by Robyn Young
The narrowness of the mountain paths, constricting them for the most part to two abreast on horseback, and the fact Don Carlos had set Woodville in charge of the rearguard, while Rodrigo’s band was in the van, meant Harry had managed to avoid the knight so far, although last night he’d caught him watching from beyond the circle of his campfire, blue eyes unwavering in the flicker of flames. While the other men had bedded down under a star-dusted sky, knights and squires using their horse-blankets for comfort, infantry resting less contentedly on the dry earth, Harry had stayed awake, listening to the murmured conversation of those on watch and the snap of logs bursting in the fires, ears pricked not for the advance of any foreign enemy, but one closer to home.
Since the knight had confronted him, Harry had conjured in his mind various excuses as to his whereabouts last summer, when Tudor and his army had sailed for Milford Haven, the red dragon banner raised for war. But Woodville seemed to suspect something particular and, without knowing exactly what that was, Harry couldn’t know which lie to best use to get the knight off the scent. He felt agitated, keenly aware that the man’s presence was distracting him from his mission here. That Woodville was a clear favourite of Ferdinand’s – an obstacle that prevented him from getting closer to the king – didn’t help matters. Had Henry known the knight was here? Why hadn’t he warned him?
They had reached the eastern edge of the fields, where corn gave way to grass and scrubby bushes that sloped up into boulder-strewn fields, becoming barer and greyer the higher up they went, into foothills, then scarred mountains. The sky was gilded, the sun beginning to rise beyond the far eastern ridges, casting everything in a crimson hue. The sea of wheat shivered in a hot breeze that had sprung up.
At Rodrigo’s call, the fifty foot soldiers with them fanned out and began touching their brands to the corn at the edges of the field, moving backwards as the stalks smouldered. Harry kept Nieve’s reins tight, the mare’s ears twitching at the smoke rising on the air and the crackle of flames. The corn was dry and caught quickly, the plump heads popping with the heat. Harry wondered why no one had harvested these fields, given the risk of losing the crop. It seemed more than ready for the reaping. Looking north to the mill and buildings, he saw smoke starting to billow from two of the structures, where Don Carlos’s knights had set their brands. There were no screams, no sounds of alarm. The whole place seemed deserted.
Harry scanned the rocky fields beyond, all bathed in red, shadows still pooled around the boulders and among the tangles of bushes and stunted trees. Catching a dart of movement in the periphery of his vision, he looked in its direction, hand reaching for his sword. There was nothing but rocks. An animal, perhaps, fleeing from the fires? Rodrigo and el Barbero had moved some distance away, ordering the infantry to spread out more, able to see with the advantage of height where the flames hadn’t yet taken hold. Smoke was rising, tainting the air.
As his nose filled with its sharpness, Harry was struck by memory: the rush of heat flushing his face as he set the burning log to the broken splinters of the table. Wynter was on the floor, trussed like a hog, but his fierce cries and threats hardly registered above the hammering of blood in Harry’s ears; his whole being caught somewhere between horror and excitement at the sight of his hated half-brother lying there helpless, at the mercy of the fire. Harry had denied the sin, telling himself it was the flames that would do it – bright little soldiers doing his bidding. That he wouldn’t have his brother’s death weighed against his soul. But those flames had failed him. Wynter had lived.
Up behind him came a fast pulse of hooves. Turning, Harry started as Edward Woodville rode up alongside him and reached out, grasping hold of Nieve’s reins with a gauntleted fist. The steel plates rasped together as they closed.
‘I want to talk.’ The knight had his sword in his free hand, the great blade notched with scars.
Harry looked around quickly. He could hear Rodrigo still barking orders at the foot soldiers, but the air between them was hazy with smoke and the hidalgo had disappeared in its shifting clouds.
‘Forget your Spanish friend.’
‘Sir Edward, I . . .’
‘When I saw my sister at Henry’s coronation, she told me King Richard had come to her sanctuary in Westminster Abbey, told her the plot she devised with Lady Margaret Beaufort had ended in tragedy. That her sons, my nephews, had perished in the attempt, drowned in the Thames in the wagon that was supposed to have taken them to safety. That is contrary to the rumours, confirmed by Henry, that Richard himself murdered them.’
