Acquel’s back straightened. “I know that. And I will need your blessing and seal for what I plan to do.”
Kodoris looked up, his brow creasing.
“The Temple guard will never be suitable for the task that lies ahead,” said Acquel. “I will found an order—a holy order of the Temple—a fighting order. One as once there was at the Priory of Saivona. And all who will bear arms in its name shall be ordained brothers, greyrobes and blackrobes. You know of what I speak. You were in such a holy order before it was disbanded after the last war among the dukes.”
Kodoris’s thin lips parted slightly and he nodded. “I was. And I have told few of that part of my life.”
“You told enough. It was not hard to find out. But I suspected it, seeing you could wield a sword.”
“The Duke feared us. Forced our disbandment.” Kodoris sounded distant as the memory flooded back to him.
“But we will be stronger. A thousand strong if the Lord so inspires.” Acquel brightened visibly with internal fire as he spoke, his hands spread wide. “Monks from throughout Valdur shall come and take the new vow. The Order of Saint Elded and of the Temple Majoris at Livorna. And you will appoint me its captain-general.”
Kodoris, his eyes still distant, slowly moved his hand to his forehead and then to the medallion on his breast, making the sign of blessing. “A Temple army,” he whispered.
Brother Acquelonius Galenus nodded, a smile spreading upon his lips for the first time since Timandra had fallen; fallen having saved him from death. “I will defend the True Faith to my last breath, Holiness. And so will you.”
LADY DELLA ROVERA watched dispassionately as the brigand seized the bridle of her mount while his comrade, equally ugly enough to be his brother, guffawed at his side. A noblewoman riding on her own at dusk was either mad or looking to change her profession. Either way, he thought, luck was smiling at him. He moved a greasy hand towards her daintily shod foot resting in the stirrup. His grubby blackened fingers stroked her ankle, but only once. The last thing he felt was his comrade’s knife as it rapidly cut across his throat.
Lucinda gave the other a kindly smile of gratitude and dipped her chin to him.
“You know what to do now, good sir,” she said quietly.
The remaining brigand, his face a picture of contentment, gave her a gap-toothed grin, plunged the knife into his own belly, and staggered silently to the side of the road where he fell, conveniently, into a ditch.
Around her was silence but for the raucous cawing of some crows. Tied stacks of newly mown hay stood on either side of the road, mute sentinels to the event. She clucked to her horse. Its ears twitched and she resumed her ride deeper into the Duchy of Torinia.
“They are talking about me,” she said, her voice low. “I can see them when they do. I can feel what they say. They talk of the Tree of Life and how they will burn it.”
They will not succeed. You have planted two seeds, my daughter. The newly blooded Tree and the young monk. Both will bear fruit in time.
Lucinda ran her tongue along her teeth as the lips in her shoulder tingled. “You have said that the roots are deep. Now I have nourished them.”
Deeper and wider than any in Valdur can imagine. You have done well.
She smiled to herself, considering it, before moving to another thought. “And is the Duke of Torinia a handsome man? And what of his duchessa? I do not think she will welcome me.”
He is a prince most handsome. She is a frail woman whose heart is weak. And you are a most captivating creature, my daughter. The Duke will be glad of your comfort and counsel.
Lucinda giggled in excitement at the prospect. “And will the gods look upon me kindly? Will they help me?”
You are beloved of the gods. Beloved because you are the vanguard of hope. Belial, Beleth and Andras shine the brighter because of you. That which has slept an age is now awakening!
Not too far distant, she could make out the red-tiled roofs of a small town, nestled into a hillside, the smoke of hearth fires rising up and dissipating on the light breeze. The prospect of a bed and a meal pleased her. Refreshment and a bath perhaps. The palazzo of the Duke, not two days further journey, beckoned to her, a perfect sparkling beacon in her mind’s eye.
THE GUNS ON the slime-coated sea wall rang out as Danamis entered the harbour of Palestro. But this time they were not firing at him, and Tadeo Varano answered the salute with powder and wad from one of the orichalcum sakers. Lord Nicolo Danamis stood on the battered and ripped bow of Vendetta as it passed the two chain towers, his personal standard flying at the mainmast, the crimson and gold griffon banner of the kingdom of Valdur at the mizzen. And halfway up the foremast, Giacomo Tetch swung limply like a grotesque marionette as the ship bobbed. Behind them, the Royal Grace rolled majestically in the wake of her lee, the flag of the Free City of Palestro billowing out at her mizzen. As the canvas dropped and they neared the dockside, Danamis waved an arm and two trumpeters gave a spirited fanfare that brought cheers from the crowed already gathering, more people running down from the square.
As the ships were made fast, he had stood there, alone, a watchful eye upon those thronging the docks and quay. All cheering, hailing his return. But what of those who had betrayed him along with Tetch? Were they beaming away up at him with false cheer or had they fled? Even before he had disembarked he had summoned Talis to his side and given him one order: arrest every single Decurion of the Council. And when he judged that the fisherfolk, soldiers, seamen, tradesmen, and chandler men had swelled sufficiently, he moved forward and leapt to the bow rail, grasping a stay. He had again signalled the trumpeters for a blast and then raised an arm to command silence. A subsiding wave, the crowd quietened, except for the occasional raucous yell of support. And he had spoken to them.
“People of Palestro!” he had cried. “Here hangs the man who deceived you! The disloyal dog that tricked many of you good folk into betrayal of your chosen ruler! Know you all—and tell all you see this day—that I pardon every man who lifted arms against me.” He had gestured widely towards the other ships that slowly entered the harbour. “All these have I forgiven! Every captain has sworn his allegiance anew!”
