‘Poor Christendom,’ Swan said.
‘I will have your harness by the day after tomorrow,’ Maestro Jiri said. Both men bowed. ‘You left the boy as a spy?’
Swan made a moue. ‘Yes,’ he admitted.
‘I think he was a poor spy,’ the Bohemian said. ‘But he might make an armourer.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair.
Outside, Swan turned to the boy, who grinned.
‘It was easy,’ he said. ‘A man came in as soon as you left and asked what you wanted. He was scary – big, black hair, pimples and bad teeth. Spoke German. Tried to bribe the master.’ Clemente frowned in recollection and then his face cleared in the torchlight. ‘There was a priest later. I only remember because Peter said a cut-throat and a priest.’
‘What kind of priest?’ Swan asked patiently.
‘A bad one. I followed him, and he fucked one of the girls at the inn. He wore spurs and boots under his gown. The girl told me his name is Ergen or Hergen and he’s from Nuremburg and he serves the Emperor.’ The boy looked around. ‘And then there was another man who asked about you – young. A servant, I think. French. Or Italian. Or Savoyard.’
Swan nodded.
‘But by then they’d put me to work, and I didn’t get to follow him. I’d know him again.’ The boy looked at him. ‘Blond, and round.’ He smiled. ‘Did I do good?’
‘Very well indeed,’ Swan said. ‘Master Jiri is wrong. I think you make a good spy.’
‘I like it,’ Clemente said. ‘No one sees a kid.’
Swan nodded and they began to walk together. ‘If someone did, though, they’d kill you.’
‘That’s what Peter says. He teaches me things. Like how to spot a man following me. He says, “Three times in three places separated by time and space.” He says, “Never let them know you know.”’
‘I say those things too,’ Swan said.
Giovanni Accudi was waiting at his inn. He and Swan bowed and then fell on to each other’s necks like wrestlers.
‘Look at you, you English thug!’ Accudi said. ‘A knight of Saint Mark!’
‘Our Alessandro is now in the Golden Book,’ Swan said. ‘He’s to be married.’
‘All the pretty priests in Rome will weep,’ Accudi said. He grinned. ‘You are still with us?’
‘With Bessarion?’ Swan asked, astonished even to be asked.
‘Of course,’ Accudi said. ‘Who do you think I meant, the Pope?’ He shook his head. ‘He is no one’s friend. But you are so high and mighty – I thought perhaps you really were some English prince.’ He looked at Swan’s beautifully cut Venetian clothes. ‘You used to wear shit-stained hose.’
‘Only once!’ Swan protested.
Accudi shook his head. ‘No – I am wrong to belittle you. I remember you – spitting Latin at the two of us, and I thought you were … different. Even then.’ He sat back, and a server poured more wine.
‘Devil of a host serves us some north Italian swill with sugar and calls it “Candian”. Fuck him.’ Accudi drank more.
Swan tasted the wine. It was delicious – sweet and thick and with a smooth finish. ‘I like it.’
Accudi pointed at the server. ‘I like it too – but never tell the landlord so.’
Swan rolled his eyes. ‘You catch more flies with honey,’ he said.
‘Oh! By the virgin, you are becoming a nobleman. Next you’ll tell me not to bargain with a whore for her cunny.’ Accudi laughed. ‘You have too much money.’
‘A man can never have too much money or too much sleep,’ Swan said.
‘Is that one of Bembo’s?’ Accudi asked, laughing. He pointed at Ser Columbino, sitting near by with the Stone Barn and a dozen other men-at-arms, playing cards. ‘You want to be careful of that one. His father was a famous traitor.’
Swan sipped wine. ‘I’ve tried him. He’s as true as good steel.’
‘The better to take you later,’ Accudi said.
‘What – betray me to the Turks?’ Swan asked. ‘Where I’m going, no sane man would go even to betray someone.’
Accudi nodded. ‘Well, before you commit self-murder, I need your help with Carvajal.’
Swan leaned forward. ‘I honour that man.’
‘As do I,’ Accudi said. ‘But he’s so honourable he makes Bessarion look grimy.’
Both men smiled knowingly. Bessarion was not Pope because he wouldn’t pay the bribes.
‘He has a fortune in papal tithes in his office,’ Accudi said.
