by Frank Payton
The portly steward was deeply troubled by his master’s state of health and fluttered around in an excited state.
“He takes little food and drink, Signore Giovanni, and sleeps a great deal. He has scarcely spoken since that dreadful day, and Father Pietro has twice given him the last rites, and he prays mightily for him."
“I have brought one of our most cunning healers with me, Gaetano. Let us see what he can do. He will see your master directly. Now, what about the prisoner? Where is he? I must see him as soon as I am able, and our meeting will not be pleasant.”
“He is locked in a deep cellar under the house, Signore. Do you wish me to have him brought up? He is quite recovered from the kick which the Signora Proserpina’s horse gave him. Much of his time is spent in prayer.”
Jack laughed. “He’ll need more than prayer if he doesn’t tell us what we want to know, and that quickly. Let me see him now, Sir John, and I’ll give him something to think about which will frighten him so much that by the time we ask him questions, he will want to tell us all about this abduction.”
“Very well. Gaetano, please take Messer Onsloe to the prisoner. You go with him, Niccolo, to translate. I will go and see the Count, with Hal.”
“Lead on then, lad. Let us go and speak to this wretch. Mayhap he is ready to tell all he knows, even now.” Jack followed Niccolo out towards of the house, his burly form towering over the slim Italian boy.
As they left together, a servant conducted me to Ludovico’s room, which was large and airy, and faced the afternoon sun. The Count lay upon a low bed well provided with white linen and plump pillows. He did not open his eyes as we entered, and he was as pale as death, seeming hardly to take breath. As I entered, a priest rose from his knees where he had knelt by the side of the bed and held out his hand.
“I am Father Pietro, sent by my Bishop to pray for the recovery of our good Count. So far Our Lady has not seen fit to bless my efforts.”
He was tall and spare and, to my eye, had the look of a man-at-arms in the guise of a priest. Shrewd brown eyes were set in a gaunt face above a thin long nose, and his tonsure was grey. His robe was of good thick brown cloth, held in at the waist by a rope belt, from which hung a black leather scrip. On his feet were leather sandals. As he turned his face to the side, a long scar down the cheek showed itself, clearly made by a slash from knife or sword. I knew then that I had been right: yet another soldier turned to the Church, perhaps after years fighting the Saracens or the heathen Slavs of the northeast. I took his hand, which was dry and sinewy, and from it I felt a restrained strength.
“You will know from Gaetano that I am John Hawkwood from England. Let us see what Hal can do by way of giving some assistance to Our Lord’s Mother.” The priest’s eyes narrowed. This might be taken for blasphemy by some, but I was past caring about religious sensibilities, so long as I gleaned what I wanted to know, both from the prisoner in the cellar and the wounded nobleman lying before us on his bed.
“What think you, Hal? Is my Lady’s brother lost to us?”
Hal pulled a face, and looked serious, shuffling his feet nervously.
“He faces the dying sun, Sir John, and should be moved to a chamber on the other side of the house, where he may face the sun’s rising each morn. Its rays will strengthen him each day, and will help my medicines in their work.”
I began to translate this for Father Pietro, but he raised his hand to stop the words. For the first time he smiled, and spoke in accented English. “I understand what your healer says, and doubtless he is right. I have heard it said before by the doctors in the East. Pagans they may be, but they have great knowledge of medicine. I am sure now that Count Ludovico is safe in your man’s care.” He inclined his head slightly towards me, and walked from the room.
“Giovanni?” A weak voice came from the bed. I leaned over Ludovico, the better hear his faint words.
“Yes, it is John Hawkwood. I arrived only a short time ago, bringing one with me who is cunning in leechcraft. He has said you must be moved to another chamber, where you will see the sunrise each day.”
“Thank God you are here. Perhaps now I can have some hope for the return of Proserpina.” He had tried to raise himself but now fell back with the effort. I took his hand.
