Court of Wolves

by Robyn Young

  Ned, sharing a cup of sour wine with him last night by the tavern’s smoky fire, had told him to give it up. ‘Jack, you did what you came for. You tried. But you must see we have to move on?’

  He couldn’t blame them for their haste to be gone. He had led them here for nothing; made them believe Lorenzo de’ Medici would open the door to all their futures. Instead, the man had slammed it in his face. What could he do now but follow the course his companions had settled upon?

  Spain – that was the direction they had chosen, after days of debate. The holy crusade against the Moors in Granada offered opportunities to five skilled fighters, fresh from war in England. A chance at honour and plunder. They had secured passage on a vintner’s barge that would take them down the Arno to the Port of Pisa, where they would hunt for a ship to take them west, but as well as funds for the journey they would still need the requisite armour and equipment in order to offer their services.

  Jack had felt guilty, using Amelot in this way. He hadn’t yet told the girl what Lorenzo had intimated – that Amaury might have been taken by someone from this city. Perhaps, when she’d done what they needed her to, he should. Then she, at least, could make a choice, whether to travel on with them, or remain and search for her beloved master. He had brought her all this way, after all, partly hoping she might yet be able to reveal more about who had taken the priest, partly not wanting to relinquish his last connection to Amaury – to his father and his secrets.

  Jack thought of that snow-sullen afternoon a year ago outside the hunting lodge near Dijon, Prince Edward watching him chop wood for the fire, the boy’s breath pluming as he spoke of a conversation he’d had with Vaughan.

  Sir Thomas once told me the Turks are not our true enemy. That we – and the Muslims and the Jews – are all fighting for the same thing. Only the world does not yet see it.

  Jack had been unable to countenance such sentiment coming from the mouth of his father – or any Christian. It was thirty-three years since the Ottoman Turks had broken as a devastating wave upon the city of Constantinople, jewel of the western world and gateway to the east. But time had not dimmed the loss, which saw Christendom cut off from its life’s blood of trade routes and its ancient foe entrenched on its doorstep. Stories of horror had filtered through from the few survivors: Turks pouring in through breached walls, soldiers fleeing their posts to protect their families, the blood flowing as rivers in the streets, the looting and defilement, the murder of thousands and the enslavement of tens of thousands. God, men said, still wept for that day.

  But, when Jack found himself in Amaury’s lodgings, the priest had confirmed his father’s stance, telling him the Academy believed that before the Flood mankind had been united, one brotherhood under God, connected by what Plato described as the World Soul. He’d claimed the waters that engulfed the world in the time of Noah had erased this understanding, scattering all knowledge and dividing that soul into many broken shards of faith. It was the dream of Cosimo de’ Medici, founder of the Academy and Lorenzo’s grandfather, to search for that lost knowledge and gather it together, in the hope this would unite mankind and its divided faiths, saving it from a path to darkness and destruction.

  Jack had said nothing of this to the others, partly to keep his word to Amaury, but mostly because these men still worshipped his father. They wouldn’t accept Vaughan might have been some sort of defender of the hated Turk, or a believer in a dream that sounded like heresy.

  He had tried to tell himself this new future would not be much different to how he’d lived much of his adult life: roads to war and camaraderie around campfires, seeking the next fight and a master’s favour, finding solace in a flagon and a whore’s bed. But it was different. He was different. The thought of taking that barge down the Arno, to Spain and the fight against the infidel, made him feel as though he were turning his back on everything: from his ambition, harboured since boyhood, to become a knight and wash clean the stain of his bastard blood; from the answers he’d been seeking and all he’d lost in pursuit of them.

  His companions didn’t seem to comprehend his need to delve deeper into his loss, Ned murmuring that he was chasing ghosts.

  They’re gone and buried, Jack. Nothing you find will bring them back. You’re just fingering a wound.

