Court of Wolves

by Robyn Young

  Jack closed his eyes. All those nights, Marco, flush-faced and loquacious at his side, had really been soberly taking everything in?

  ‘Not that you didn’t play your cards close to your chest,’ Marco added, seeing his mortification. ‘You kept up your disguise, if not your frustrations. But when you needed my help, hiding Laora? That was when we learned what you had come to this city for. What was important to you. What the signore wanted from you.’

  ‘You’ve been watching us?’ Jack demanded, face burning, thinking of him and Laora, limbs entwined, truths shared in the darkness. He strained against his bonds, but they held fast and he only succeeded in launching a sickening wave of pain.

  ‘In this city even walls have ears, Jack.’

  ‘Your patrons?’ Jack gritted his teeth against his fury. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Signori Lorenzino and Giovanni di’ Pierfrancesco de’ Medici.’

  ‘They are behind the Court of Wolves?’

  ‘Not in its initial guise. The company, when it was first established, was merely a fraternity for condottieri, little more than a duelling society. Seven years ago, Signor Lorenzino entered the company. Immediately, he saw its potential. He used his name and influence to build and expand it. In time, he brought Signor Giovanni in to help him lead it.’

  ‘Saw its potential for what?’

  ‘Support – military, economic, political. Everything he and his brother have been denied under the signore.’

  ‘Denied? All I have seen is what Lorenzo has given them.’

  Marco smiled humourlessly. ‘Then you haven’t been looking closely enough. I told you, when we first met, that the signore found himself in financial trouble after his incarceration in the court of King Ferrante of Naples and the collapse of several banks? That there were rumours he was forced to use money from the city’s coffers to shore up his wealth? That wasn’t the only theft. They might have been born to a secondary line of the Medici, but Lorenzino and Giovanni were left a vast inheritance by their father. When he took them into his custody, the signore gained access to it. More than one hundred thousand florins.’

  Even through his racing thoughts, the sum stood out to Jack. It was a fortune.

  ‘The brothers saw none of this money. As Lorenzino and Giovanni’s influence grew over the Court of Wolves and as they drew more young men from the city’s elite into its ranks, their authority in the republic increased. Several years ago they were able to bring that pressure to bear on the signore and secured this estate.’ Marco spread his hands to take in their surroundings, proving what Jack had suspected.

  ‘We’re at Cafaggiolo?’ He tried to recall how far from Florence the estate was. A few hours’ ride, he’d heard Lorenzo say. He thought of the crack in the cellar roof. If he could get free, he could make it on foot to the city.

  ‘But although this gave them a base from which they could continue, more privately, with their ambitions, they were still left far short of what they were due. Lorenzino tried to enter the Signoria, to counter his cousin in the political sphere, but Lorenzo made certain the votes were all against him. Like the twins, Romulus and Remus, the brothers found themselves removed of their inheritance, their destiny. Cast out by a member of their own family.’

  ‘Found and nurtured by the wolf,’ murmured Jack, remembering Marco’s words the night they first met.

  ‘Hence the name they gave to the company they hoped would sustain them.’

  ‘And what then? Romulus and Remus went on to found Rome. Do the brothers seek to take control of the republic from the signore?’

  Marco met his gaze, his dark blue eyes steady, but he didn’t answer the question.

  Jack tried another tack. ‘What of Fra Giorgio and Amerigo Vespucci? What is their involvement? They both once served the signore?’

  ‘Indeed they did, but the Vespucci family have suffered first-hand the ruthlessness of il Magnifico. Years ago, a nephew of Fra Giorgio’s was married to a woman many said was the most beautiful in Florence. Lorenzo’s younger brother, Giuliano, lusted after her and pursued her forcefully with Lorenzo’s knowledge, his support even. The affair tore the Vespucci family apart. Later, when the signore was hunting down those connected to the Pazzi family in the wake of his brother’s murder and the attempt on his own life, it transpired that another nephew of Giorgio’s had harboured one of the conspirators. The young man was tortured and sentenced to life imprisonment. He died in the Stinche.

