand on Swan’s arm. ‘Perhaps we can help first in the matter of armour,’ he said. ‘We use a Bohemian in the street of arms. I could walk you there and guarantee your purchases.’ He seemed to be looking Swan over carefully. ‘You are the Englishmen that the Venetians just knighted.’ He said it confidently. ‘Your good Italian fooled me, but now I know you. You have been to Vienna before.’
Swan bowed. ‘I am that man,’ he said.
Bernardo extended a hand. ‘May I see the bill you wish to exchange?’ he asked.
Swan opened his belt pouch and took out one of his three large bills. It was a letter of credit.
Bernardo read it and winced. ‘It is on our bank,’ he said.
Swan furrowed his forehead. ‘Of course!’ he said. ‘Why do you think I came here?’
Alessio had his head in his hands.
Bernardo took his arm and started him for the door. Outside, Ser Columbino and Peter were drinking wine served them by the blond boy. They rose.
Swan was still utterly unused to being a magnifico, and when men shot to their feet at his arrival, he looked around to see where the nobleman was.
He saw Columbino smile, and he knew he’d done it again.
The street of armourers in Vienna was a soldier’s paradise. There were four drinking establishments, each more full of coats of arms and gilt iron than the last. Women abounded in the doorways and the windows of these establishments, all dressed in the latest Burgundian styles – or undressed in them. One tall beauty wore nothing but a tall linen headdress draped in veils. She was at Swan’s eye level, and for a moment he almost lost his seat despite the tall back to his saddle.
But it was the swordsmiths and the armourers whose work held his eye longest. He had seen the fluted and magnificent armours of Germany before, but here was a level of ostentation he’d never seen anywhere – whorls and curlicues and magnificent red-leather lacing and gilded bronze rivets. The swords and daggers were perfect in their lines, some magnificently decorated, others as plain as a nun’s habit.
‘We’re being followed,’ Peter said.
Columbino pursed his lips and nodded.
Swan turned in his saddle and smiled at Columbino while looking behind him. ‘It’s Vienna,’ he said lightly. ‘If you aren’t followed, you aren’t important. Everyone spies here.’
Peter frowned with his ‘you’re too young to understand’ face. ‘These look like serious men – a cut-throat and a priest.’
Swan nodded.
The Bohemian did not incline to decoration, and had a used suit of Milanese hanging on a mannequin in the doorway of his shop, and little else. The shop seemed only as wide as the open door, but the boy who met them and bowed led them back, and in three paces they were in a space as big as a warehouse, with a dozen men pounding metal on anvils. The boy vanished and returned with a surprisingly young man with a neat, curled beard and big eyes – far too young and handsome to be a master armourer.
Swan passed a sign to Clemente, who was dressed as a page, and the boy went off into the shop with the shop boy, the two already talking.
The armourer wiped his hands on a rag and bowed. ‘You are the customer? Good day, Maestro Bernardo. One of your clients?’ They had a rapid exchange in German.
Swan bowed.
‘Decorative?’ the armourer asked brusquely in French.
Swan shook his head. ‘Practical. I go to Belgrade.’
‘Maestro Jiri has very little time,’ Bernardo said apologetically.
Maestro Jiri made a face. ‘Your French is very good – one might take you for a native, monseigneur.’
Swan smiled. ‘I am in fact English, and I am no seigneur.’
‘You are a good size,’ the master said. ‘Fit. Not fat. I have a breastplate that will fit you. Arms? Look at your forearms. Like a heron.’ He smiled. And put his hands on Swan’s waist. The very familiarity of it was shocking. ‘Your torso is very short, for the length of leg.’ He took a deep breath.
‘We would esteem it a special favour,’ Bernardo said. He spoke quickly in German again, looking at Swan. Swan smiled blandly.
Maestro Jiri shrugged, as if whatever Bernardo said had little to do with him. ‘If the breast and back fit,’ he said, ‘I can alter the rest quickly enough. No gold rivets, no fancy crap?’ he asked suddenly in Italian.
Swan showed his donat’s ring. ‘I am a plain soldier.’
The armourer laughed. ‘I have never met a plain soldier before,’ he said. ‘All of you are popinjays. And why not? You risk death. Come back tomorrow, in the hour after matins. Early.’