‘I saw it,’ Swan said.
‘The Emperor has – mmm – arranged for it to be removed,’ Accudi said very quietly. ‘The word is that the Emperor and the young King of Hungary will split the money—for the crusade, of course.’
‘Stolen?’ Swan asked.
‘By nameless bandits,’ Accudi said.
Swan, very carefully, banged his head three times against the edge of the table.
Accudi nodded thoughtfully.
‘Have you considered simply stealing it for yourself?’ Swan said. ‘There must be twenty thousand florins there.’
Accudi gave a quick shake of his head. ‘Not that much. But yes – a considerable sum.’ He met Swan’s eyes. ‘You are making a jest.’
Swan nodded. ‘Yes.’
Accudi laughed. ‘Fuck your mother. Just for a moment …’
Swan leaned back. ‘I have an idea that will suit us both.’
‘You have to act quickly, or you and I will have to kill a number of men employed by the Emperor.’
‘The ones following me today? A priest and a sell-sword?’ Swan asked.
Accudi nodded. ‘I disguised myself even to come here.’ He shrugged. ‘The priest is not much of a priest, and works for the King of Hungary.’ He rocked his head back and forth like a Greek. ‘And sometimes the Emperor.’
‘I disguised myself to go out and collect my mousetrap,’ Swan said, jerking a thumb at Clemente.
Accudi smiled at Clemente. ‘Young. Are you a member of our confraternity, little man?’
Clemente bowed around his wine jug. ‘I am, sir.’
Accudi nodded. ‘So noted. Yes – the priest and the black beard are both – ahem – permanent staff.’
‘Hold that thought. I have a troop of men-at-arms.’ He leaned forward. ‘But would it benefit our cardinals if we were to capture these men?’
Accudi sighed. ‘I have missed you.’
Back in Carvajal’s office, Swan bowed, gloves against his chest. ‘Eminence,’ he said, kissing the cardinal’s ring. ‘May I make a suggestion that might suit a great many in this town and help the crusade?’
Carvajal nodded. ‘Such a suggestion suggests you seek a miracle,’ he said. ‘But be my guest.’
‘Could I take all this gold and deposit it in your name with the Medici?’ he asked.
Carvajal turned and looked at him. ‘I am expressly forbidden to move the money out of the Empire,’ he said.
Swan nodded. ‘Yes, Eminence, but you are forbidden by treaty to move the gold. The gold will, in fact, never leave the vaults of the Medici, here. Except, I confess, for a couple of thousand ducats which I will take east.’
Carvajal laughed. ‘They will issue letters of credit off it, and … of course!’ He shook his head. ‘You are a very devious young man.’
‘In this case, Eminence, I seek to do a favour that perhaps will be remembered in a future hour. And to make my own path smoother, I confess. But it will do no harm, and any sneak thief with a skeleton key could – as it is – take the whole. Including some rat working for the Emperor or the Cilli or the King of Hungary.’
‘He who names any one of them names them all.’ Carvajal winced. ‘I do not want to know too much,’ he said. ‘When will it disappear?’ Swan looked out of the window. ‘If you were to blow out your candles and go to bed …’
‘My steward will panic,’ Carvajal said. ‘And he is a spy for the Emperor.’
‘Better and better,’ Swan said. ‘Let drop a hint that you plan to move it – the
day after tomorrow. Using my lances as convoy guards.’ Swan went and hefted a sack. ‘Almost a thousand pounds of gold.’
Carvajal took in a breath as if to speak – and then leaned over and blew out the wax candle on his table. ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘I sense you know what you are about. Be careful. Money is the one thing for which all the great ones will kill.’
Swan still had a sack of gold coins in his hand. ‘Oh, I know,’ he breathed.
Back at the inn, Swan changed into his Venetian finery and sent Clemente ahead to the Inn of the Golden Lion with a request for a private room and a beautiful girl. Then he swaggered out into the night air, attended by Peter and Columbino, dressed for an evening’s sport.
He walked across the city, attended by a dozen link-boys, and on arrival at the Golden Lion, he was met very publicly by the owner. He was escorted to a private room furnished well enough to house a prince of the Empire.
