by Frank Payton
He drained his cup and set it carefully on the table.
*****
So it was that I bought much of what Datini had to offer in the way of equipment. He kept his promise, and I received letters of introduction which would engage his agents to assist me when required. As I had told John Brise, this gave me an advantage over Albrecht, howsoever that he was my friend and comrade of many years. That meeting had been timely for, as Datini had guessed, the Pope had offered us much gold to go to Italy and free the Marquis of Monferrato from the unwelcome attentions of Bernabo, Duke of Milan, who was threatening to deprive him of his lands. Such thoughts were broken off as a rider hove into sight heading our way.
“Hallo, who is this in such a hurry?” John rumbled. “Looks like Hal Skelling, the way he’s whipping that horse. I’ll have to tell the Horsemaster about that. We can’t have the poor beasts treated so. How now, Hal, why the pother?”
Hal came up and pulled his mount around so fiercely that the horse was almost on its back legs.
“The Almains are in camp about ten miles ahead, Sir John, but there’s a party of three awaiting you at the next turn of the road.”
“Who are they?” asked John.
“One of Sterz’s marshals, Hannes von Auerbach,” replied the rider, a dark, wiry figure who paused and spat into the dust beneath us—from his manner it was difficult to tell whether this was to clear his throat or to express disdain of our Almain allies—“and two men-at-arms.”
Auerbach was a name I did not recognise. I knew Albrecht had sent to Germany for more men to join his company, but little more than that. The man was clearly a newcomer.
“I don’t know him,” I said. “How far away are they?”
“About two miles, Sir John.”
“Any sign of envoys yet from Monferrato? We are expected, and they should be on the lookout for us.”
“I have not heard of any, Sir John, but perhaps Sterz will have word of them.”
“Very well. We will meet up with Auerbach and let him guide us to their camp.”
*****
The sun was high above the dark forest trees before we were established at Albrecht’s camp. He had just come to see that we were settled when a commotion caught my attention and brought me to the entrance to my pavilion. The guards were lifting the barrier of young pine poles which served as a gate, and horsemen soon trotted through.
One, riding alone and leading a richly caparisoned white horse, came directly to where I stood with Albrecht at my side. I recognised him as Matt Sayers, a man-at-arms in John’s company, reckoned to be a good soldier. Once a blacksmith, he hailed from the North Country.
“Here’s one of the envoys, Sir John,” he announced, “but he’ll ne’er speak to you. He’s as dead as a doornail!”
I stepped forward and threw back a corner of the bloodstained cloak, which enwrapped a limp body hanging head-down across the saddle, and looked into the dead face of a once handsome youth. Now, besmirched with blood and soil, dark eyes staring lifelessly, it was both hideous and yet pathetic in death. Albrecht stood beside me, frowning.
“A noble youth, Jack. Cut down like a sapling. I wonder who he was."
A shadow fell across us both as a second horseman moved nearer. We looked up into the plump face of an exquisitely dressed Italian, whose dark eyes rested sadly on the dead envoy.
“Our fallen comrade was Giovanni di Francesco da Castellazzo, God rest his soul!” he said. “A noble youth indeed, now a sorry sight. His death is a great loss to us.”
The speaker heaved a great sigh, but it seemed to me devoid of pity or sorrow.
“And who are you, Sir?” inquired Albrecht.
“I am Pietro Lamberti, envoy of the noble Marquis of Monferrato.” He bowed slightly to us both from the saddle, then turned as another of his group joined us. Like Lamberti he was richly attired; to do him justice, he seemed truly upset at the sight of the dead youth before him.
Lamberti spoke again. “My young friend here is Filippo Sciatta, also an envoy of Monferrato. We are indebted to your marshal and his men, who found us in the wilderness. Some of our party are wounded.” He paused uncertainly. “I wonder if...?”
“Of course, they will be attended by our healers,” I called to Will.
“See to this directly, and arrange food and drink for the men-at-arms, as well as a place to rest.” I turned to Lamberti and his companions. “Please dismount. Your horses will be taken to the lines, fed and watered. As for your good selves, follow me, an you will.”