Harry inched his hand closer to his sword, but he knew Woodville could strike long before he freed it from its scabbard. Would the man actually harm him? He would surely put himself in serious trouble with King Ferdinand if he did. Not to mention Tudor. But the steel in the knight’s eyes told him all he needed to know. If there was vengeance to be had here, Woodville would take it, and damn the consequences. ‘King Richard could have been lying to your sister, to save himself the stain of his own crime. I heard it said his men found the boys that night – brought them back to the Tower, where he killed them. But who of us can know for sure? You were in Brittany with Henry and I was with the men of Kent in Buckingham’s rising.’
‘Your brother – the one involved in their rescue. He would know.’
‘My brother is dead.’ Whether true or not, the statement came easily to Harry, who had fervently wished it so.
‘Dead? Well, that is strange, because I also heard a rumour that Henry was looking for a man named Wynter. That he was sore keen to find him. That is your brother’s name, is it not? James Wynter?’
There it was – the scent Woodville had picked up. Harry had no idea how the knight had learned Tudor was looking for Wynter, but that was of little concern right now.
‘Why would Henry be looking for a ghost?’ Woodville demanded. ‘And what would he want with Wynter, unless the man knows something? Something – perhaps – about my nephews? About the truth of their fate?’ Woodville gripped Nieve’s reins harder, staring into Harry’s eyes. ‘Talk to me, Vaughan, God damn you! I can tell you know something. Guilt colours your face. Where were you last summer? What were you doing for Henry when we were sailing to war? Tudor was quick to announce my nephews’ deaths at the hands of his mortal enemy. Was he seeking to deflect blame?’
As Harry opened his mouth to answer, a scream tore through the air, taking the place of his words. He and Edward twisted in their saddles to see a foot soldier staggering through the corn towards them. He had dropped his torch and was grasping wildly for something at his back. He staggered a few more paces, then stopped. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at them, silhouetted by the glow of the rising fires, then he convulsed, blood bursting from his mouth. As he fell forward to disappear in the corn, Harry saw the crossbow bolt protruding from his back.
More bolts came shooting through the flames, slamming into the backs and skulls of the infantry. These men, many of whom had only padded gambesons to protect them, were utterly vulnerable to the lethal quarrels, which punched through stuffing, flesh and bone. Harry saw one man picked off his feet by the force of the bolt that lanced through his throat. Others were yelling, dropping their torches and beginning to run. Some had drawn knives or pulled maces or spiked clubs from belts, but the enemy was invisible, somewhere back behind the smoke and bright wisps of fire. And the bolts kept on coming.
‘Where are they?’ Harry shouted, drawing his sword.
Woodville had released his grip on Nieve’s reins to keep control of his own mount, which was stamping and rearing. ‘There!’ answered the knight, thrusting his blade towards the rocky fields beyond.
The smoke had shifted, gusted apart by the hot breeze. Harry glimpsed figures moving among the trees and boulders, their white turbans and pale clothes making them almost one with the rocks. Had they been there all this time? The answer came with the sounds of agonised screams and panicked cries now echoing from every corner of the wheat fie
lds. This perfect golden crop, ripe for the picking, had been left by the enemy for another harvest entirely.
Rodrigo’s roars rose over the cries as he urged the infantry to move. One man went down, a bolt through the back, the barbed tip punching out of his stomach. One of Rodrigo’s squires was struck in the shoulder, the impact shoving him from his saddle. As he fell, tangled in the stirrups, his horse bolted, dragging him away through the corn. Another horse, hit in the rump, careened into the fires in blind panic. Sparks burst up, the rider shouting in terror as he and the horse disappeared in the veil of smoke.
Harry wheeled Nieve around, trying to reach Rodrigo and the others, but the quarrels were shooting down all around. There was nothing to do but flee and find cover. Wolfbane. He thought of the ashen-faced men, dying from wounds that might have been treated and healed, if they hadn’t been laced with poison. He didn’t want to die that way.
‘Go!’ Woodville was shouting, but Harry was already off, kicking furiously at Nieve’s sides.
