Swan looked around the courtyard. There was the faintest tinge of dawn.
He slipped into the tower’s doorway again and tried to think, his combat spirit pumping blood like a mill running mad in springtime floods. He tried to control his breathing, tried to imagine the consequences.
Better in every way if he could hide the bodies.
That was where his brain gave up. He couldn’t imagine how to hide the bodies.
He wiped his sword, proceeding the way he’d been trained. He used the filthy handkerchief one of the dead men had round his head to clear the fluid off his blade, and then he sheathed it carefully. His right hand didn’t want to let go of the hilt. He stood for an instant, frozen, his hand welded to his sword hilt. It was as if it was someone else’s hand, and then, unaccountably, it released the weapon.
He stood and breathed.
‘Pater noster, qui est in caelus,’ he began. He prayed all the way through, although for the first time in fifteen years he couldn’t remember some of the words. And then, when he was done, he felt … steady. He lifted the larger man’s shoulders and pulled him into the tower. At the base of the tower there was a guardroom – used for storage, except in a siege. Swan pulled the man in and lay him over a heavy wooden chest. He repeated the action with the second corpse. He threw a heavy carpet over them and sighed, regretting the smell.
Still no one in the courtyard. There were three men working the horses by the stable, and Swan fought the urge to approach them – false comfort. Instead, he slipped behind the stables, passed along the tiltyard, and entered the barracks tower as carefully as he could manage. By great good luck, the man on duty was asleep.
Peter was not. He was spooned with the older of the two French women, but his eyes were open even though hers were closed.
‘Bah!’ he said in relief. ‘I thought they had you.’
Swan hoped that he managed a smile, but it was all he could do to get his doublet off. He was asleep before he fell into his bed.
Swan didn’t intend to rise until after nones – again. But he awoke with the panicked notion that the bodies had been found, and the empty barracks tower seemed to threaten him. He washed as quickly as he could and dressed carefully. Peter appeared even as the full weight of Swan’s fatigue settled on his shoulders. He hadn’t slept much.
‘Even here, they go to mass on Sunday,’ Peter said.
Swan followed the archer down all the steps and out into the yard, and he had to use all of his not inconsiderable willpower to keep from looking at the tower doorway behind which lay two dead men.
Many of the palace servants went to the chapel inside the walls, dedicated to St Paul. But the nobles went to the new cathedral of St Francis; Alberti’s temple to Malatesta.
Swan followed the procession, walking with Ser Columbino.
‘You look terrible,’ Ser Columbino said. ‘Are you in health?’
Swan shrugged. ‘Some men had purchased lewd women last night,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get much sleep.’
Ser Columbino laughed. ‘You didn’t strike me as a such a prude,’ he said. ‘My men have voted to follow you.’
‘Ah, you do me honour!’ Swan said, and he found that he really was glad.
‘When do we ride?’ Ser Columbino asked.
They were entering the nave of the cathedral, and the profusion of classical statues made the church look like a reconstruction of a classical temple. Which was what the building truly was. Swan looked about him, half in approval and half in superstitious dread of a bolt from heaven.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘At first light, if I can obtain my lord’s permission.’
Alberti did not say the mass, but he was attending at the high altar. Swan kept expecting the magus to sacrifice a goat or do something else in keeping with the secret paganism of the place, but he was an unexceptional priest, at least to outward view.
He didn’t meet Swan’s eye.
The Demoiselle Iso was there, at the front of the church with her father. She wore a white gown with a white overgown, as if she were the Virgin Mary or the soon-to-be martyred Catherine. She was beautiful, and quite mad.
Spontaneously, Swan turned to Ser Columbino. ‘I cannot wait to leave,’ he said.
Ser Columbino laughed quietly. ‘Nor can I,’ he responded.
After mass and prayers and contemplation, Swan was summoned again by the Wolf of Rimini.
He threw cold water on his face and did his best to compose his mind, and went down to the yard. He saw Clemente pulling a bow with Peter. Both bowed to him. He saw Constantine standing with Ser Columbino by a small wagon.
