The Exiled Blade: Act Three of the Assassini

by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

  “I died . . .” Her voice told him how hard she found that to say.

  “You nearly died. If you’d died you wouldn’t be here and Leo wouldn’t be asleep beside you.”

  “I took Aunt Alexa’s fiercest poison.”

  “Marco says it was probably designed to paralyse so thoroughly everyone thinks the victim is dead. Useful for kidnapping, he reckons. There’s a fish in China. You cut out the liver . . .”

  “How does he know that?”

  “He reads,” Tycho said. “He reads a lot.”

  Giulietta obviously decided this was a version of the truth she could accept. Her muscles relaxed and her breathing steadied and she snuffled her face into her pillow as he stroked her hair, and kept stroking until he was certain she was asleep. Then he stood, buckled on his daggers and slung his sword over his shoulder without bothering to buckle his baldric.

  “Maybe we’ll talk later,” he told her sleeping form. “Maybe not. Who knows how the battle will go? But you should know I love you.”

  It was so much easier to say when she wasn’t awake to hear it.

  “Things change – but that remains.”

  He smelt the oil in her unwashed hair when he bent to kiss her. Inhaling the salt warmth of her body and seeing what he was giving up in the curves of a sleepy smile. What did you expect? A throne and the girl you loved? Tomorrow would be hard for everyone. Difficult, bloody and complex.

  Of such days myths were born.

  The stars above the camp were high and bright, the constellations clear and increasingly familiar after a couple of years in this strange world. The moon was behind cloud and Tycho dipped his head in homage to Amelia’s goddess, wondering where the Nubian was.

  On her way to the far south and home? Already returning to Venice? Or out there somewhere, watching? He wouldn’t put that past her. He didn’t include Amelia’s goddess in those he didn’t believe in. Tycho liked deities he could see and he could see the moon even when she was hidden.

  Tycho made himself wait for the footsteps that drew near and then faltered, turned away and came back again. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

  Prince Frederick jumped as if ambushed.

  “Always hard to sleep the night before a battle,” Tycho said. “Well, I find it hard. You might be better?”

  Frederick shook his head. “You think tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” Tycho assured him.

  “I’m glad,” Frederick said. “I find waiting . . .”

  “Everyone does. Come dawn Marco’s archers will loose their fire arrows and what choice will Alonzo have? Come out and fight or stay inside and burn.”

  “Fire arrows?”

  “What else? I won’t be able to join you until darkness falls.”

  “If the battle takes that long . . .”

  If it doesn’t, Tycho thought, you’ll have lost.

  Numbers meant little enough in a battle like this. The Red Crucifers might be outnumbered but they were hardened soldiers, while half of Marco’s army were recent recruits, simply there to be killed. The Nicoletti and Castellani would die well for their duke – but they would die. The battle would turn on the bravery of Marco’s knights and archers, and Alonzo had knights and archers of his own. If the Red Cathedral were stone Alonzo could simply wait his besiegers out, watching them starve while his men hid inside. But it was wood and Marco’s secret plan involved fire arrows. Tycho was surprised Frederick hadn’t worked it out for himself.

  If Alonzo could keep them from his walls he could drag this out for days. The Venetian forces had brought little enough food and found almost nothing in the village when they arrived. If Tycho were Alonzo he’d do everything to drive Marco’s archers back. If he were Marco he’d go for a fast and bloody victory.

  “Remind Marco to tell his men to stay away from the moat.”

  “Why?” Frederick asked.

  “There are monsters in the water.”

  “Why don’t you remind him?”

  Tycho glanced to the east and knew dawn was close, the night had passed beyond the black-thread moment and he would soon need to hide. Giulietta’s life was in her own and this boy’s hands. “Ever been in a real battle?”

  “Skirmishes only. Why?”

  “Afraid to die?”

  “After Annemarie died it was all I wanted. Now,” he glanced at Giulietta’s tent, “I want to live.”

  Serves me right for asking. “A simpleton duke, a raw boy and a man so brave he’s afraid of daylight. What damsel could hope for braver champions?”

  Frederick shot him an uncertain glance.