He had only gone a few yards when the mare bucked violently, flinging him forward. Harry lunged for the saddle pommel with his free hand. He missed. One moment he was in the saddle. The next, the world was spinning wildly. Blue sky. Black smoke. Orange flames. Golden corn. Then, he slammed into it, the breath knocked from his lungs. His head cracked on something hard and pain exploded through him, delivering him to darkness.
18
Jack lost Pico at the Porto Fiesolana. The clang of the curfew bell had greeted him as he was approaching the city walls, the man just
in sight ahead, the bag swinging on his back. The great gates rolled open, allowing entry to the streams of people and animals already thronging the roads and Jack had found himself trapped behind two carts, the guards halting the drivers to inspect their cargo. By the time he was through, Pico had vanished.
After trying several alleyways, where washing hung suspended like parts of people, and ducking into a nearby inn that had just opened, Jack stood in the street feeling nettled and foolish. All he had to show for his efforts were dusty boots and road-sore feet, which throbbed even more with the prospect of the return journey – all up hill. He tried to tell himself the pursuit had been a futile exercise anyway. Would Pico, if challenged, have admitted where he was going and why he’d feigned illness to excuse himself from the feast? He couldn’t have forced the man to talk, except perhaps to threaten to tell Lorenzo? But tell him what, exactly? That Pico had taken an early morning walk into the city? It was hardly a crime. But – still – it felt significant; Pico hiding from Lorenzo’s guards, the fact he’d gone by foot, not horse.
Speculation was pointless now though. Lorenzo would rise in a few hours. He needed to return, even if only to be formally dismissed. Jack turned towards the gates, then paused, his gaze going to the red dome of the cathedral, looming over the rooftops. It was still early. The palazzo would be quiet, especially with so many of its occupants at the villa. Lorenzo, Marsilio, Black Martin – they were all gone.
The streets of Florence were frenetic with the early morning rush to work or church; boys herding pigs down to the butchers on the Ponte Vecchio, booksellers and leather-workers opening the shutters of their shops with a bang and a rattle, drunks in doorways struggling to their feet, a finely dressed woman moving gracefully against the tide, skin whitened with lead, lips rouged for attention – the daughter of a wealthy house, or perhaps a courtesan.
The first of those hopeful for an audience with il Magnifico, or at least one of his officials, were already gathering at the benches by the entrance to the palazzo when Jack arrived. Two guards, one of whom he knew by name, were standing in the arched doorway, steadfastedly ignoring the expectant gazes of the waiting men.
As he stepped up to the archway, the gazes of the two guards alighted on him. ‘Rigo,’ he greeted with a nod.
‘Sir James?’ said the guard, surprised. ‘I thought you were at Fiesole?’
‘I was – I am. I just need to collect something of mine.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Rigo stood aside, motioning him to enter.
As the waiting men – many of them high-ranking officials or wealthy citizens – followed him with jealous eyes, Jack felt a bubble of satisfaction rise in him. He was starting to get used to the power this pretence gave him. It would be hard to give it up.
The palazzo was hushed even for the early hour, many of the staff having travelled with the Medici family. Jack hastened up to his room on the top floor, where he stuffed two shirts and a pair of hose into his old leather bag to furnish his lie to Rigo.
Meeting only a few servants, who passed him with deferential nods, he made his way back down to the first floor, around which Lorenzo’s private suites were arranged. It was, as hoped, the quietest area of all. The shutters were closed over the street-facing windows. Blades of light sliced through the gaps illuminating the passage that led to the Sala Grande, before tapering into gloom. Jack headed down it, his heart picking up pace. What if he were caught? But his feet walked him forward, against the danger. Amaury’s intercepted letter, the Muslim prayer behind the wall, Pico’s assertion that Lorenzo was hiding something: all seemed to point towards Lorenzo’s sanctum. If he was going to find anything out for himself, beyond the man’s promise of answers – a promise he doubted more and more with everything he learned about the signore – he needed to get a look behind that door.
