Court of Wolves

by Robyn Young

  Djem gave him a sage smile. ‘You do not need me to justify your own anger towards the signore.’

  Jack rubbed at his sun-sore neck. ‘I don’t understand why you aren’t furious at him? Keeping you imprisoned? Just as the knights did?’

  ‘I was, of course. But since my brother’s men came for me?’ Djem let out a breath. ‘Now I see that my only way back lies through the signore. The knights kept me for money. Your pope wants me for a crusade against my own people. No matter my thoughts on his methods, I know Lorenzo does not view me as merely a tool, but a potential partner. He has offered me the chance to go home, with his help. To build something new. Something that, perhaps, will benefit both our peoples.’

  ‘You really believe we can have peace?’

  ‘We are sitting here now, are we not? If there are leaders with the will for it? Then, yes. In time. I laud his notion of peace and trade between our worlds.’

  Jack watched him pluck his jade bishop out of harm’s way. ‘Lorenzo will get what he wants, too, of course.’

  ‘All men want something. Signor Lorenzo knows that more than most. It is what he plays to his advantage. He knows what I want. But now I know what he wants. So, we are, as you say, in a draw.’ Djem took up his cup and drank. ‘I played this game with him many times during my incarceration in his palace. I came to know him as much through his moves on this board as by his words.’ He set the drink down, turning the cup thoughtfully on its base. ‘Signor Lorenzo needs to be the one with the power, or at least believe that he is. He has had it all his life – was born to it. Because of that the loss of it is what he fears most.’

  Jack thought of the attempt on Lorenzo’s life by Pope Sixtus, those months in the custody of the King of Naples when he’d been forced to squander much of his family’s fortune, his concerns about the Court of Wolves and what they might be plotting in the shadows, Pico’s betrayal, Martelli’s theft. It was no wonder he was so guarded.

  ‘With a man like that,’ continued Djem, ‘the only way for you to gain power is to make him believe he has not lost any.’

  Jack played his own bishop towards Djem’s knight. ‘How?’

  Djem gestured away with one hand. ‘You focus him here. While you move there.’ He chuckled when Jack looked back at the board and saw his mistake. ‘Checkmate.’ He sat back, eyes on Jack. ‘You know what he wants.’

  ‘Answers I cannot give him.’

  ‘But you believe the man in prison, your woman’s father – might have those answers?’

  Jack reached for his goblet, then decided against it. Clearly, he’d been far too indiscreet. ‘Perhaps. At least about the company. Yes.’

  ‘And the man who killed your mother is in the same place.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then give the signore what he most wants,’ ventured Djem, holding one hand out, palm cupped, ‘while at the same time taking what you want.’ He held out his other hand, as if they were scales.

  Jack exhaled. ‘It is a prison, not a tavern. I can’t just walk in. I have no authority. Besides, even if I could enter, Martelli has refused to speak. I tell you, if he’s not been compelled to answer his gaolers, there is no chance he’ll talk to me.’

  ‘Sometimes, in order to survive,’ murmured Djem, reaching over the table to pick up Jack’s queen, ‘you have to risk your most powerful piece.’ He placed the queen on the board, showing him the move he could have made to avoid checkmate.

  Jack stared at it, the realisation of what Djem meant dawning on him. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. But the prince wasn’t the first to think it. The same thought had crossed his own mind.

  There was one person Franco Martelli might speak to.

  Gianotto Berardi sat on the bench outside the tavern in the September sunshine, nursing a cup of spiced wine and watching the crowds surge past, on their way to or from the mercato. He had forgotten how close and crowded the city of his birth was. He missed the palm-fronded fringes of the Guadalquivir, on which he could always smell the sea.

  His gaze caught a stately matron, a train of plain-dressed women following in her wake, baskets on their arms. Their features and the variations in their skin tones told him they were slaves. The younger ones walked at the back, hurrying steps and downcast eyes. An older one, however – a Tartar he guessed by her face – walked almost at her mistress’s side, the two of them chattering away, both equally outraged at the price a butcher had set the day’s meat at. He wondered if any of his girls from Málaga, sold for a princely sum in the markets of Genoa and Pisa, had trickled their way down here yet.