“Do not fret, Ludovico. Save yourself. I will send Gaetano with others to move you.” And to Hal, “Wait here, follow your patient to his new quarters, and begin your work.” He nodded and sat down on the small stool at the bedside.
“I will see you again early on the morrow, when Hal will have had time to work his craft upon you.” With that I left the stricken Count.
Once Gaetano had been set to work, I went in search of Jack and Niccolo, and met them as they emerged through a side door which evidently led from the cellar. Jack seemed to be his usual grim self, and, muttering something about seeing to the men, went off without a word. For his part Niccolo looked pale, and leaned against the wall for support.
“What ails you, boy.” I asked.
Niccolo had difficulty in answering, and shuddered uncontrollably. “Y...your Messer Onsloe is a fiend from Hell!” he stammered at last. “He has so terrified the prisoner that he is even now praying for Death to strike him before tomorrow’s dawn.”
“What has Messer Onsloe said?”
“He...he... has said that at dawn he will return with two of his men, to question him as to the whereabouts of the Lady Proserpina, and who is to blame for taking her away. If he does not speak quickly, said Messer Onsloe, he will first lose his manhood, then his guts, which he can watch spill out on to the floor, before his eyes are put out. And there were other things of which I cannot speak for horror, but which will require red-hot irons.”
“Ah,” I said, stifling a smile. “Well, Jack is a hard man, as you say, but mayhap such things will not come to pass.” I clapped the boy on his shoulder and said, more kindly, “Now I think it is time for the evening meal. Let us go and prepare ourselves. I feel very hungry after the day’s long ride."
“Then I will see you at table, Sir John. But first I must take the fresh air.”
I watched the poor lad stagger away and heard him retching outside the door. I smiled to myself. If Jack had put half the terror into the prisoner as he had into Niccolo, there would be less trouble finding out what was necessary. I went to my room to find that Huw had laid out clean clothes from my saddle bags, and placed water and towels on a small side table for my use. I took great care over my appearance; finally satisfied, I made my way to the great hall, where several persons were already assembled, including the Count’s secretary and Father Pietro. Taking my seat, I was served with wine by one of the servants. I raised my cup to the priest.
“Your health, Father. Have you anything to tell me, perhaps about the disappearance of Lady Proserpina? Have you heard any whispers about the affair?”
He drank to me in his turn. “Unfortunately not, Sir John, but it would not be difficult for me to ask about for such information. There is a certain person of my acquaintance who might be helpful.”
“You must know that I would be prepared to be very grateful for any aid you may be able to give me, and very generous to the source of any information.” I leaned nearer, and spoke in a low voice, although as I spoke in English it was unlikely that the Count’s secretary would understand. “I would be particularly interested to learn of the whereabouts of one hight Orlando Scacci.”
Father Pietro sipped his wine. “A very dangerous man to meddle with, but I will see what I can do. Now I see that more of our company are arriving. We will speak of this again, Sir John.”
Jack and Giles entered the hall, made their way to the table, and took their places opposite Father Pietro and myself. Jack glowered at the priest, who returned his gaze steadily. I noticed this, and as I knew my grim lieutenant was not fond of priests, I sought to nip any trouble in the bud.
“Jack, this is Father Pietro, who has been sent here by his Bishop to minister to the Count. Fort
unately, if I guess rightly, the good Father has some experience in our trade, and therefore some sympathy with our mission. He also understands our English speech.”
Jack grunted something which might have been a grudging approval and thrust out his hand. Father Pietro grasped it firmly, and found a vice had closed about his own hand. He raised his eyebrows and exerted more pressure, and the thing became a matter of strengths and wills. Suddenly Jack released the priest’s hand, lifted his own in a mock salute, and I thought—to my surprise, that just for one instant—I saw the ghost of a smile on that grim visage.
“Well, I reckon he is more of a soldier than a priest still, Sir John. That hand has held sword or mace at some time past. I can trust him, which is more than I can say for many of his calling.”