  ‘Fra Giorgio bore these wounds upon his family with dignity, remaining loyal to the signore, whose grandfather he once served. But he helped raise Lorenzino and Giovanni as though they were his sons, and, when he saw the signore’s treatment of them, he could no longer keep his faith. Neither could Amerigo, their friend since boyhood. Each of us, we all share the same view: that the signore is no longer simply first among equals, master of the republic, but a tyrant king who has abused his position and authority to further his own ends and the future of his empire.’

  ‘You speak of abuse? What of the man you are holding prisoner? Amaury de la Croix? He is a priest for Christ’s sake. You have him kept like a dog!’ When Marco looked away, a tightening in his expression, Jack pressed him. ‘Why did you take him? Why have you held him all this time?’

  ‘Some time ago, Fra Giorgio found a letter from the priest, writing of a map that seemed to indicate land in the Western Ocean. New Eden he called it. Giorgio hadn’t been in the Academy since the days of Cosimo, but he knew enough to know that this was something crucial – something that could greatly expand the Medici fortune and, with it, the signore’s power. On learning this, Lorenzino and Giovanni determined to discover what the map showed and how they might circumvent their cousin, seizing the opportunity it presented for themselves. A way, they believed, to reclaim the inheritance that was stolen from them. Unfortunately, Amaury de la Croix has not been forthcoming. He was offered better treatment in return for information. He refused it.’ Marco lifted his shoulders. ‘Sometimes, when a fight is rigged in favour of one opponent, a man must use underhand tactics to gain the ground.’

  Jack thought of the black-robed figure glimpsed in the halls of the palazzo, whom he’d taken for Marsilio Ficino. ‘So Giorgio is the one who’s been spying on the signore?’

  ‘His closeness to the family made him the perfect candidate. If caught, he had an excuse to be in the palace. Until two years ago, it was relatively easy for him to gain access to the signore’s plans and dealings. When the signore took to locking his private chambers, his observations were forced to become more subtle.’

  ‘The spy hole?’ Jack was gratified to see surprise in Marco’s face at this. He thought of Pico’s book; used to get Lorenzo out of the palace and the men who had entered, seeking Prince Djem. ‘Are the cousins in league with the papacy?’

  ‘The Pazzi had the blessing of Pope Sixtus to remove Signor Lorenzo from power. It was hoped Pope Innocent might prove such an ally. We tried to secure his help – showed him proof of heresy within Lorenzo’s own household – but what he wanted in return was unattainable.’

  Jack said nothing, thinking of Prince Djem. ‘I understand, if all you’ve said is true, why the cousins would seek to ruin the signore and, I presume, usurp him?’ He continued when Marco didn’t answer. ‘I see, too, why the Vespucci family would have turned against him. But why you and the others in the company? Why do you seek his downfall, Marco, if not for personal gain or revenge?’

  ‘We believe in the republic,’ Marco said simply. ‘As our fathers and forefathers before us. We built it, all of us together, with sweat and toil, labour and gold. The Medici rose above us and became its masters, not because they were more worthy than the Donati or the Strozzi, the Pazzi or the Valori, but by use of cunning and deception, brute force and fortune. You must have heard it said that to deal with the Medici you cannot afford to be one-eyed? Now, their dominance is so entrenched that Signor Lorenzo believes his own family’s propaganda. He is so blinded by his conviction i
n the greatness of the Medici – in his own magnificence – that he has become as an emperor, with an unswerving belief in his divine right to rule. They are tyrants, Jack. This is not the republic our families built together. It has become a kingdom. We want to take it back.’

  It was hard to deny any of this. Jack had observed it with his own eyes. But he felt certain, too, seeing what he had of the guarded Lorenzino and the arrogant Giovanni that the poison of such power had seeped into all branches of the family. He had no doubt the men of the Court of Wolves would simply be removing one tyrant to replace him with two.

  ‘So, you see, Jack,’ said Marco, fixing him with his cool, clear gaze. ‘You are now the only piece left in play. The best chance we have for the future of the republic.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘You know the answer.’