The sight raised his spirits. His men were making plans to allow them all to leave.
I need to leave this place, he thought.
Just inside the door of the great hall, Alberti was waiting.
Swan flinched, and Alberti laughed. ‘You have nothing to fear from me,’ he said.
Swan met the scholar’s eye. ‘Does Rimini know that you were Cyriaco’s spy for twenty years?’ he asked.
Alberti turned his head, as if hiding from this truth.
‘I could just tell him,’ Swan went on, remorselessly. ‘I imagine he’s had time to decide exactly how to make your death memorable.’
Alberti was not a coward. He drew himself up and put his cap on his head. ‘Do as you will,’ he said.
‘What I will is that we make peace, and you accept twelve ducats a month,’ he said. Then he stepped past the magus into the great hall. He’d kept his head turned all along, wary of lip-readers in the hall – but aware he might not get to talk to Alberti again.
He walked to the foot of the dais and gave his best bow. Malatesta looked bored.
‘I understand that you are ready to leave,’ he said.
Swan stayed in his bow.
‘I am content to lose your magnificent presence,’ Malatesta said with undisguised sarcasm. ‘And I gather you have arranged to hire a half-dozen of my excess lances.’
Swan nodded.
‘Rise, Suane. You are in good grace today. I liked your answers of last night. I find that you have a principle or two – yes? Men call me unprincipled, but that’s because they are themselves too inferior to understand me. You understand me, do you not?’ he asked.
All too well, Swan said inside his head. But instead, he bowed again.
‘I am sending my youngest son to Venice,’ Malatesta said. ‘As a sort of hostage, to be honest. I gather you are riding to Venice. I would like you to escort my son.’ He smiled. ‘I will send you with a few extra lances, but these I would like back.’
Swan felt as if his head were made of wheels and cogs, because in a moment a number of pieces fell into place – wheels spun, escapements whirred. A bell rang. But the result made no sense.
Malatesta had found an ally and was advertising the fact to Bessarion? But Bessarion liked the Wolf – and was himself a friend of Venice.
Swan bowed, and professed himself delighted to escort the Wolf’s son.
There was no message from Iso. Swan made his plans with his officers; sat in the courtyard and signed a contract with the Greeks, with Maestro Alberti as his notary. The scholar appeared perfectly amicable.
As soon as he had signed his contracts with his Greeks, he turned to Ser Columbino’s men, who were formally mustered and signed their articles with relish. Swan spent the evening paying out their advances, or, in some cases, paying off their local debts. He had enough experience with mercenaries to be aware that if they were allowed, they’d pocket their pay and leave their local debts behind, which always seemed to have eventual consequences for employers.
Through the evening, as he settled up with various tailors, armourers, small food vendors and a tinker, he was seated across from the south tower door. He had no choice but to look at it. The only other place to rest his eyes was on the tailor, feverishly rebuilding Swan’s arming coat.
Alberti sat with him as if he were merely a notary, copying his contracts. Swan couldn’t decide wh
ether the humanist had decided to stay with him or was merely playing a part until his assassins killed Swan.
As darkness fell, Swan took his feet off the board table he’d used for paying men and scooped the last change into his hat. ‘Maestro Alberti, I thank you for all your help. That would have been much more difficult without you.’ Behind him, the new companies’ two wagons – one so new the wood was like pale gold and the other old and rickety and showing signs of ancient colourful paint, like bad make-up on an old whore – stood side by side, already laden and with their loads roped down with oiled cloth. Cheeses hung from each vehicle.
Alberti smiled affably. ‘You are not as much of a barbarian as you portray yourself.’
Swan didn’t know what to make of that, so he smiled. ‘And the code?’ he asked quietly.
‘Tomorrow. When you are ready to depart.’
Swan thought he could read a great deal into that statement. He bowed his head and the two men passed each other at a cautious distance.
‘I say just kill him,’ Peter muttered.
Swan pursed his lips. ‘He’s one of the finest minds in Italy,’ he said. ‘He’s a superb scholar.’