  ‘Good day, signore.’

  Berardi looked round to see the man he’d come to meet approaching. He rose with a smile. ‘Good day.’

  Amerigo Vespucci removed his cap, his bald head gleaming in the sunlight. Glancing at the spiced wine in Berardi’s hand, he nodded appreciatively and gestured to a man inside the tavern. ‘It is never too early for Vincenzo’s medicine.’ As he sat, the bench creaked under his thickset frame.

  Berardi, who’d never had time for pleasantries or idle conversation, came straight to the matter. ‘You spoke to your masters?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And they are interested?’

  ‘Most interested. As I said when we were first introduced, they have been seeking to expand their business interests and the markets in Spain, increasingly lucrative so we hear, have long been a draw. Slaves, grain, alum, olive oil – they would be keen investors in all such trades. They are willing to meet with you to discuss a possible deal. Ah,’ Amerigo declared appreciatively, as the innkeeper ducked out to hand him a goblet.

  Berardi watched him take a deep draught. ‘That is good news.’ He paused. ‘I also told you I’m involved in another venture, beyond the realm of trade? With my new business partner?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Exploration, you said?’

  Berardi saw the shift in the man’s face, the keen interest in his eyes. He smiled inwardly, knowing his first impressions of Amerigo Vespucci had been correct. He had seen the same fire in the eyes of Christopher Columbus. ‘Yes. We are looking for investors for a voyage. A voyage, we believe, that could change the world.’

  35

  Ahead, at the end of the street, the high walls of the prison reared up, blocking out the sky.

  Jack turned before they reached it. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

  Laora halted with him. ‘You have said that,’ she murmured. ‘But I want to. Besides’ – she gave a tight smile, plucking at her hair, shortened to her ears – ‘this butchery will have been for nothing.’

  He still couldn’t believe the transformation. From the young woman he’d woken beside that morning had sprung an elfin lad, with hazel eyes and chiselled cheeks, dressed in a black tunic and hose, a heavy cloak draped around her slim shoulders and a cap perched on her cropped hair. That afternoon she had sat, stock-still, eyes closed, while he – gentle, reluctant – had cut away those lustrous black waves, Amelot cross-legged on the workshop’s bed, watching him work. Afterwards, he had left the chamber, leaving the girl to bind Laora’s breasts with bands of linen. Despite their intimacy, it had felt indecorous to remain and watch.

  ‘Losing your hair is one thing. I don’t know what we might find within those walls, or the repercussions if we’re caught. I can go in alone.’

  ‘My father will not speak to you. It is why you came to me, Jack.’

  Jack exhaled sharply. He had regretted it almost the moment he’d broached the subject, shortly after his talk with Prince Djem over the game of chess. Expecting her to reject the idea, he’d been shocked when Laora had keenly agreed to it. ‘I can do what I need to, then we can leave the city. Forget my pledge to Lorenzo. We have gold enough to get to Spain.’

  Her brow furrowed as she pointed to the roll of parchment he held. ‘It was me who asked Maddalena for this. She agreed because I told her I thought it might help her father. That, through it, I might make amends. Perhaps even win the signore�
��s forgiveness?’ Her eyes flashed with defiance. ‘I will not be made a liar by you, Jack!’

  He nodded, sorry for the suggestion. Laora had wept, bitterly, when Maddalena de’ Medici had entered the old workshop, summoned in secret by him. She cried even harder when, after telling her girlhood friend everything – the crime her father had compelled her to commit, her shame and sadness for the theft – Maddalena had taken her hands and promised to help in any way she could.

  It had been a risk, bringing Lorenzo’s daughter – more and more a composed young woman these days – into the plan, but one that had paid dividends. A week later, Maddalena had returned, bearing a blank sheet of parchment, with the seal of her father attached.

  ‘This isn’t about what you want.’ Laora’s voice had softened, but her face remained set. ‘This is my chance to make up for what I did. I have to see him. I want answers too. You know that.’

  He thought of warning her that not all those answers might be satisfactory; or fill the hole in her heart, but she was adamant. ‘Stay close to me,’ he told her. ‘I’ll do the talking.’