At that I relaxed and began to help myself to the food which had been brought to the table, and once again relished the delights produced in the Count’s kitchens. I seemed to recall Proserpina’s voice speaking to me, saying, “You must know, Sir Giovanni, that we have in our household some of the finest cooks in the whole of Liguria.” It seemed to me that I saw her smiling at me from across the table, but the illusion faded as quickly as it had appeared, and I found my gaze had been fixed on the face of an angel woven into a tapestry which hung upon the opposite wall.
A servant refilled my cup. I took another mouthful of wine to clear my head, and then reached out for food, taking a portion of chicken stew, rich with the smell of herbs. I ate this with ravenous enjoyment, and soon went on to lasagne stuffed with minced lamb, crushed nuts and spices.
“By God, Sir John, this is a welcome change from camp food,” said Jack, chewing mightily. “We should recruit some of these cooks to our own service. What do you say, Giles?”
Giles grinned, and winked at me. “Why, I reckon that after a week or two on this fare, you wouldn’t be able to lift your sword, and I’d be unable to draw a bowstring. It’s all a little too rich for me. No wonder these Italians hire us to fight their battles. Look at Gaetano. He’s so fat he must roll out of bed each morning to get on his feet.”
Jack grunted, swallowed his food, and took a gulp of wine. “You’ll hang with your own bowstring one of these days for jesting with me, young jackanapes. We’ll take a turn together come the morning, then you’ll see how I lift my sword.”
“Now, Jack,” I said, knowing full well that given the chance Jack would beat Giles into the ground. “He means no harm, and I cannot afford to have my Captain of Archers treated so. His skills and yours are equal but different. I forbid you both to quarrel over nothing, and you, Giles, hold your tongue. It runs away with your head at times.”
Giles subsided with a grimace and, muttering under his breath, applied himself to his food. He was always a merry sort, but some of his jests were out of place. I returned my attention to Father Pietro, who ate sparingly, yet contrived to taste almost every dish on the table—and without any seeming effect emptied his cups of wine, which were promptly refilled by one of the servants.
“I was right then, Father, to think that you had carried the sword at some time in your life? Was this perhaps against the Saracen hordes?”
He gave me a brief smile. “You were quick to see the soldier in me, Sir John. Yes, I confess that in my youth, as a member of an ancient house, I entered the military service against the heathen, as we term them. What I found, however, was that in many respects they were more civilised than we. Oh, they were hard fighters for their cause, and cruel enemies, but in their way quite chivalrous. I was taken prisoner near Jerusalem, and far from being badly treated, I was most kindly received by one of their Emirs or great lords.”
“But this is not what we have heard in the in England. We believe them to be barbarous and grossly cruel,” I replied, quite startled to hear such words.
“I’ve never heard much good of these people, either,” grunted Jack, whilst downing yet another cup of wine.
Father Pietro continued with his account of the Saracens. “My captor was a most cultured person. He had studied in Byzantium, and apart from his own tongue he was conversant with English and French, and he had read some of the ancient Greek and Latin authors who had been translated into Arabic. Apart from all this, he had studied, as do others of his kind, astrology and the movement of the heavenly bodies, and all manner of sciences about which we know almost nothing.”
I confessed myself stunned by these revelations, having seen few of these Saracens, and then only captives who had been made servants by some of our own lords who had seen service in the East.
“I see, and were you ransomed from this Emir?”
“No. I was released after a year with all manner of kind words and gifts. I rejoined my former companions. It was then that I resolved never again to soldier against the Saracen. I left the army in the Holy Land and returned here, where I entered the Church, and so you see me now. Sometimes I wonder about the Emir, my captor, what happened to him, and where he might be, but these are fruitless thoughts which lead me nowhere.”
“You were lucky not to lose your head,” said Jack, with his usual bluntness.
“Yes, you are right, Messer Onsloe, and every day I pray for the souls of those who did.” He paused and sipped his wine. “But to other matters, Sir John. I was called earlier to give some comfort to the prisoner. He has been threatened with dire consequences should he not divulge information concerning the Lady Proserpina’s capture and abduction. He is terrified of the return of your worthy lieutenant here, and his intentions.”