Albrecht and I led the three Italians into my pavilion, and we all took places at the table. Ralph had already set out a supply of wine and a simple meal. Lamberti and Sciatta were accompanied by a third man, who was presented to us as Lorenzo Campagni of Pisa, also in the service of the Marquis.
I looked carefully at the three. Lamberti was a large, fleshy man of about forty, richly dressed in bright and, no doubt, fashionable clothes. Sciatta was younger, slim and dark, and like his elder, expensively attired. Neither was a fighting man, though they both bore swords, jewel-studded. ‘Courtier’ was writ large over the two of them.
Campagni was another matter. As old as myself, I judged, grey haired, hard faced. He wore plain armour which had seen some hard knocks. A plain, straight sword was at his side, and his visored helmet lay on the table nearby. He met my glance with a steady appraising gaze. He was, I knew, like myself—a free lance.
Whilst the three ate hungrily, Lamberti told us their story.
“We were attacked by a body of well-armed men who wore no marks of identity in any form. Our men fought bravely, but we were outnumbered and overwhelmed. We only escaped by fleeing for our lives. It is most unfortunate that young Giovanni was slain. He had carried himself nobly. His body will have to be returned to his family for proper burial.”
“With your permission,” said Albrecht, “I will arrange for a wooden coffin to be made in which to transport your dead comrade’s body for the journey.”
“Thank you, that is kind,” said Sciatta. “His family will be most appreciative.” He returned to the wine cup with a sigh and drank deeply.
“So you have no idea who your attackers were?” asked Albrecht, returning to the business in hand.
“We can only think that they were sent by the Visconti, or the Conte Verde,” said Lamberti. “Apart from brigands of the forest—which is unlikely, as the men were too well armed and organised—there is little alternative.”
“You have several wounded, but only one killed. Was he singled out for any reason, do you think?” Albrecht persisted.
Sciatta pursed his lips. “Well, as to that, he was a kinsman of the Marquis, but not close, you understand.”
“That should rule out brigands, unless they were hired to kill the one man, who would have been described to them,” I said. “But there is little we can do now to pursue the matter. What does the Marquis require of us?”
At this, I saw Lamberti and Sciatta glance at each other, and a look akin to relief seemed to pass between them. Sciatta cleared his throat.
“The good Marquis wishes you to attack the Conte Verde with all your strength. It would please him if you were to lay waste the territories of Asti, and of Alessandria. We can provide you with a guide, as you will not be familiar with the country. The Holy Father in Avignon has paid you handsomely to undertake this campaign, knowing that, in addition, you would avail yourselves of opportunities to supplement your pay in the usual manner.” He gave a sly smile.
Albrecht took the point. “Indeed. We have occasionally been able to assist people of substance to find a secure home for their valuables in return for the exercise of our good offices on their behalf.”
“And now,” I added, “I expect you will wish to rest. Suitable quarters have been prepared.” I signalled to Ralph. “Please escort our guests to the small pavilion.”
Lamberti and Sciatta bowed themselves out with courtly flourishes. Campagni stood up slowly, took up his helmet
in his left hand and his wine cup in his right. He raised it in salutation, then drank the contents in one swallow. He looked hard at the two of us, nodded, and followed them out.
I turned to Albrecht. “What do you think?”
“I feel that all is not as it seems, my friend. Something, I think, is very wrong. Let you and I take a ride together, and discuss this out of the reach of prying eyes and ears.”
“I agree. If we were to speak to Campagni alone, I believe he would tell a very different tale.”
*****
We went out into the sunlight, called for our horses, and shortly after passed through the gates of the camp to the salutes of the guards. Andrew Belmonte and a dozen men-at-arms followed us at a discreet distance.