‘He’s trying to kill you,’ Peter said.
Swan shrugged. ‘So many people are.’
He ate his final dinner in Rimini with the Englishmen. They all walked out of the fortress into the town and ate at a private house that served dinners. The food was superb – Swan ate to surfeit. And there were no assassins in Rimini foolish enough to have a try at six Englishmen and a Dutchman. They swaggered out to dinner and swaggered back.
They were loud in the courtyard, and there was talk of a torchlight archery contest. Swan looked around, hoping for word from Iso. He saw one of the French women beckon to Peter, but Peter was determined to loose a few shafts in defence of the Low Countries and their reputation for archers.
After ten minutes of loud boasting, Montorio came out into the courtyard in a robe. Silence fell.
He approached Swan. ‘My lord could become very angry indeed. Please keep these men quiet.’
Swan had to use as much diplomacy on the drunken archers as he’d used with Iso and Malatesta, but after another quarter-hour he’d got them all to agree to go to bed and have their contest another day.
Finally, he had them through the arched gateway to the barracks. There was no alarm, and no word from Iso.
He wanted to slip back out to the gateway. But he had to get the fools up to their beds or all hell would break out. He followed them, cajoling and ordering by turns, up six flights of stairs.
At the top, he stood and breathed hard, right hand clutching his lower back and the two spikes of pain there. Somewhere in the darkness the archers had all become friends again, and now they broke out another flagon of wine and sat at their accustomed table, and Peter joined them with one of the French women.
The second French woman was sitting on Peter’s bed in just a shift. She grinned at Swan – a gap-toothed grin, and yet not unattractive.
There was a third Frenchwoman …
Swan turned and found her standing behind him.
‘I tried to get your attention,’ Iso said softly. ‘In the courtyard. But you were too busy.’
Swan sat suddenly on the edge of his bunk bed as if he were a puppet and his strings had been cut. Then he reached out and pulled her to him. ‘Do the French women know who you are?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said.
She kicked off her soft shoes and rolled into his bed.
‘You aren’t worried about … getting a baby?’ he asked later. It was the paramount concern of every girl at Madame Lucretia’s.
She shrugged. ‘No,’ she said. A shadow fell on her face.
‘Or about other people watching?’ he asked.
She laughed, her breath warm against his chest. ‘I like that,’ she said.
And finally, he let his hand go to where the ring of the conqueror lay between her breasts.
His doublet was under his head. He untied her amulet from the silk cord that laced his doublet and put it in her hand in the darkness.
Her left hand closed his right hand on the ring.
‘There’s a catch,’ she said.
He froze.
‘On the chain, you goose,’ she said.
He found it in the dark, and passed an uncomfortable minute opening the catch.
Something very cold pressed against his groin.
‘I just wanted you to understand that I make this exchange of my own will. Go to Venice for my pater. If you survive that, take the ring and fight the Turks. Then come back to me.’ The dagger tip was warming against his skin, but he had gone rigid. Iso laughed. ‘Men! You think that if we let you in our bodies, you own us.’
Swan sighed. ‘I don’t think that at all,’ he said.
‘I have decided that my father does not need to be more powerful. I have decided this – not you. Do you understand me?’ she asked.
Swan wondered whether she would actually kill him, and decided that she would, if pressed. And wondered what he would have to ‘survive’ in Venice.
‘I do, demoiselle,’ he said quietly.
‘Good.’ She giggled.
‘Hey!’ said Peter. ‘Get a room! People are trying to sleep.’
The dagger went away, and after a wriggle her lips were against his. He found it increasingly difficult to remain angry.
At some point a well-aimed Dutch shoe struck him in the head. He threw it back.
She got up to leave before first light. He grabbed a wrist.
‘What about Venice?’ he asked.
‘You’ll see,’ she said. She kissed him, her lips very light against his and her eyes huge, and she was gone.
Morning. Swan was dressed and well armed, his breast and back snug in the spring air. He wore a short cloak which he knew he’d want rid of before the day was another hour older.
