Swan – quite deliberately – turned the wrong way. Somewhat incongruously, he thought, What if Iso makes you impotent for life? as he turned away, instead of towards, his partner. Of course, this brought him face to face with Iso, who should have been out of this figure. He stumbled off time, caught himself and lifted Iso so high that he had her all the way above his head, tilted horizontally, a hugely exaggerated version of the correct move done with the wrong partner, and the laughter rose to a fever pitch. Swan dumped her on her feet in an apparent sudden and horrified discovery of his mistake and rushed back to his own partner – to the music.
The Wolf of Rimini spat his wine. And leaned over his knees, panting and wheezing his laughter.
When the music sputtered ot a stop, Swan was dancing with a chair. The governess was herself smiling under her veil, and the rest of the hall – including even Montorio – was laughing. The lord was convulsed.
Thank you, Violetta, Swan said to himself. Who knew that dancing was a survival skill?
He set down the chair as if utterly confused. He sketched a bow to it – paused – and turned away, as if searching for the rest of the dancers.
He was given the gift of complete silence. His eyes met the Wolf’s. He bowed. ‘I think perhaps dancing is not my best aspect,’ he said.
The Wolf raised his head. ‘I’m not sure you are right, Messire Suane. I don’t imagine I’ll ever forget that performance.’ He waved a polite dismissal.
Swan inclined his head to the demoiselle, ignored the governess, and stumbled down the hall like a drunkard. He arranged to fall over one of the wolfhounds before he made it to the great doors, and out into the yard.
And as he expected, the hunchback stable boy was waiting in the shadows of the barracks tower. He had, after all, seen Alberti leave and return. The boy handed him a sliver of parchment, and Swan replaced it with a heavy silver coin. Then the boy vanished into the shadows – an agent who needed little training.
Swan passed into the barracks. Soldiers do not always stay up and gamble. The whole first level was quiet, but one big lantern burned by the door for men coming in late and men who needed a midnight piss. Swan raised his sliver of parchment. What he saw made him sigh for his little agent and for his arrogance.
The statue of the god Apollo had once decorated a Greek temple, and had been taken to Rome after the sack of Corinth, where it had decorated a theatre and its ruins for another thousand years or so – until the Malatesta had caused it to be removed to Rimini, to stand guard atop the very medieval symbols of their power, a great coat of arms over the main gate. The statue’s niche was made of brick and marble, and kept out the wind. By the sea, it was late spring, and the air was fragrant with flowers, spices and the smells of a spring night. And the smells of horses and people without good sewerage, but Swan scarcely noticed them as he climbed the steps to the gatehouse wall. He was quite aware of the possibility of murder, and he had his scabbarded sword off his belt and in his hands like a short spear.
If the gate guards were surprised, they gave no sign.
He continued his climb. His heart beat far harder than the climb warranted. He made it to the top of the gatehouse wall, and paused. He had moved very carefully. Now he moved glacially, oozing from step to step as Alessandro had taught him, so careful with the placement of his weight that each step seemed to take an hour. He could see the statue of Apollo but not the niche where the note sent him, and he hoped that the corollary was also true – that his target could not see him.
Just at the turn, he flattened himself against the wall, out of the bright moonlight.
And then he waited, the scabbarded sword in both hands. Because there had been no seeing eye on the parchment.
After what seemed an eternity of rapid heart beast loud enough to be heard in Malatesta’s hall, a figure detached from the statue of Apollo with a curse and stepped out into the passage, and Swan passed his scabbarded sword over the cloaked figure’s head.
He knew it was Iso by a hundred signs of body language, and he underestimated her. She caught his movement and pivoted, volte stabile, and her hand slammed into his ribs. His scabbarded sword caught her in the side of the head and snapped her head back or she would have had him, the biter bit. He grabbed at her – again intending a throw. She slipped away, kicking at his shin so that his hand only brushed her neck.
But in the revelation of the spirit of combat, his fingers closed of their own accord on the chain around her neck – and pulled.
The slim chain broke as she turned away, and he dodged a heavier kick.
She cursed, turned, and ran. From the other side of the niche, he heard her laughter.