The rough track slanted downwards through the forest trees, which clung in ever thickening numbers to the slopes of the mountain. As a countryman, I noted great chestnut trees and others familiar from my boyhood in Essex: oak, walnut, ash, and beech, with thickets of brambles, and small bushes between. The forest was still as we passed by, not even enough wind to ruffle the grasses. We rode as in a green aisle in a great cathedral, jogging along without speaking, each with his own thoughts. The only sound came from the horses’ hooves, the creak of harness, the odd clink of metal on metal.
At length we came to a place where the way turned aside. The ground here fell away as though, in some time long past, part of the mountain had slid downwards in a confusion of large rocks. Only stunted, twisted trees grew there. The sky above now showed clear and blue, and it was possible to see over the tops of the lower trees to where the slopes of the mountain gave way to pasture and cultivated fields. Here Albrecht and I stopped and dismounted.
“What is in your mind?” he asked, seating himself on a large, flat rock and shifting his sword to lie across his knees.
“Like you, I think that the men we have just seen are not to be trusted. We do not know who they really are. After all is said, they have presented no proof of any kind.”
“Just so. We might be misled by those two, and be trapped here in a strange country by a larger force. We could take heavy losses for no gain.”
I picked up a small stone and threw it far over the tumbled stones, and watched as it bounced from rock to rock, finally disappearing from sight. I repeated this several times. It was a habit left from boyhood, and in some way it helped me direct my thoughts.
“Well?” asked Albrecht impatiently, tapping his sword.
“What worries me is that only one member of their party was killed. In a melee of the kind which must have fallen out, I would have expected more—surely two or three at the very least—and some more serious wounding of the others. Lamberti and Sciatta don’t have a scratch on them. They look as though they had been out for a morning’s ride in the country.”
He nodded. “Yes. I noticed that. As if they had not even been at the fight.”
“There’s the answer, then,” I said. “They were not there—they arrived later, taking over after da Castellazzo had been killed. He was the envoy. The message he would have delivered could have been very different from the one we have heard.”
Our discussion was broken by a stir amongst the still mounted escort. Their ranks parted to allow a solitary horseman to pass through. It was Campagni, and he was in a sorry state. His right arm hung limply at his side, his sword was clutched in the left hand, which also held the reins. Blood streamed from a great gash in his head, flowing down his neck and over his armour. Blood also ran down his thighs and over his saddle, from what was clearly a serious stomach wound.
I stepped forward and caught the horse’s bridle. Campagni turned his head and stared at me from dulled eyes. He tried to speak and failed, sliding from the saddle in a faint. Two of the men dismounted and ran over, catching him as he fell. They laid him gently on the rough ground.
I bent over him. His eyes rolled wildly and finally fixed on my face.
“What has happened? Who has done this to you?” I asked.
One of the men had fetched some wine, and now poured a little between his lips as we raised him into a sitting position.
“Lamberti and Sciatta, those thrice-damned traitors,” he said, coughing. “They attacked me as I slept. Lamberti is dead. I slew him. He didn’t know I slept dagger in hand. Sciatta I wounded, but he escaped me. I knew I had to find you, and tell you the truth of this matter. Your Signor Brise told me you had ridden this way.”
His voice faded, and we gave him more wine. It could not have done him much good, but he was dying anyway, and we needed to hear what he had to say.
“It was those two who ordered the attack which killed da Castellazzo. Poor boy! They were not present, but came up later after word had been sent back to Monferrato, with the news of his death.”
“Where are they from?” I asked.
“Oh, they are from the Marquis’s court, but they side secretly with the Visconti, and would grow great in his shadow. You must not attack Asti and Alessandria. They lie in the Marquis’s own lands. He wishes you to attack the lands of the Conte Verde, and the town of Lanzo.”
He clutched at my arm, a dying man’s grasp. “You must attack Lanzo, not the others.”
His voice then trailed off, and his speech wandered. He called on several names, one of a woman, perhaps his wife. I placed his sword in his right hand, useless as it was. He died soon after, calling on God and St. Peter. We buried him there and then, under a cairn of stones, and left him to God and the silence of the mountains. It was a peaceful place for a warrior to rest. Maybe his spirit would protect the lonely traveller on the road.