  But why would they understand? They had lost their homeland, at least as long as Tudor remained on the throne, but for veteran mercenaries, itinerant, rootless, this was not disastrous and home could be found elsewhere. Whatever family they had each known had been lost or abandoned long ago and what remained seemed enough for them. David and Adam had each other, their sibling bond so strong they rarely needed words – just a glance or a flicker of a smile – to know what the other was thinking. Ned had Titan, who gave him all the adulation he could want and Valentine had his gun, an iron and fire extension of himself, which seemed to make him more than content.

  But he’d had a home. A mother who loved him. A father he’d once worshipped. They were gone and – Ned was right – couldn’t be returned. But how could he let them go with all the questions that remained? How could he let them sink down inside him, settle in his soul, if he didn’t know whether he should grieve for them or blame them? Remember fondly, or forget?

  These past days Jack felt as though two doors had opened within him. One led with his companions to war and the promise of its spoils. One led into darkness, into which his father’s footsteps had disappeared. If he turned from that door he knew it would always remain open, the shadows within restless, its airs never still. But to turn from the other would leave him truly alone, his last friends in the world – the closest thing he had left to family – gone for good.

  Jack focused on the wagons and the roar of the crowds, David’s grin and Valentine’s bulk to either side of him, Titan’s anxious barks. Ned was right. He had to move on.

  A new murmur was rippling through the crowd. A low shudder of excitement, or fear. Another wagon was approaching, this one larger than the others. Painted black, it was drawn by four beasts, the like of which Jack had never seen before. They looked like oxen, only bigger, with hunched backs and curved horns rising from monstrous heads. On the cart he saw figures dancing and swaying, their limbs swaddled in white and grey cloth painted to look like bones. The skeletons leaned out as they sang, fingers stretching towards the spectators, who shrieked and shied from their touch. At the back of the wagon, standing on a plinth surrounded by tombstones that jutted like broken teeth, was a man in black robes and a white mask, holding aloft a scythe.

  Jack’s mind stirred with memory.

  A face white as bone. Death it was, I tell you.

  The words conjured an image of his mother’s killer. That cracked leather mask covering half a face, pale against the dark, those twitching hands, reaching out. Jack flinched as Ned grabbed his arm.

  ‘There!’

  Following his gaze, Jack saw the four guards in their blue tunics moving purposefully through the crowd. With them was a tall man in a cloak of purple velvet, who was gesturing agitatedly at something. Jack thought of the purse of the same fabric, now stowed in his bag.

  ‘Where is Amelot?’ Ned said. ‘Can you see her?’

  Jack scanned the masses around the dais. ‘Damn it!’ He pushed his way forward. ‘I’ll find her.’

  ‘I’ll come,’ said David, pressing in beside him.

  Jack entered the crowd; a shifting tide. Elbows dug into his back, feet stepped on his. A hand slipped inside his cloak, fingers trailing across his hip towards his groin. It was gone before he could react. He smelled rancid breath, sulphur, a heady musk of sweat and perfume. A man shoved him, then laughed in his face as he turned. He’d already lost sight of David, the press surging him on, closer to the dais, as Death rolled in behind.

  Rising on to his toes, his height giving him an advantage over most of those around him, Jack spied the guards, some distance ahead. They were still moving in, but had slowed, two scanning the area, the others turni
ng people by the shoulders. He couldn’t see Amelot, but the girl, short and slight, was easily lost in this multitude. He glimpsed David’s coarse grey hair. His friend, who had got ahead of him, wasn’t far from the guards, turning in a circle, the brand on his forehead standing out on his pale skin. Thoughts flickered through Jack’s mind: Amelot caught, him and the others rounded up, a foreign gaol and a flogging, or worse. A few years ago he’d been ascending the lofty path to knighthood. Now it seemed he might reach no higher platform than the pillory.

  Feeling a hand tug hard at his cloak, he spun round. It was Amelot. Seeing her agitated expression he thought she’d seen the guards too, until she grasped his arm, small fingers pinching his skin as she urged him towards the dais. He called to her in warning, but she was gone again, slipping into the mêlée. Cursing, he forced his way through behind her, the sky exploding above them with bangs and sparks.