I stopped in the middle of dividing a succulent peach with my knife. “So he should be. He was a party to a caitiff act in the taking of a young woman of noble blood. I want information, and I want it quickly. God alone knows how my Lady is being treated. I would have her back here in safety as soon as possible.”
The good priest drained his cup, and rose to his feet. “I have told the prisoner that he must help you, as God will be his judge. Also that, as an honourable knight, you will not allow him to be questioned under horrible tortures. I have further said that you will no doubt reward him for any useful information he can give you. If you will not agree to these things, then I cannot help you either. Until the morning, I wish you all Good Night.”
With those words he left the hall, his long robe swirling about him as he walked. I looked across at Jack, who grumbled in his beard. “One look and a touch of a cold knife would have been enough.”
I shook my head. “I need Father Pietro’s help as well. He has other sources of which I can take advantage. So, no knife, Jack, unless all else fails. Now I am for my bed.” I stood up, and would have fallen if Giles had not leapt up caught my arm and held me upright.
“You’ve drunk too much, Sir John, after the long day’s ride. Here, I will help you.” He lifted one of my arms about his shoulder, and with me leaning upon him, helped me to my chamber. Huw had also seen my state, and run on ahead. Between them they helped me onto the bed, and I lay down fully dressed, falling asleep in a moment.
Chapter 9
Pursuit
Next morning, I awoke with a thick ache in my head, and a sickness in my belly. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I sought to stand, but staggered and would have fallen had not Huw, who had entered the chamber on hearing my movements, caught me and helped me to sit again and recover myself.
“Shall I run to Hal Peasgood and ask him to tend you, Sir John?”
“No, I thank you. Leave me and go to break your fast, but first fetch hot water and towels, and a razor. Also, bring me fresh clothes, watered wine, a crust of bread, some of the white cheese which I like, and an apple.”
He left me then, and I began to try and gather together the threads of the last evening’s talk with Father Pietro and the others. I knew I would have to give the prisoner the chance to tell us what he could of the abduction if I was to retain the help and respect of the priest. Also, I hoped against hope that Hal’s ministrations through the night had had a good effect on Ludovic
o. He must be cured of his of his wounds and the fever which had resulted from them if I was to hear his account of events, and get from him the name of the enemy I had made in Simone Boccanera’s Council Chamber.
Huw returned with my clothes, followed by a servant carrying the food I had asked for. I dismissed them both, sending Huw to break his own fast in the hall.
“Give my duty to Master Onsloe and Master Ashurst, and Father Pietro, if he is present, and say that I will see them later.”
I took a cup of the watered wine and drank it down. I then ate some of the bread and cheese, and a bit of the apple. Straightway I felt much better. Throwing off my crumpled clothes of the last evening, I washed and shaved off four days’ growth of beard, then sluiced myself down from the ewer of water. I dried myself on the towels, donned fresh clothes, and buckled my sword belt around my waist. Huw returned with clean boots into which I thrust my feet. I felt my old self once more, ready to face the day, and my comrades.
“Master Onsloe is on his way to see you, Sir John, and has two of his men outside the house.”
“Very well, Huw, I’ll await him here.”
I sat at the table and carried on with my breakfast. Shortly afterwards, Jack lumbered into the room and stood looking out of the window.
“This is a good house, Sir John, well built with many rooms, and a fair estate withal. I would end my days as a rich man in a place such as this.”
“If you stay alive long enough. Our trade has few old men. You know that.”
I wondered to hear Jack speak so. It was not like him to share such thoughts with others.
“Perhaps I dream. But what about this prisoner? Are you ready to see him?”
I drank the rest of the watered wine and stood up. “Yes. We should go now and find out what we can. For the present, you can leave your men outside. Where is the priest?”
“I don’t know now. He was in the hall earlier, but left as I entered.”