  Jack knocked, his eyes drifting to the inscription carved in the stone above the door. As he read the words, he felt the cold solidity of the dagger pressing against his calf, hidden by his boot.

  A wooden hatch at head height in the door lifted and a man’s face – square jaw stubble-rough – appeared. His eyes creased in question. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’ve come to see a prisoner.’ Jack passed the scroll to the man, who took it and snapped the hatch shut.

  The moments passed, Laora staring fixedly at the door, Jack tapping his foot as he thought of the guard reading words he’d written on the parchment. Would the man know it hadn’t come from the signore? Would they be caught in the deception before they’d had a chance to execute the plan?

  There was a clatter of bolts and keys. The door opened.

  With the guard stood another man, portly and grey, but better dressed and groomed, with a large ring of keys attached to his belt. The warden, perhaps.

  ‘Signor . . .?’

  ‘James. Signor James.’ There was little point in giving the man a false name, since any description of him – not least his accent – would be enough for Lorenzo to know who had been here. Jack’s only hope, if it came to light that he’d entered by this forgery, was that he would have, in his defence, the answers Lorenzo wanted.

  The portly man studied him closely. ‘I haven’t seen you before?’

  ‘The signore has new information regarding the prisoner.’ Jack nodded to the parchment. ‘He has sent me to question him.’

  ‘I see. And who is this?’ He peered over Jack’s shoulder.

  ‘My assistant.’

  The portly man breathed in through his nostrils, then took a last glance at the parchment and the instructions upon it, ratified by Lorenzo’s seal. ‘Very well.’ He gestured inside. ‘Bartolo will take you to him.’

  Jack ducked in through the door, Laora following close behind. He felt, as much as heard, the thud of it shutting behind them, the man sliding the locks and bolts back in place.

  ‘Will you need access to the interrogation chamber today, signore?’

  Jack turned at the question.

  ‘I can send men to help administer the apparatus?’ offered the portly man.

  Jack felt Laora stiffen at his side. ‘No. I only need to talk to him.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said the warden, looking unconvinced.

  The guard, Bartolo, led them down a dim passage, a few chambers – guardrooms, Jack guessed – opening either side. There was another reinforced door, which the guard paused to unlock, before ushering them through. A passage stretched off to the left, while, ahead, an archway emerged on an inner courtyard.

  The last of the sun lit up one corner of the yard, a tiny pool of light in an otherwise barren enclosure. Doors lined the walls, windowed with grated openings. Beyond the iron bars, murky stone chambers, bare of anything except narrow wooden benches, were populated with ragged clumps of human beings. Most were motionless, cramped up on the benches or stooped against the walls, but some stalked the cells, eyes wild under matted thickets of hair.

  Bartolo led them through a door at the end, then up a set of stairs. A tight passage lined with more doors stretched away. A single brand was burning on the wall. Taking it from its bracket, Bartolo guided them along, the torch sputtering. The grilles were smaller here, cells filled with shadows and incoherent murmurings, the air acrid with urine and other odours. Someone shrieked and flung themselves at the bars, making Jack start and Laora jump back. A flash of bared teeth in the torchlight, then they were moving on.

  ‘We’ve kept him isolated from the other prisoners,’ Bartolo said, as they approached one of the last doors. ‘As the signore requested.’ He paused, unhooked a key from his belt. ‘He’s chained, but keep near the door,’ warned the guard, a growl in his tone. ‘Some of these bastards are shit-flingers.’

  Unlocked, the door groaned open. Torchlight spilled across a small space, a bench on one side, a bucket on the other. There was a figure hunched in one corner, wearing only a dirty tunic, his face smothered by a tangle of grey hair and beard. Laora sucked in a breath as the figure looked up, blinking painfully at the light.

  The change in Franco Martelli was astonishing. Gone was the towering, proud and angry man. In his place was a gaunt wretch with red, seeping eyes, filthy skin and an anxious, unfocused gaze. Jack had kept back, out of the pool of light, not wanting the man to see his face and react in some way that might alert the guard, but it didn’t seem to matter – Martelli hardly seemed to recognise his own gaoler. Lorenzo had stripped the man of his wealth and power. Now, he’d taken whatever was left. Jack found himself struck again by the Medici capacity for ruthlessness. The Father of the Fatherland could be a cruel and vengeful master.