  “Ignore me,” Tycho said. “She does.”

  Frederick nodded doubtfully. He looked young for his seventeen years and scared at where he found himself. Tycho had to remind himself this was a krieghund. No, with Leopold’s death, this was the krieghund, and his follower would die to the last man at his orders. “You’ll carry the WolfeSelle?”

  “You think I should?”

  “You’re the master of the Wolf Brothers. Until Leo is big enough the sword is yours to carry in battle. Of course you should . . . I saw Giulietta.”

  The prince looked at him.

  “We talked,” Tycho said. “Things change.” He left the boy standing there and made a rapid circle of Marco’s camp, judging its defences. Not a single sentry saw him. Tycho didn’t expect them to.

  40

  “How do you extract a s-snail from his s-shell?”

  Lady Giulietta looked at her cousin, wondering if it was a riddle or a serious question. “Marco?”

  “If you use a p-pin he hides. Of course, you can s-stamp on h-him, b-but then you have lots of p-pieces of shell.” Marco grinned. “You c-cook him. M-mother taught me that.”

  “But then it won’t be alive.”

  “Not b-by the end,” Marco agreed, freeing his sword. “Now, y-you must let the men see you.” He gripped Giulietta’s reins and walked his horse forward so they rode a dozen paces in front of the army as it began to move. Prince Frederick immediately kicked his spurs and positioned himself on her other side.

  “Ahh,” Marco said. “Her faithful hound.”

  Frederick scowled. The WolfeSelle had a new handle of white leather wound with gold wire and a scabbard decorated with nielloed flowers. But that, a battered hunting horn and simple trews, was all he wore.

  “No armour, I s-see.”

  “I fight better like this.”

  “F-feeling wolfish today, are we?”

  “Your highness, if I might have a word with Lady Giulietta . . .?”

  “I don’t k-know.” Marco looked at Giulietta. “M-might he?”

  She edged her horse to one side by pulling slightly on the reins and kicking on the side she wanted to turn, looking up to find Frederick smiling his approval at her skill.

  “I wanted you to have this,” he said.

  Dropping his hand to his hip, Frederick lifted the hunting horn to free its lanyard and offered it to her. The horn was dented around its rim and its mountings were so tarnished the silver was smoky black. Instinct made her glance back and she saw his men watching her.

  “What is it?”

  “It belonged to Roland.”

  The name meant little to her.

  “Roncesvalles?” Frederick said. “Roland turns back the Saracens at the pass and saves France from becoming Moorish?” He seemed surprised he needed to tell her the story. “It arrived from my father just before we left.”

  “What happens if I blow?”

  “The paladins wake from under the hill.”

  “Really?” Giulietta had heard of the paladins.

  “So it’s said.” Frederick shrugged. “No one has sounded it for five hundred years. No one has dared.”

  “Why me?” Giulietta demanded.

  “Because Leo is heir to the Wolf Brothers. If his life is in danger you must blow it and the paladins will come. You will need a circle of fire from which they can ride. Without the circle . . .”


  “You’re giving me this because I’m Leo’s mother?”

  “Because I love you.”

  Serves me right for asking, Giulietta decided. Frederick was waiting for a reply, and when he realised she didn’t know what to say, he leant forward and carefully put the cord around her neck, making sure the battered hunting horn hung neatly at her side.

  “That’s pretty,” Marco said.

  “Roland’s horn.”

  His eyes widened and he grinned into the wind. Marco looked good in armour, his thin shoulders widened by boastful shoulder plates, his chest broader than in real life. Had his mother been alive she’d have been surprised at how like his father he looked. “W-what are y-you thinking?”

  “You could be your father.”

  Marco’s mouth twisted. “I imagine that’s m-meant as a c-compliment.” He looked to see if Frederick was listening, but the princeling was staring at the onion domes of the cathedral. These were tarnished, one or two of them askew, but the afternoon sun still glinted on what was left of their gilt. “You k-know why you must let my soldiers s-see you?”

  “Because they came to get Leo back?”

  Her child was with a nurse back at camp. Four of Frederick’s krieghund guarded him and a dozen of Marco’s best infantry.