  He caught up with her not far from the platform, in the midst of a boisterous group of well-dressed young men, swaying at one another’s shoulders and singing, cups of wine held aloft. As he grabbed the girl’s shoulder, trying to pull her back, she pointed frantically at the dais, the tiers of which rose up before them, packed with hundreds of dignitaries, thronged beneath the Medici’s scarlet standard. Her eyes were wide, urgent.

  ‘What is it?’ he shouted.

  Amelot gripped her arm, down near the wrist then let go. She did this several times, until finally Jack realised. She was indicating a missing hand.

  ‘Amaury?’

  She nodded and pointed at the dais again.

  ‘He’s here?’ Jack said, stunned.

  She shook her head furiously.

  Then, Jack knew. Not Amaury, but those who had taken him. ‘Who, Amelot?’ His eyes were raking the crowds on the dais now, desperate as hers. ‘Who is it?’

  Jack was distracted as one of the young men singing beside him swayed too far and toppled over in a sprawl of limbs and laughter. As the man’s cheering companions bent to help him and the crowds parted, he heard a harsh cry rise above the drunken jeers. The man in the purple cloak was pointing in his direction. The four guards, fixing as one on Amelot, lunged through the mob.

  Cursing, Jack thrust Amelot ahead of him, steering her towards the tall buildings that bordered the street. People growled in protest, reluctant to move, some pushing him back. Behind, the shouts of the guards intensified. Jack used his elbows, feeling like he was fighting his way through a thicket. Any moment, he expected the mass to close in and halt him completely. Amelot was just ahead, struggling in the crush. Behind, more shouts were rising. Twisting, Jack saw someone arguing with the group of young men. It was David. As he watched, his friend shoved one of the men in the chest, who retaliated with a clumsy punch that David dodged neatly. A few of the others were moving in to aid their companion, their mass shifting, blocking the path of the guards. Glancing over his shoulder, David caught Jack’s eye. Go!

  Jack pressed on, making it to the buildings where, a few yards along, an alley opened. Grabbing Amelot’s hand he dragged her down it, their feet skidding in stinking pools. But even as they ran, forced from the Carnival crowds and the men on the dais, hope burst inside Jack, bright as the Flowers of Cathay.

  Fortune had granted him another chance.

  6

  ‘Thank you.’ Jack accepted the goblet from the elderly servant who stooped to hand it to him. The wine was cool, refreshing after the hours spent sitting on the bench at the palazzo’s entrance with a host of other men, all of whom had been seen before him. Only when day was fading into a chill purple dusk and the guards were changing shifts, had he finally been ushered through.

  The servant glanced at Lorenzo de’ Medici, settled opposite Jack in a chair with carved arms and legs like a lion’s paws.

  The signore nodded. ‘Thank you, Papi.’

  As the man shuffled from the bedchamber through the red swag of curtain that led out from the study where Jack had been questioned on his first visit, Lorenzo turned his attention to him. His face looked drawn, the light of the candles casting his skin in a jaundiced hue. ‘So, Master James, I have granted you my time. What is this crucial information you assured my guards you have?’

  Jack recounted what had happened at Carnival, avoiding mention of what he and his men had been doing there – the purses heaped on the mattress in their lodgings afterwards, Valentine grunting appreciatively as Ned counted the contents, David grinning as he accepted a cup of ale from Adam, fists and cheek bruised from the altercation with the drunken men. Instead, he concentrated on Amelot’s recognition of one of Amaury de la Croix’s abductors. Lorenzo said nothing for a moment, merely took a sip of wine. But Jack caught the interest that flared in his eyes.

  ‘This man? What did he look like?’

  Back in the tavern, flushed from their sprint through the alleys, Jack had prompted Amelot to describe the man through a painful process of elimination – furious shakes of her head and vehement nods. She intimated he had dark hair, was neither very young nor very old and of normal height and size, but other than this there seemed to be nothing remarkable about him. Jack, seeing Lorenzo’s disappointment at this, pushed on swiftly. ‘But I’m certain she would recognise him if she saw him again.’

  ‘If.’

  Jack, unsure whether the cool tone was doubt or disbelief, felt his chest tighten as Lorenzo shifted in his chair, looking as though he were about to stand. ‘Is there another such occasion planned? Perhaps, were she to attend, she might be able to point him out?’