‘You fool!’ she said.
The hunchback stable boy was waiting for him in the shadow of the great door to the barracks tower.
Swan thought of how brave it was for the boy to wait for him. Having betrayed him.
‘I had no choice, milor’,’ the boy said. ‘She’s … a witch.’
Swan nodded. ‘No harm done. But I wish I could trust you.’
The boy looked at his bare feet and shook his head. ‘You can’t,’ he said with brutal honesty.
Swan laughed. The night was cold and it was the middle of the last watch. ‘Sleep well, boy,’ Swan said, and climbed all six flights of steps to his bed, as quietly as he could.
Peter leaned over the upper bunk as he was unlacing his doublet. ‘Eh bien,’ he said. ‘We leave in an hour?’
Swan shook his head. ‘I’ll stay another day. I haven’t even hired the men-at-arms.’
Peter made a face – mouth pulled tight to one side, nose to the other. He made that face when he didn’t like what another person said. ‘If they kill you for tupping their ewe, they’ll kill me and Antoine, too. You know this, eh?’
Swan frowned into the darkness and rubbed his chest where her iron-hard fist had caught him. Inside the tower, it was still pitch black, but he was quite expert at stripping in the dark – and getting dressed. ‘Hardly a risk at this point,’ he said bitterly.
Peter laughed. ‘By the Saviour’s wounds, Englishman!’ he said. ‘We’ll be lucky to live long enough for the Turks to kill us.’
Swan held the chain he’d taken up to the light. Dangling from it was the five-pointed star with a blood-red ruby burning at its heart. Swan put it in his belt purse. And fell on to his blanket, asleep before his head was all the way down.
Swan woke to find the stable boy tickling his face with a long ostrich plume – the plume of his own armet. That annoyed him, but everything annoyed him when he was awakened.
‘Maestro Alberti needs to speak to milor’,’ the boy said. ‘I have a cup of hot wine. And we’ve passed prime and matins and it is almost nones too.’
Swan pulled his thick wool blanket over his head.
‘Here, I’ll just poor cold water on him,’ Peter said implacably. ‘Stand back.’
Swan heard the iron in Peter’s voice and rose, sputtering, from the tangle of his heavy blanket and his cloak. The tower was colder than the spring air outside.
The archers laughed. Swan hated mornings and hated being laughed at.
The sun slanted in through a pair of crossbow-modified archer slits and reminded him that he had, in fact, been asleep for many hours. He washed from a basin between the windows and honed his razor on the strop in his saddle case.
Peter came up behind him. ‘May I share the razor?’ he asked, as if he had not just threatened to poor cold water and humiliation on his master. He also held out a horn cup of hot wine like a peace offering.
Swan took a sip. It was full of sugar and spice, incredibly delicious. Odd, but delicious …
‘The demoiselle gave it to me to give to you,’ the boy said, and Swan spat it out. He set the cup down as if it were a live viper. And began to drink well water – he drank three pints, and made himself spew.
The perfect opening to any day.
Peter shrugged. ‘You need a taster,’ he said. ‘I’m not the
man.’ He nodded at Bigelow. ‘Your Englishmen have a confession to make to you,’ he said. ‘I think you should hear them.’
Swan finished with the razor and walked back to the middle of the room, feeling unsteady. All five English archers were sitting at the trestle table. Swan sat without invitation.
‘Gentlemen?’ he asked as he sat.
Hugh Willoughby looked meaningfully at Will Kendal. Harry Vintner put his hands together and cleared his throat – and then elbowed Bigelow.
Bigelow shrugged. ‘We were ordered to spy on you,’ he said.
Swan nodded agreeably. ‘Of course you were. You serve the Lord of Rimini, and you speak English.’ He smiled to show that he had no hard feelings.
‘The matter is …’ Bigelow looked around at his companions for support. They all shuffled and looked away.
Swan spread his hands, as if to say I can’t guess.
‘The barracks rumour is you’re hiring men. To go and fight the Turks.’ The big Englishman put his hands palm down on the table.