  “B-because you will r-rule after me.”

  “Marco . . .”

  He smiled. “There, I’ve said the unsayable. Everyone says my m-mind is weak. Well, my b-body is w-worse. My joints ache, my chest is t-tight, my eyes not as g-good as they should be. Alonzo tried to p-poison me before I was b-born.”

  “What?” Giulietta was shocked.

  “That was when my m-mother started taking her daily d-doses of a d-dozen different p-poisons . . . I came into the w-world with the antidotes already in my b-blood. He tried n-next when I was s-small. And this summer.”

  “The plum . . .?”

  Marco nodded.

  “Why did you eat it?”

  “I like p-plums.”

  Looking at her cousin, Giulietta knew his mind was keen – often fiendishly so – but his thoughts were unlike other peoples. That he liked plums and the colour purple was enough to make him risk poison. Aunt Alexa should be congratulated for keeping him alive this long.

  “How about y-you?” Marco asked.

  Lady Giulietta looked at him.

  “Still yearning after p-poisoned fruit? Or . . .” Marco smiled at where Frederick was reciting a battle prayer, “p-perhaps you want something s-safer? Well, r-relatively speaking . . .”

  Giulietta blushed.

  “Doing right is h-hard. Sometimes it simply t-turns out to be what w-works. Others times, what c-causes least h-harm. Truth now. Do you r-really want a r-republic?”

  “You think it’s a bad idea?”

  “I think it’s a d-dreadful idea. Look at the M-Medicis. All that v-vote rigging and influence buying. All those m-murders and p-poisonings. At least V-Venetians know where they stand . . .”

  “Which is fine,” Giulietta said tartly. “Unless it’s on the scaffold, without appeal and without knowing why they’re there.”

  Marco laughed. Behind them, knights were smiling grimly and captains encouraging their men. The duke’s good humour carried the first wave out to the island. The first wave being Marco’s knights, fifty archers in wagons dragged by horses specially shod for the task, and spearmen who were expected to walk for themselves. A final cart was loaded with barrels and planking.

  Ahead of them the Red Cathedral waited on its island.

  Not a single sentry could be seen on the balustrade circling the bell tower that stood slightly apart from the bulk of the cathedral, no guards stood positioned on the sharply sloping roof beneath its cascade of onion domes, the great doors were shut and the rocks in front of the church looked deserted. The moat Tycho had warned Frederick about wore a thin crackle of ice.

  “You don’t think it’s deserted?” Frederick asked.

  “W-where w-would they g-go?” Marco demanded. “H-how would they g-get past us? No, they’re in there all r-right.” He glanced round and saw a troop of locals who’d been conscripted into their own company of archers. “P-put the bridge in p-place and s-send those m-men across first.”

  The archers looked terrified at being singled out.

  Lady Giulietta didn’t blame them. The cathedral looked ominous and darkly silent. She wished Tycho was here and immediately blushed guiltily because Frederick nudged his mount closer as if reading her fear. One of the archers was arguing with a Venetian sergeant. After a second, the sergeant went to talk to his captain. This was strange enough to make Marco jig his reins.

  “C-come with m-me.”

  Marco’s horse edged forward and Giulietta followed, Frederick kicking his mount to a slow amble behind her. Marco sighed.

  “Yes. Your s-shadow can c-come too . . . Right, w-what’s going on?”

  The captain was so horrified to be addressed directly by the duke that his mouth opened and shut wordlessly and it was his sergeant who answered. “The heathen wants to talk to you, sir.”

  “They’re E-Eastern C-Christians.”

  The sergeant shrugged. “Don’t sound very Christian to me, sir. Sounds distinctly heathen. If you’ll forgive me.”

  “Talk,” Marco ordered.

  The archer glanced at the cathedral, glanced at Marco and then looked desperately at his companions. It was an older man who stepped forward and bowed. It took Giulietta a moment to recognise him as the village priest. He addressed Marco in Latin and spoke slowly as if trying to remember the language.

  “May we speak alone?” he said.

  “This is my cousin. This is her friend. You may speak in front of them.”