His little convoy formed in the courtyard at first light. The Greeks were the first to be ready, standing in their broad-brimmed hats at the heads of their riding horses. Behind them were Columbino’s men-at-arms in their harness and then the squires and pages – the pages with the two small wagons.
Also with the wagons was a small boy on a fine horse – a hundred-ducat horse. He wore a small breast- and backplate and a large hat like the hats the Greeks wore. Swan bowed to the boy – Malatesta’s son.
‘You’re the jouster!’ the boy said. ‘Will you teach me to joust like you while we ride to Venice?’
Swan laughed. ‘We can ride down every traveller we meet,’ he said.
The boy had three servants, a handsome young man with large eyes and two older men who seemed very ill at ease.
None of Ser Columbino’s men was married, but there were half a dozen women with them and they had their own small cart. Swan walked over to the eldest – the older French woman.
She curtsied. It wasn’t a bad curtsy. She was ten years older than Swan and still quite handsome, in a take-no-prisoners way. She was dressed for the road and had a short sword under her cloak.
‘May we accompany you, my lord?’ she asked.
Swan laughed. ‘Do I have a choice?’ he asked.
And then the Lord of Rimini entered the courtyard. He was dressed for hunting, in a fine leather doublet stamped in gold, with a beautiful sword on an enamelled belt and a magnificent hunting hat full of peacock’s feathers. Everyone dropped to one knee, including Swan.
He had Montorio and fifty men at his back. The grooms began putting them all up on their horses, and Swan’s veins turned to ice.
Alberti appeared from the great hall, with the Demoiselle Iso just ahead of him.
Swan took a breath and put a hand on his sword.
Malatesta smiled, reached out and embraced his son like any father. ‘Your aunties will take care of you in Venice,’ he said. ‘Matteo Corner owes me ten favours. He’ll see to you, and I’ll have you back in no time. Don’t stay too long and don’t buy too
many toys.’ He embraced the boy again. A servant came up and handed him a very small sword, and he passed the belt over the boy’s head. The boy burst into tears.
‘No crying, now. You do as Messire Suane says, and command the little troop of lances I send with you.’
Even as he spoke, thirty of Malatesta’s men-at-arms detached themselves from his train and ranged themselves around Swan’s convoy.
Montorio would not meet his eye.
Malatesta reined in by Swan. ‘See to it he gets safely to Venice and I’ll see us as even on a number of matters,’ he said. He pointed to the banner just being unfurled by one of the stradiotes – Bessarion’s arms. ‘No one will look for my son under the Pope’s banner,’ he said. His eye caught the five English archers on their ronceys1, with their enormous bows poking over their right shoulders in white linen bags. He looked at Swan and raised an eyebrow.
Swan looked at the thirty men-at-arms. ‘My lord?’ he asked. He hoped his voice didn’t sound too wild. ‘Isn’t thirty men-at-arms too many?’ he made himself say.
‘For the honour of my son?’ the Wolf asked. ‘Not even enough. Take them to Venice – and we’re quits.’
It seemed, on balance, an odd thing to say.
And then, without further fuss, he rode away.
He’s changing sides to Venice and using me to transport his son. Swan wanted to laugh. Bessarion wouldn’t even disapprove. But something didn’t add up correctly.
The younger of the Malatesta heir’s servants returned from the jakes and got on to his horse.
Swan, still on foot, walked over to Iso and kissed her hand. ‘My lady,’ he said.
‘Return to us,’ Iso said. ‘You provide excellent entertainment.’ She put a foot in her stirrup. She wore all green – green gown, green boots, a fine green hat with a sweeping green plume. She looked like the very spirit of the spring. She mounted a beautiful gold horse, an Arab with a fine head and green tack. She turned the horse in a circle and saluted Swan with her whip.
‘I will certainly return, demoiselle.’ Swan bowed. The ring of the conqueror flashed on his finger.
She laughed. And rode through the gate. With her went a dozen men-at-arms, and suddenly the balance had changed – Swan was not trapped in the Rimini courtyard with fifty foes. The Malatestas were going hunting.
Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade: Part Two Page 8