He was devastated to find that his chosen escort was the girl who had been dressed only in a veil. Her hair was now on display and the rest of her clothed, from head to toe, in a gown that had a long series of golden buttons from under her chin to the floor.
Swan arranged for private rooms for his archer and his lieutenant and paid over almost a hundred of the cardinal’s florins – a fortune.
‘What’s your name?’ Swan asked his new friend.
‘Elissa,’ she said. She had a slight lisp. Her lips were thick and sharply defined, and several weeks of chastity sat very heavily on Swan, but he knew the time constraints of the evening.
‘Elissa,’ Swan said, sitting and taking her hand. There was intelligence in her eyes, and wariness. ‘You have a unique opportunity to help me.’
‘I am here to help my lord in …any way.’ She said this with a little studied artlessness, her voice husky and breathy It was a fine performance. But merely a performance.
Doors opened and closed.
Elissa moved closer. ‘Let me pour you wine,’ she said.
‘No wine, I’m afraid.’ Swan smiled. He leaned forward and put his lips on hers – but she shied away.
‘Don’t kiss me,’ she said suddenly.
Swan shrugged. ‘Your lips are … magnificent.’ He paused. ‘Never mind. I’d like to pay you a solid amount of gold to pretend I’m making love to you, and to keep your mouth shut about it.’ He paused. ‘Do you make noise?’
She sat back and now her eyes were cat’s eyes in the candlelight. ‘When it seems to be what the customer demands.’
‘Sadly, this is one of those times,’ Swan said. ‘You’ll have to pretend.’
She sneered. ‘I always have to pretend.’
Swan shrugged. ‘You are very hard, signorina. I worry that I cannot pay you enough to hold your allegiance.’
She frowned. ‘Whores are fickle for reasons, mein herr.’
Swan sighed. ‘I have little time. I can offer you fifty ducats for your silence. Or rather, your enthusiastic compliance.’
‘Give it to me,’ she said.
He took a roll of Venetian gold out of his doublet. She took it from him, her fingers trembling slightly, and put it up under her gown – exposing a great deal of a naked leg.
Swan sighed. What I do for the cause, he thought.
He wanted her to smile, and she did not. Instead, her lips parted, and a low, palpable moan emerged.
Swan changed swiftly out of his Venetian clothes. Naked, he glanced at her, reclining on the bed, moaning, one beautiful foot stretched out.
She didn’t look at him, or smile.
He continued changing, cursing his luck, into the plain browns of Rome, collected his sword and his light buckler and went to the window.
‘I’ll be back in two hours,’ he said.
She didn’t look at him.
He dropped into the alley, and Peter joined him in the darkness.
‘It is going to rain,’ he said.
He smelled of scent.
‘Do we get to come back?’ he asked.
Swan shrugged, lost in the darkness. ‘Where’s Columbino?’ he asked.
‘Enjoying a ride in the park.’ Peter laughed. ‘Watering a nag. Dipping a candle.’ He laughed again at his own wit. 'Bah--I know I did! Life iss too short for chastity!'
The two men stood in the chilly darkness for long minutes, until Columbino appeared.
‘You smell of spikenard,’ Swan said. Why had he hurried?
Sometimes, Swan worried that Iso’s spell was still on him.
‘The priest just went into the inn,’ Peter said with satisfaction. ‘I still say we should have killed them.’
Swan shook his head. ‘Vienna is a strange town,’ he said.
He and Giovanni threw the sacks, two at a time, out of the window to the ground below. Under the window, a vintner’s cart waited, and Peter and Columbino and Columbino’s squire loaded bags into the barrels.
The whole process took less than ten minutes. No guards came from the palace to investigate, and the city was still torchlit when they drove the little cart, now rumbling heavily, along the cobbled streets.
‘Left wheel’s not long for the world,’ Peter muttered suddenly.
It was as if the Dutchman was some sort of biblical prophet. With a screech, the wheel gave a great wobble, and came off. The cart crashed to the street, and the two horses reared.
‘Shit,’ Swan said.
The rain, long promised, came to curse their efforts. They were in a narrow side street south of the Koenigstrasse, and the smell of urine and dead cats filled the air. Swan, wearing his second-favourite brown hose and his best boots, was kneeling in whatever flowed over the cobbles while Columbino and Ser Zane tried to lift the cart. All they succeeded in doing was to lever it up on one wheel – the wheel rolled a few hand spans and the whole assembly crashed back to the pavement, coming very close to securing Swan a place in the hereafter.