  Maybe the priest knew he would probably die that day, perhaps he was simply too desperate to worry about manners or maybe he simply didn’t care. “Fine,” he said, “keep your devil dog and your demon’s whore. It won’t help you if you try to burn the Red Cathedral. Kill the scum inside by all means, kill them and sodomise their dead bodies . . . But if you try to harm the cathedral its protectors will destroy you.” The man spat and those behind them who didn’t speak Latin and were too far away to hear anyway realised he’d insulted their duke.

  Marco smiled. “T-tell me about these p-protectors.”

  “Hell will open and demons come through.”

  “Heaven using h-hell to p-protect a r-rotting cathedral stolen by t-traitors? Isn’t that a little s-strange?” Marco looked at the captain. “Get the bridge into p-place over the m-moat and send in the archers. This m-man will l-light the arrows.”

  “I refuse,” the priest said.

  “I’ll b-burn your c-church in the village if you d-do. And put all the r-remaining villagers inside it f-first.” Giulietta couldn’t tell if this was simply a threat or if her cousin meant it. “Besides,” Marco said, “if you h-hate us that much I’d think you’d be delighted to see us d-destroyed.”

  “Why hasn’t Alonzo come out?” Giulietta whispered.

  Frederick shrugged. “Maybe he thinks the walls will protect him.”

  Leaning across, Marco said, “T-too exposed.” He nodded at the wide expanse of ice around the moat. “We h-have more archers. Your lover s-saw to that.” He smiled sweetly when Giulietta glanced at Frederick, who scowled.

  Up ahead, sappers rolled barrels to the edge of the cracked ice, lashed them into a double row using rope hoops already in place, and pushed them in. Two roof beams from a broken house came next, long enough to stretch across the moat, and the sappers lashed them tight to support the whole. Planks ripped from the side of a house came last. “Will it hold?” Giulietta asked.

  “Let’s find out,” Frederick said.

  The villagers shuffled forward under the glare of the Venetian sergeant and strung their hunting bows. At a barked command, they slotted arrows wrapped with naphtha-soaked bandages on to their strings and the bearded priest, scowling furiously, took the flaming torch he was offered. Together, arc
hers, priest and sergeant crossed the creaking bridge, stopped at the sergeant’s shouted order, and raised their bows towards the walls. The priest ambled down the line lighting arrows.

  “Release them.”

  A ragged cheer went up from Marco’s troops as the volley rose high and dropped towards the cathedral. A few stuck, the rest dropping away to fizzle out on the rocks below. “And again,” Marco ordered.

  The villagers notched new fire arrows and the priest shuffled forward with his flaming brand, glancing nervously towards the cathedral. The air was unusually still for so far out on the ice, and the valley quiet. Not even the sound of a distant bird broke the silence. “Get on with it,” the sergeant shouted.

  The priest lit the arrows and the men released their bowstrings.

  This time the army watched in silence the arc the arrows made as they flamed into the clear blue sky and then fell towards the cathedral’s wooden walls. A few more stuck this time and the sergeant grinned. The villagers fitted new arrows without being ordered, moving like dead men or puppets, not looking at each other or at their priest, simply replenishing their bows and waiting.

  “I don’t like it,” Frederick whispered.

  Although the air hung heavy there were no thunderclouds in the sky and no sign of a storm on the horizon. Giulietta nodded her agreement. It was too quiet and she felt exposed out here, as if the mountains were watching. “What’s that?” she demanded. The crack sounded as loud as the absent thunder, and she looked at the ice below her horse’s hooves to check it was still firm. Others were looking around for the source of the noise.

  “Light those arrows,” Marco ordered.

  The bearded priest shambled forward, the flaming torch in his hand, and was readying to light the first arrow when the sergeant yelled a warning. The priest spun faster than seemed possible for such a big man, looking every which way but up, and that was how he found himself standing headless, before toppling sideways to stain the ice a vivid red. A ragged shadow dropped his head and it landed with a thud, rolling along the ice like a ball.

  Turning, Giulietta spewed noisily.

  “What the f-fuck was t-that?”