  ‘My loyalty.’

  Marco nodded. ‘And information. Everything you know of the signore’s plans. This map Amaury de la Croix spoke of. The land it shows. New Eden?’ He sat forward, his arms on his thighs, the oil in his neat-cropped beard gleaming in the sunlight. ‘I believe you could be a valuable asset to us, yes – for what you know and the position you are in with the signore. But I also believe we could be of value to you. I see your struggle, Jack, your search for a place in the world, your desire to belong. We can offer you that – a place, a purpose. You must know Lorenzo is using you. You must see by now he will use you until he is done with you. He will never give you power. Never see you as an equal.’

  For a moment, Jack felt the lure of Marco’s words. His mind flashed with memories of his time among the Court of Wolves; the feeling of belonging, of solidarity and friendship. Many of the men were as ignoble as him by blood, but, here in Florence – cradle of endeavour, ambition and wild dreams – they had raised themselves up into nobility. Through them that shining cloak of knighthood he’d abandoned on the road might even be salvageable. But these thoughts were fleeting. He thought of Amaury, left in the cellar until his mind was as rotted as the walls. Under the cousins, he would just be another pawn in the Medici game of power. The board beneath him would be no different. Only his colour would have changed.

  He shook his head slowly. ‘When I went to the palace, before I found the tunnel, before the quake, I was planning to leave the republic. That is still my intention. Florence holds nothing for me any more. I will keep your secrets, Marco. I will not tell the signore. Just let me leave here with Amaury. I’ll take him and Laora and disappear. You have my word.’

  Marco exhaled. ‘I am afraid that cannot happen, Jack. My masters want this information from you – preferably willingly, with your agreement for continued cooperation – but they will take it by force if necessary.’

  ‘They cannot force me to work for them.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ Jack met his gaze steadily, even though his heart had quickened at the threat in Marco’s tone.

  Marco rose. ‘Then, I am sorry, Jack. For what must happen now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Bending to pick up the goblet, Marco walked away.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jack yelled at his back, twisting against his bonds. ‘Valori?’

  Amelot sat cross-legged on the bed, watching Laora pace, worrying at a short strand of her cut hair. She knew the young woman was concerned about Jack. She was too. Inside the dusty workshop the candles glowed brighter as, outside, evening fell – the third since he had gone to the palace. The third since the earth had shaken, ringing all the bells, collapsing walls and statues, and a whole row of houses near the market.

  Laora turned suddenly, her voice sharp with question. Amelot wasn’t certain of all the words, but guessed the young woman was asking her what could have delayed Jack. But she didn’t know the answer and, even if she did, could not say. Laora, seeming to realise this, wheeled away with a sigh, fiddling with the bird pendant around her neck.

  Amelot hugged her knees to her chest. She thought the young woman blamed herself for Jack’s disappearance. It was, after all, the words of her father that had sent him to the palazzo, searching for signs of those ghosts in the walls Amelot herself had sensed during their time there. Had he found something? Or had someone found him? She doubted he would have been gone this long otherwise. Amelot understood Laora’s guilt. As she looked over at the bags in the corner, packed and ready, she felt it too. They shouldn’t have pressed him to go. They could have left by now, all of them together.

  When Jack first told her his plan to leave Florence, she had shaken her head wildly at him, making her sign for Amaury repeatedly and furiously. But even as she had fought against it, she had known the battle was lost. It had been two years now. She had traversed every inch of this city and there was no trail left to follow. Her master was gone.

  Laora had turned back and was speaking again. This time, her meaning was clear. She was asking if Amelot would return to Ned and Valentine, check to see if they’d found anything out. Amelot had visited them that morning in the little house north of San Marco, where they were guarding the Turk, who always had a smile for her and a greeting in French. When Ned finally understood her gesticulations, he had promised to go to the palace and ask for Jack.