“There lies a brave man and true,” said Albrecht. Now we know what we wished to know, and what we must do. We must get back to camp and catch any traitors who remain.”
I turned to De Belmonte. “Make all speed, Andrew. We will follow on. Leave five of your men with us. Off with you, now.”
As the main body of the escort turned and rode back up the track, Albrecht and I remounted to follow at a short distance. I drew my sword.
“Let us stand here, old friend,” I said. “We may have to hold the trap closed.”
He also drew his sword, as did the others, except an Almain who had a crossbow, which he spanned and loaded. We did not have long to wait.
Of a sudden there was a commotion ahead, shouts of anger, and the clash of steel on steel. Rounding a bend in the road we beheld six or seven horsemen fighting furiously with Andrew and his men. One broke through and spurred, yelling, towards us.
It was Sciatta, bloodied sword in hand. He was not lacking in courage, traitor though he was. He hit us like a whirlwind, slashing and stabbing. I parried a blow to my head and thrust at him as he passed me. The point of my sword raked his unarmoured side, but he was gone. Albrecht fared less well, and did not get in even one blow at him. He was through us and headed down the track. Then I heard the clack of a crossbow latch. The bolt streaked after him and struck his back with a thunk, like an axe hitting a block of wood. Sciatta screamed and arched back in his saddle, lost control, and fell sideways. The horse dragged him along with one foot still in the stirrup, and so out of sight. There came an awful cry. We raced down and found him dead, smashed against a huge rock. We found the horse later, cropping quietly.
“Strip this carrion, and get rid of the body,” ordered Albrecht harshly. “Leave it for the beasts and birds of the forest."
The men scrambled off their horses, and were soon richer by a purse of gold coin, several jewelled rings, and a gold necklet and medallion. One came over and offered Sciatta’s sword to me.
“I will not touch a traitor’s sword,” I said. “Throw it as far as you can amongst the trees.” I watched as he did as he was bidden, albeit reluctantly, as it was worth much and well fashioned. We turned back and rejoined the others.
The fight was over. Four dead men lay face down in the dust and small stones, their bodies ransacked for anything of value. The other two we disarmed and sent off down the tr
ack. They were relieved to get away with their lives. We kept the horses. They were sturdy beasts and would be worth their keep.
It had been a sorry affair. Treachery usually is. Honest men had been led astray by evil ones, who only had an eye to their own greed for land and position. Luckily however, we had thwarted their designs and no doubt saved ourselves great loss. We had also gained some knowledge of the type of enemy that faced us in Italy: infinitely devious and treacherous.
I decided that the poor dead innocent envoy would have a fitting burial and monument. Before we finally left our camp in the mountains, I saw the body of Giovanni da Castellazzo properly buried, in a wooden coffin, at the foot of a tall tree. A large flat stone placed over the grave had his name chiselled deep into it. Underneath, one word only:
BETRAYED
Chapter 3
Revelations
The next day we broke camp and left to seek out the town of Lanzo. The Company streamed down the mountainside in a steel torrent, fully accoutred. We reached the open plain with all our panoply of bright banners and coloured pennons flying.
We met no resistance. The land was empty, the villages deserted, the livestock driven away by the fleeing people, warned of our approach by watchers in the high pastures who escaped unseen for the most part, except by the foreriders whom we had sent out ahead of our advance. We clattered down once busy streets in an eerie silence, through cobbled squares, past empty churches, their doors firmly shut against intruders.
I wondered in passing if the priests had deserted their places, or if, even as we went by, they were bent before altars shorn of the finery with which the Church was wont to adorn them to the wonder of superstitious peasants. I knew enough of priests and their hypocrisies from Nicholas, my brother, who despised the humbler members of his flock, the ones Our Lord said should be helped. My brother only gave them his attention when he wished to wring more pennies from their lean purses, supposedly to the Glory of God, pretending to save their miserable souls from Hellfire and Damnation.