‘Unload it,’ he said.
None of them liked the idea.
Swan shook his head. ‘Don’t argue,’ he said to the darkness and rain. ‘Unload it.’ He turned to Peter. ‘Get me the Englishmen and the Greeks.’
Even the Italian breathed more easily when the English archers came.
‘The Dutchman promised us some gold,’ Will Kendal said. ‘As it’s raining hard enough to float the fucking cart. Move aside, my lord.’
Swan and Columbino had the cart unloaded, and with four archers standing, swords drawn and bucklers on their fists in the downpour, the rest of them wrestled the empty cart upright and refitted the wheel. Peter, always very clever at avoiding hard labour, held a pair of torches and provided commentary. Accudi complained frequently, in colourful language.
‘Axle’s split,’ Columbino said. Swan could see the same – and that the hub of the wooden wheel was so worn that the wheel jolted every revolution.
‘Let’s get it off. Peter?’ Swan had worked with carts most of his life, although he lacked Ser Columbino's preternatural cart-repair abilities. They weren’t that complicated.
Peter sighed and provided tools from the pack on his back, and in the time it took a torch to burn down, they had the cart rolled over and had pulled the axle off the great iron staples that held it. Swan cursed. The rain was lighter – but he knew that it had been his ally so far, keeping foot traffic out of the streets.
They were still four small squares and a third of a mile from the Medici bank.
‘I wish I trusted my men-at-arms,’ Swan muttered to Peter.
Peter laughed. ‘Why? I don’t trust you with this much gold. Or me.’
Swan sent Peter back to the inn for more torches and a coil of small hemp rope. The Greeks came, wet and surly, muttered Greek imprecations against the weather and the Austrians, and began to patrol the streets.
Peter returned and they had torchlight. Swan wrapped the axle in rope himself.
There was the sound of steel on steel in the next street, and a scream.
Swan tied off the rope and sank a pair of nai
ls into the axle to hold the rope taut. Then he clinched them. He and Ser Columbino and Peter wrestled the axle back into the cart’s waiting staples and chocked it in with firewood cut to shape. They turned the cart’s bed upright and replaced the good wheel, and then the broken one. Working carefully, Swan put the worn hub on to the tight-bound rope. The fit was nearly perfect, and Peter saved him time by hammering it on with a maul.
It was very hard to turn.
‘Load it up,’ Swan commanded. His heart was beating very quickly.
One of the Greeks – the one the men called ‘the other Dmitri’ – appeared out of the dark rain and leaned down from his horse.
‘We killed a man,’ he said.
Swan, hands full of heavy tallow, greasy and filthy, did not feel like a commander of men. ‘So?’
‘So Constantine said I should tell you,’ the Greek said. ‘The other ran off. This is like working for fucking Loredan. Are you two brothers? It’s raining and we don’t know what we’re doing.’ He leaned down. ‘Constantine found something he wants you to see.’
‘I can’t walk away from this,’ Swan said. He motioned at the wagon.
‘I’ll go,’ said Peter.
The other Dmitri sighed, audible even over the rain. ‘Can you tell us what we’re doing?’
Swan nodded. ‘The wagon is full of the Pope’s gold and we’re protecting it from the Emperor,’ he said.
The other Dmitri grunted.
‘See?’ Swan asked.
‘Too well,’ the other Dmitri said. ‘Any of it for us?’
Swan nodded. ‘Expect it,’ he said.
The other Dmitri brightened immediately. ‘Ah,’ he said, and rode away, his horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbles, Peter clinging to his stirrup.
The sky was definitely getting lighter. The rain was turned into a nameless effluvium under their feet that soaked effortlessly through shoe and boot soles. Swan was coated in tallow and stank of it.
But the tallow had coated the rope and made the wagon wheel spin, and even though there was a faint scent of burned beef, and some dogs followed them, nonetheless the cart was full and moving. Swan put the Greeks in front by fifty paces and the English behind.
Peter returned and caught him by the neck of his sodden half-cloak. Swan turned, an order fully formed on his lips.
Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade: Part Four Page 4