  Amelot hopped off the bed, happy to do something rather than sit and wait. She picked up her cloak, swung it around her shoulders and slipped out. It was nearly October and the days were wearing on. The alley was dim. There was a clop of hooves and the rattle of cartwheels echoing from further down the street. Grabbing hold of the window ledge, Amelot pulled herself up. Florence, as Paris and London, was full of men who favoured the dark for their deeds. She rarely used the streets, let alone when night fell. Her hands grasping sills, jutting stones and beams, feet digging into cracks, she shinned her way up the side of the building and on to the roof, lungs filling with chill air and wood-smoke.

  She was making her way along the edge of the roof towards the thoroughfare at the end, when she saw the riders, four of them, trotting down the street at the head of a covered wagon, drawn by two horses. As they drew to a stop in front of the alley, the horses foam-mouthed and stamping, Amelot was surprised to see Marco Valori swing down, pushing back his hood. Might he know where Jack was? She was thinking to slip back down to the alley to try to catch his attention, when her eyes caught on one of the other men who had dismounted with him.

  She halted, freezing in shock. After all this time it seemed impossible, but there he was. That prominent chin, those close-set eyes. It was him – the man she’d seen on the dais at Carnival. The man who had come with the others, forcing their way into Amaury’s room to seize her master; rough voice, glint of a dagger and a flash of silver from the wolf on his tunic. She flattened herself on the roof as Marco and the man made their way down the alley towards the workshop, while the others waited with the wagon, casting glances up and down the street. She wanted to move, to warn Laora. But there was no time.

  Marco rapped on the door. Two knocks, a pause, then two more. The door opened. Amelot saw him barge in, followed by his companion. A moment later, she saw Laora being hauled out, her screams muffled by Marco’s hand. She was dragged down the alley, struggling all the way, then bundled into the back of the wagon. Amaury’s abductor jumped in with her, while Marco and the others mounted up. A kick of heels, flick of a whip and they were off.

  Amelot pushed herself up and sprinted across the tiles, leaping gaps between the buildings, hauling herself up on to higher ridges, past chimneys and over loggias, birds startling into the darkening sky as she followed the wagon, heading for the city’s north-east gate.

  38

  Jack twisted his face away as grit and dirt rained down on him. He paused for breath, sweat pouring off him, his ribs throbbing, knuck-

  les torn where he’d bashed them on the jagged edges of the fissure.

  ‘Careful!’ came Amaury’s croak from below, the priest blinking up at the growing gap of sky. Every now and then he would shuffle to the
door to listen for any sound of approach, before limping back and nodding encouragingly.

  When the guards had locked him back down here, hours ago, Jack had moved quickly, Amaury following him with a string of anxious questions as he hefted the barrel in place and climbed on to to it, tugging out the dead rats, the priest flinching away from the falling bodies.

  Jack had been discouraged to see that the crack, at its widest point, wasn’t much more than two hands apart and several feet up to the surface – too narrow even for the emaciated priest, let alone himself. Scraping at it, though, he’d discovered that parts of it crumbled under pressure, the hard-packed earth, softened by water and riven with the roots of plants, weakened by the quake. Choosing one of the chunks of stone on the cellar floor, he had set about gouging out what he could, all the while Marco Valori’s last words ringing in his mind. I am sorry, Jack. For what must happen now.

  It was almost fully dark outside. Several hours ago, they had heard the pulse of hooves and what Jack had guessed to be the heavy rumble of a cart, but, since then, nothing. The chatter of birds had faded and only the sounds of the wind rushing in the trees in the twilit world above and Amaury’s occasional mutterings accompanied the scrape of the stone.

  ‘She was always with me.’

  Jack glanced down at the priest’s voice, but continued hacking. ‘Who?’

  ‘Amelot. Even when all else was gone.’ Amaury tapped his head. ‘She remained.’ His watery eyes glinted in the shadows. ‘Perhaps I sensed she was near?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Thank you, James, for taking care of her. She was as a . . .’ Amaury shook his head, chuckled dryly. ‘Well, as much of a daughter as a tonsured old ruin could have.’