‘It’s true. Although I’m not sure we’ll actually fight the Turks. We might go and make a truce with them. We might go to Vienna and come straight home with a treaty.’ Swan shook his head.
‘What’s the pay?’ Will Kendal asked. His scar made him look very dangerous, and Swan sensed that, if he hadn’t been so young, he, not Bigelow, would have been the leader.
Swan puffed out his cheeks. ‘I am hiring complete lances. I hadn’t planned on getting archers.’
‘We can all ride. We have our own horses and jacks.’ It was Willoughby’s turn. ‘We all want out of here.’
Sam Cressy said nothing, but his flint-grey eyes were on Swan.
‘Will the Lord of Rimini part with you?’ Swan asked. He looked around. ‘I can probably pay four ducats a month. The market is down – a whole lance, four men, are only getting ten.’
‘We haven’t seen hard money in a year,’ Kendal said.
‘Let’s move carefully,’ Swan said. ‘I do not want the Lord of Rimini to think I am abusing his hospitality.’
‘No,’ Bigelow agreed. ‘You wouldn’t want that.’
Swan walked down the six flights of stairs to the courtyard, pausing only to look in on Constantine and the Greeks. The hunchback boy stammered directions to Alberti’s office – in the small nunnery across from the cathedral construction site in the town.
‘What’s your name, boy?’ he asked.
The boy made a face. ‘Clemente, milor’,’ he answered.
Swan nodded. ‘I’ll take Constantine and a pair of horsemen,’ he said to Peter. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d stay here. And see if there’s anything to be learned from the Englishmen. Or about them.’
Peter looked back at the tower. ‘You might have told me at the top of the steps,’ he said.
Swan smiled nastily. ‘I might.’
‘You hold a grudge far too long,’ Peter said.
‘Get to know Clemente better,’ Swan said.
‘I might, at that,’ the archer commented. ‘Ever pulled a bow, boy?’ he asked.
Clemente looked at the ground. ‘Back’s too bent,’ he said sullenly.
‘Mule shit, boy. Let’s go and find some archers.’ Peter gave Swan a wink and took the boy off towards the stable.
Swan thought that Peter had perfected the sprezzatura of not being affected by another’s attacks. If he resented being left behind, he didn’t show it.
Swan collected Constantine and another pair of Greek horsemen and his smallest riding horse, and after exchanging small talk with the gate guards, they cantered over the magnificent and very modern drawbridge and across the city square to the new cathedral.
At a glance, Swan knew that it was based on ancient temples – on the Arch of Triumph that one of the Roman emperors had erected in Rome. Constantine? Antonine? Hadrian? He knew it was just the sort of detail that Alberti would wax pedantic about, but he could not remember.
‘These people do not like us, boss,’ Constantine said.
Swan nodded. The merchants and small craftsmen glowered as they passed. There were few women in the street and fewer children. Men dressed in sober colours.
‘I’d say these people were heavily taxed and not particularly happy,’ Swan said.
‘We are considering your offer of employment,’ Constantine said with a glance at the man behind him – Giorgios, Swan thought. They were clearly related. ‘How much, and how long?’
Swan slowed his horse. ‘Ten Venetian ducats a month for each of you, and fifteen for you. Payable monthly when I’m paid. From here to Vienna and back – longer if we go somewhere from Vienna.’
Constantine looked interested. ‘We won’t fight Venice for you.’
‘Of course not!’ Swan said. ‘Bessarion is Venice’s friend.’
Constantine made a face as if to suggest that Venice had no friends. Or perhaps Bessarion had no friends.
‘But the Turks,’ Constantine said, and his silent cousin smiled. ‘How long in Venice?’
Swan was dismounting. ‘I have to go all the way up the lagoon to the city, so at least a week.’
‘Good,’ Constantine said. ‘Our families are there. Is there … an advance? Money for my sister?’
Swan tossed the stradiote his reins. ‘Let me see what can be done. I know you are a proud man, but I may need to leave in a hurry. Please hold my horse.’
Constantine frowned. ‘Of course, milor’,’ he said.