  Forcing his gaze away, Jack turned to Bartolo. ‘You have another prisoner here. The murderer – the one in the mask?’

  ‘Him?’ said Bartolo, looking taken aback.

  ‘The signore wanted me to inspect him while I was here.’

  ‘Inspect him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack, his tone firm. From inside Martelli’s cell came the clunk of a chain. ‘He has a personal interest in the case. He knows one of the men killed by him.’

  ‘You’ll get nothing of use. He’s . . .’ The guard shook his head, almost shuddered.

  ‘Still, I have my orders. Orders,’ Jack added carefully, ‘from Signor Lorenzo himself.’

  At the mild threat, Bartolo capitulated with a curt nod. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘My assistant can get started on the interrogation here. Can’t you?’ prompted Jack, seeing Laora was still staring, transfixed by her father.

  She flinched when he tapped her shoulder. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  Bartolo looked a little surprised at the pitch of this young man’s voice, but he motioned Jack on, tight-lipped. ‘I’ll take you down.’ Passing Laora the torch, reminding her to stay in the doorway and not to venture into the cell, the guard led Jack back the way they had come. ‘We’re holding him below the north tower. It’s where we usually keep them.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘The insane.’

  As they spiralled down into the dank, foul-smelling bowels of the prison, Bartolo brandishing another torch for the descent into darkness, Jack felt his whole body begin to prickle. His chest grew tight, breaths fast. He had been so preoccupied on getting into the Stinche, his thoughts hadn’t strayed much beyond, into the realms of what he planned to do once he was inside. Now, his mind was full of it. Anticipation blazed in him. After all these months – years – he would silence the demon that stalked his dreams and set his mother’s soul free. With every step that took him closer, he felt the hardness of the dagger hidden in his boot.

  There was a single door at the bottom, no grate, the wood pitted. There was a noise coming from beyond: a high keening sound. Bartolo murmured something as he reached for
a key on his belt. Jack thought he was talking to him, then realised the guard had muttered a prayer.

  ‘Father?’ The word came as a whisper. Laora swallowed thickly, tried again. ‘Father? It’s me.’

  The face lifted again, the watery eyes drifting towards her where she stood, trembling, in the doorway. This time, his gaze seemed to fix on her, some quickening of awareness behind it. He shifted, the chains around his ankles dragging on the floor. ‘Who are you?’ His voice was tremulous.

  ‘It’s me,’ she repeated, stepping forward, over the threshold of the cell door. ‘Laora. Your daughter.’

  He moved again, hands clawing the wall to help himself stand. ‘Laora?’

  She was surprised to feel tears spring in her eyes at the sight of him: his emaciated body, the sores on his legs and arms, the stains on his tattered tunic. It was as if he had aged a hundred years since she had seen him last. There was something terrible in the change; fragility and hopelessness, a life abandoned yet not relinquished. Purgatory, she thought. Not dead. Not living.

  Despite the brave face she had shown to Jack, she had been so frightened of seeing him, of entering this place. The last thing she had expected to feel was pity. But, however much she’d hated and feared this man through her life, he was still her father, her blood.

  The torch spat sparks across her hand, startling her back to the task at hand. She wouldn’t have long. ‘Father, I need you to talk to me. I need to know about the Court of Wolves. What are their plans? Are they a threat to Signor Lorenzo? To the House of Medici?’

  ‘Laora?’ he muttered again in confusion. He took a few stumbling paces towards her, the chains uncurling like heavy snakes of iron. There was a sour reek coming off him. ‘My daughter? What has happened to you? Dear God!’

  Her free hand strayed to her cropped hair. ‘I had to. It was the only way I could see you. It will grow back,’ she added anxiously.

  ‘Help me, Laora,’ he said, his voice strengthening, something of the old power grating in it. He halted close to her, brought up short by the chains. ‘You must help free me!’