Bernardo nodded. ‘And now perhaps another form of entertainment? Please accept my hospitality, Ser Tommaso.’ He led them out and down the street to the gilded gate of the Golden Lion. The beautiful woman with the linen headdress was gone from the balcony.
Swan smiled at Peter, who winked.
They were given a private room, and three young women – all clothed – appeared to wait on them.
Maestro Bernardo excused himself to go to the jakes, and Swan leaned back. The young woman who had poured his wine now sat next to him and took his hand playfully.
Swan smiled at her. He leaned forward, kissed her and said, ‘Run along, my pretty,’ in Italian.
She shook her head, but caught his attention. He shook his head. She nodded and took her friends by the hand and led them out.
Peter looked put out, and Ser Columbino sighed, then flushed. ‘I apologise, Excellency. I should not have thought to disport myself—’
Swan laughed. ‘I’m no prude. Do what you like. But this is business. Peter?’
Peter grinned. ‘He offered the armourer a great deal of money in two weeks to serve you today. He said they’d be in the armourer’s debt eternally.’ He looked around. ‘In the end, he asked the armourer to keep you here a couple of days.’
‘Peter speaks German,’ Swan said with an evil smile. ‘Bernardo has no reason to suspect.’
Columbino smiled a fox’s smile, and then Bernardo returned.
‘You didn’t find the servers to your satisfaction?’ Bernardo asked. ‘I can send for others.’
Swan wasn’t sure exactly why he wanted to keep the Italian off balance, but he was becoming used to playing his hunches. He drank off his wine – acceptable – and rose. ‘I have other appointments,’ he said pompously. ‘And I serve a churchman.’ He let the last statement stand. Let Bernardo draw whatever conclusion he would.
Bernardo looked crestfallen.
Swan bowed. ‘I will see you, perhaps, tomorrow afternoon,’ he said. He regretted the trim body of his wine-server, the hard muiscle of her waist where his hand had rested. But there was something wrong in Vienna, and Swan was intending to be careful.
The inns of Vienna were well served and well appointed. In fact, as this was the Imperial city, they had accommodation precisely pegged to the social stat
us of almost any man, and Swan had comfortable rooms in an inn so vast that it housed most of his men-at-arms as well, and the rest were just a few doors down the square. Swan attended mass and had another interview with Cardinal Carvajal immediately afterwards. He then walked back to the street of armourers in the gathering evening, dressed in a simple grey gown like an apprentice. The Bohemian’s shop was just closing. Swan slipped in easily, found Clemente hammering a large sheet of iron, and mocked cuffing his ear. The boy grinned like a small demon.
The great man himself – the armourer – had his gown on, and he passed across the shop, playing with his hood. Then he paused and looked back. ‘Ser Tommaso?’ he asked, clearly puzzled.
Swan frowned in consternation. Then shrugged. ‘I left my boy here in error,’ he said.
Maestro Jiri laughed. ‘He is a hellion,’ he said. ‘But strong. I got a good day’s work out of him.’
‘How did you know me?’ Swan asked.
‘I never forget a man’s body,’ Jiri said. ‘I know it sounds funny in Italian, but it is true. You have long arms and a short torso. I would know you anywhere.’
Swan bowed again. ‘I believe the Medici have asked you to keep me waiting,’ he said.
The Bohemian twitched an eyebrow.
‘I need to ride for Belgrade,’ Swan said.
‘You have a whole company of lances,’ the Bohemian said. ‘Your boy told me.’
Clemente grinned. ‘You didn’t say not to,’ he said.
Swan nodded. ‘The Medici are fine men, but they are—’
‘Italian,’ the Bohemian said. ‘You go to Belgrade? Truly? I will harden your steel, then. Turkish archery is very effective.’ He twirled his moustache. ‘You know that my people want the crusade to fail. Because if the Imperials are busy defending Vienna from the Turk, they will leave Prague alone.’
‘Eventually, the Turks will be at the walls of Prague,’ Swan said.
Jiri shrugged and shook his head. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘But we are tired of fighting the Emperor and we hate Capistrano.’
Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade: Part Four Page 3