Alberti sat at a big table with legs as thick as a fat man’s, carved badly. The whole table was covered in rolls of paper and parchment, in drafting tools and pens. The man himself was standing at the small tile stove with his gown raised to allow some warmth to reach his legs. He dropped his gown in embarrassment as soon as Swan appeared.
Alberti’s office was in a convent, and the nuns watched Swan with real interest – from hostile interest to fascination, all in ten faces. Swan passed them, closed the door, and bowed. ‘Maestro. You summoned me.’
‘Since you preferred to rut with that bitch instead of meeting me,’ Alberti said. He shrugged. ‘It is a sin, you know.’
Swan didn’t shrug, but he made a slight movement of his head. This isn’t what I’m here to discuss. ‘You don’t like the demoiselle?’ he asked.
Alberti sat and indicated a stool. ‘Dislike? Pah.’ He looked at Swan. ‘She is a pagan unbeliever, a thief and a woman. What part should I like?’
‘You work in a nunnery and dislike women?’ Swan asked.
‘When they are biddable, they are almost like people,’ Alberti said. ‘Men make this mistake again and again. The ancients knew better. Women make babies and feed them. But they are not … intellectual. They may be cunning, and they use their bodies on the weak. I am careful around them.’ He shrugged. ‘But I am not intending to speak about women. I wish to speak of the ring. Where is it?’
Swan shrugged. ‘In Rome,’ he said. ‘Somewhere.’
Alberti made a face. ‘I think you lie. I think the Demoiselle Iso stole it from you, or from Bessarion. I know she was out of the house in Rome – her father was outraged. I know she wears men’s clothes like the brazen whore she is.’ Alberti shrugged. ‘She could wear armour.’
Swan looked out of the narrow windows. ‘It is a Roman triumphal arch – built into a church.’
Alberti nodded. ‘You need scarcely be a Maestro of the Academies to guess as much, but for a soldier, you have some education. You read Latin?’
Swan met the humanist’s eyes. ‘Latin, Greek, French, Italian, English, Turkish, Persian, Arabic, Hebrew. Any other questions, Maestro?’
Alberti gave him a patronising smile. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to actually master one tongue than to gad about through nine?’ he asked.
Swan considered a variety of answers and settled on a hard smile. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.
Alberti looked at him. ‘Hebrew?’ he asked.
Swan gave an indifferent shrug. ‘You asked to see me, Maestro. We are both
busy men.’
‘That witch has seduced you. I put it to you that she has the ring. I can get it back for you and perhaps break the glamour she has cast on you as well.’ He leaned forward. ‘Being a sinful man given to the flesh, you do not wish to have this spell broken. But listen – she holds you as firmly as a giant holds a child. And every time you … lie with her …’ Alberti gave a grunt of disgust. ‘You put yourself farther into her power.’
Swan was interested despite himself. ‘You believe in these things?’ he asked.
Alberti looked pained. ‘What rational man does not? The movement of every one of us is written in the stars, for us to interpret if we are not fools. I can read the future as well as the ancients. She will be your death.’ He leaned forward, his bright eyes locked on Swan’s. ‘Unless you kill her first.’
Swan looked at Alberti, his head nodding slightly.
Alberti leaned farther forward. His voice took on a slightly rhythmic quality. ‘If you will help me make away with her, both of us will be saved. She means you harm. She works spells against you. She …’
Swan assumed that he was being provoked – that Alberti was working for the Lord of Rimini and this was the next move in the game. He stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Maestro. Truly, I do not understand what you are saying, and I think that to listen to more would threaten my immortal soul.’
‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’ Alberti said.
Swan shrugged. ‘Anyone can quote the Old Testament to suggest anything,’ he said. ‘My first tutor taught me as much.’
Alberti raised a hand. ‘Wait – let me tell you—’
Swan bowed. ‘Maestro, I have no interest in contemplating the death of the demoiselle. And even if I did, I’d be unlikely to tell you. May I say that for a priest and a master artist, you are somewhat naive about the world?’
Alberti paused and then deflated. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see in you the prince your father.’ Alberti seemed to use flattery automatically, as a smokescreen.
Possibly the Southwark whore my mother, Swan thought.
Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade: Part Two Page 3