He was approaching the point where the corridor diverted – ahead, the grand staircase that wound down and, to the right, the passage that continued past the Sala Grande, then on in a circle around the piano nobile – when he heard the quiet thud of a door, followed by soft footsteps. Peering around the passage, Jack saw a figure in black robes striding down the corridor, away from the Sala Grande. He caught a pale fuzz of hair in the gloom. Marsilio? The priest must have returned early from Fiesole. He swore beneath his breath, listening to the footsteps receding, thinking he should return to the villa, wait for that invitation from Marco Valori and hope it would lead him to his answers. But he was here. Now. The door taunted him with its closeness.
Jack entered the grand hall, the muscled colossus of Hercules glaring at him, mid-battle, as he approached the door at the far end. It was unlocked. His eyes darted across the shadowy expanse of the bedchamber beyond. Seeing no movement among the array of furnishings – the curtained bed, the desks and leather-covered chairs, the daybed strewn with furs – he stepped inside. Scanning the mezzanine level above – Papi’s domain – crowded with hanging clothes and stacked chests, Jack approached the door to Lorenzo’s study. Locked.
He felt a rush of disappointment, even though he’d expected this. He bent to look through the keyhole, but the chamber beyond was a blur of darkness. Could he force it somehow? Try to work the lock?
Jack had tossed his bag on a chair and was scouring the bedchamber for some suitable implement, when he heard footfalls in the grand hall. He threw himself down, rolling under the bed, narrowly avoiding crashing into a bed-warming pan as the door opened. He watched a pair of feet pass by, boots thudding on the boards, then muffled over a rug. Sweat broke out on his skin as he thought of his old bag lying out in the open, a shabby incongruity in this chamber of riches.
The figure had reached the study door. Jack inched towards the edge of the bed, enough to see the back of Bertoldo, Lorenzo’s chief steward. The man was carrying a tray, on which were a jug and plates of fruits and bread. He set it down on a table, then, lifting a key that hung from a chain on his belt, unlocked the door. Picking up the tray, Bertoldo entered the study.
Jack lay there, dust in his throat, listening to the sound of the soft scrape of what he took to be a curtain being drawn, a bolt snapped back. Was that murmured voices he heard? There was a thud, the rattle of a bolt again. Time passed. He was beginning to wonder whether he might be stuck under here for hours, when the door opened and Bertoldo’s booted feet appeared again. The man headed from the bedchamber, clutching a sheaf of papers, leaving the s
tudy door ajar.
Jack crawled out from under the bed, bashing his spine on the carved base. He was at the open door in moments. The study beyond wasn’t as expansive as the bedroom, but what it lacked in space it made up for in ornamentation. Two large desks faced one another across the room, one cluttered with papers, the other neat and ordered. There was a long, twisted horn that looked like it had come from some impossibly large beast displayed on one wall by a banner of the Medici arms, yet more gilt-framed paintings and bronze statues, a thick gold curtain and tapestries; each the value of a small town. But what caught his eye most were the cupboards, some with open shelves, others behind glass, each one heaving with a dazzling surfeit of treasures. Items of gold and silver, ivory and diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, coral – so much sparkle it seemed the room was filled with stars.
Jack didn’t have time for more than a breath’s worth of awe, before he was heading for the cluttered desk, picking swiftly through the papers on it. Accounts. Bank rolls. Lists of names, some crossed out. A few letters, one with the great seal of the Vatican attached. But nothing of any significance or value to him. What had he expected, though? A grand plan; all the Academy’s schemes and designs sketched out for him to see and, at last, understand – some great map that would give sense to his mother’s death and his father’s life? Bring meaning to his own?
Then, he realised – there was no tray.
Not on either desk, nor the chairs, nor the floor: the only spaces in the chamber free of glittering ornaments. Bertoldo hadn’t left with it, so where had it gone? That sound he’d heard? The scrape of a curtain being drawn? He crossed to the heavy gold swag that hung over part of the wall, pulled it back. Beyond was a door.
It was thick and looked newer than other doors in the palace, the grain not aged by time or use. A large bolt was pulled across it, meaning it could only be opened from this side and a steel flap was set in it at head height. Jack lifted the flap, his mind flashing with the memory of that dingy chamber in the Tower of London, Prince Edward’s pale face peering back at him while he fumbled with the keys.