  ‘More than four hundred men were with me that day. Lords of the Signoria and dignitaries from a multitude of houses. Officials and leaders of confraternities. Professors and lawyers. Friends, family, servants.’ Lorenzo set his goblet down. ‘This is a populous city, Master James. What you suggest could take months.’ His eyebrow arched. ‘And who, I wonder, will feed and house you in that time, given your assertion of poverty?’

  ‘You said yourself, signore, you believe those who took Amaury may have intercepted his letter to you. Surely that could only have been someone with access to your household?’

  Lorenzo held his gaze, a hint of warning in those dark eyes, but he had settled back in his chair, hands curled over the carved arms. ‘That number is not inconsiderable, as you would have seen.’

  It was true: as well as the men who had, one by one, been granted their audience with the signore in the suite of rooms on the ground floor of the palazzo, Jack had watched an army of people entering and exiting through the day, guards in black and servants in grey, kitchen staff with barrows and young men in outlandish fashions. Still, he pressed on. ‘You have no suspicions at all?’

  Lorenzo grunted. ‘In Florence a man of standing wears suspicion as his shadow. My family and I have not gained our position by being trusting fools.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jack assented. ‘But when we first met you spoke of enemies – stirring in the shadows? It made me wonder if you suspected someone?’

  Lorenzo pressed his fingertips together. ‘Not someone, no.’

  Jack waited in the silence.

  ‘But there have been incidents over the past few years that have sprung to my mind since we spoke. Papers going missing from my private study, business deals undermined with privileged information, political allies shifting their allegiance unexpectedly. All occurred in isolation and I dismissed each as misfortune at the time. But since you told me Amaury was taken . . .?’

  Jack seized the opportunity he felt open at Lorenzo’s plain talking. ‘The badge one of them wore. Might that not narrow the field?’

  ‘You are assuming the men who took the priest and those who ordered it are one and the same. If someone with access to my private chambers did indeed read Amaury’s letter and was inspired to act upon it, they could have used those men as tools by which to take him.’

  ‘But find the tool and you might find the hand that wields it?’ Jack watched as Lorenzo’s hand strayed back towards his goblet. ‘I have h
eard the Court of Wolves is a duelling company?’ The twitch in Lorenzo’s jaw told him he’d struck a nerve.

  ‘Yes.’ Lorenzo took up the goblet, but didn’t drink. ‘It was established around a decade ago. A minor fraternity made up of retired condottieri. Mercenary captains,’ he explained at Jack’s frown. ‘Skilful, brutal men grown rich and powerful in the arena of war. At first it was inconsequential, I’m not certain it even had a name back then, but over the past few years, as peace has settled over our restive states and mercenaries have found themselves less occupied by the blood trade, the company has grown considerably in size and reputation. Now, men other than soldiers look to join its ranks – ambitious sons of wealthy families, seeking camaraderie, excitement, business opportunities. Seeing its growing prominence, I tried to enrol my eldest son, Piero.’ Lorenzo’s brow pinched. ‘They maintained they declined him because of his young years, but when I attempted to join, I, too, was rejected.’

  Jack was surprised. Despite the fact Lorenzo wore no crown, he would have thought the man’s affluence and power would have made him impossible to refuse. The hint of weakness made him bolder. ‘The company troubles you, then?’

  Lorenzo’s eyes flicked back to him. ‘I am the guardian of this republic. Any father who does not know what his children are involved in might have cause for concern.’ He returned the goblet to the table. ‘Their elusiveness has frustrated me, yes, but I have not been troubled by them. Not until you told me what the girl saw in Paris.’ He laced his fingers. ‘Of course, it is entirely possible Amaury’s abduction has nothing to do with the company as a whole. As with any brotherhood in Florence, a man might be a member but remain under his own agency, with ties to family and business that are as important and compelling as any loyalty he owes to a fraternity or guild. But . . .’ Lorenzo paused, looking towards the curtained door as footsteps echoed beyond.