And the cheers had risen high, rolling from the quayside up to the terraces of the city. And he had walked home.
Now, the sun dipped low on the horizon. In his deserted palazzo, the dying light of day shone through the nobly arched windows, sunbeams casting long shadows. Danamis prodded a pile of broken shards with the toe of his boot, the remains of a clay jug thrown against a pillar. The black and white marble tiles told a tale: blood stains and wine, muddy tracks and vomit puddles. The scent of urine rose from every corner, like some fetid dungeon. Poor Escalus. He hoped in his heart that the ghost of his castellan did not haunt the sad remains of this house. He hefted a small wooden wine cask, brought up from the Vendetta, and poured out a generous measure in a half-crushed brass goblet and handed it to Strykar, an apologetic smile on his bruised face. He did the same for himself and then noisily pulled up the remains of a carved oak folding chair, its leather back slashed away.
He held up his goblet to the mercenary. “To you, my friend. For standing by my side these past weeks. So that I could bring you back… to this.” And he let out a tired but sincere chuckle before taking a long swig of the sweet liquid.
Strykar tipped his goblet and drank too, drops spilling into the salt and pepper curls of his square-cut beard. “Why are you thanking me? You paid me after all, and that is, of course, my profession. The only one I shall ever know.”
“You could have taken my gold and stayed in Maresto.”
“Nay, my friend. We’ve had an arrangement these past few years. Men of commerce. I’ll not shit on that. But what of your fleet? Will they bite your hand again?”
Danamis looked hard at Strykar and the mercenary saw now how the adventures of the last month had worn his friend at the edges, his eyes ringed dark. “Dear Strykar, I can only pray that my trust will be
repaid in trust.”
Strykar nodded and gave him a brotherly look of affection. “Your father—and you in turn—took men who were pirates and made them pirate-hunters. And traders. You can’t turn a wolf into a dog. You must watch your back, Nico.”
“And never make more enemies than you can fight at one time,” added Danamis with a self-derisory snort. “Well, the myrra trade is at an end. For now at least. Citala is dead set against resuming it. The leaf has enslaved her menfolk and this I have seen with my own eyes.”
Strykar lowered his goblet. “But I’ve still got a fortune’s worth on your ship!”
Danamis shrugged. “The price of an alliance. And not the only condition at that.”
The mercenary scratched the stubble under his neck. “Hmm. Mayhaps I should try giving it a chew myself. I wonder if it has medicinal properties.”
Danamis smiled wanly. “It may indeed.”
Strykar took a drink and belched quietly. “The other conditions. It will be a small mountain to climb to settle the merfolk here. The priests will fight you, for one.” He inclined his goblet towards Danamis. “That said, Duke Alonso has given you his support for the enterprise.”
“He smells the promise of merfolk gold.”
“Ah, Nico. Every man needs a reason to do something. In my experience it is rarely the result of the milk of human kindness.”
Danamis rose up from the creaking chair and drained his goblet. “Will you take ship soon for Maresto?”
Strykar leaned back and laughed. “Ship? I think I’ve had my fill of voyages by sea! We return by road this time, my friend. Another day or so. After the lads have had time to fill their bellies and empty their cods. Lord knows what news awaits us when we get back there.”
“Stay here tonight if you wish. Saints willing, you and your men will find beds that don’t smell of piss. I go now to meet a friend.”
A wry look broke upon the mercenary’s craggy face. “I suppose that is well deserved. Please give my greetings to the blue lady.” And he stood and held out his hand.
Danamis gripped it warmly. “Fare you well, Captain Strykar!”
Epilogue
HE RODE A borrowed horse down to the east gate. The weather had grown humid again and the heat made him heedless of fashion or his station. He was dressed only in a cambric shirt, hole-shot green hose, and salt-rimed boots, a threadbare brown woollen cloak thrown over his shoulders, hood up. His falchion bounced at his waist as his mount walked down the narrow cobbled street. Most of those he passed did not recognize him, the few that did paused and watched him pass, bemused at his shabbiness and his solo ride with night drawing in.
He mused that if any wound-licking mutineers lurked in the alleys, they would have an easy time of him. His fatigue lay upon him like a succubus, pulling him down and down with heaviness. The gate was yet open and two guards of the militia eyed him as he passed under the portcullis and through the heavy oak doors. He carried on down the road and turned off on a trail that ran down to the sea. The town walls rose up on his right, past palm and scrub until the woods opened and he found himself at a tiny cove and sandy beach, a place he had known since boyhood, and for the moment deserted. At one end of the cove stood the chain tower but to his left the great expanse of the Sea of Valdur rolled out before him. He looped his mount’s reins to an amelasia tree, standing forlorn, bent and twisted like an old man.
As he stood on the bleached white sand, wrist resting on his sword hilt, he saw her rise from the water and walk towards him, glistening in the twilight. She was near-naked as when he had first seen her that fateful day on the deck of the Grace, a wild creature, tall and lithe. And his heart sang at the sight of her, his melancholy and weariness lifting away. She drew near and her white smile flashed brightly, the almond-shaped eyes wide and full. Danamis smiled too, breathing deeply, and held out his arms for her. She took both his forearms in her long-fingered hands, squeezing gently, and seawater soaked his sleeves.
“Danamis! It is a great victory as you had hoped. My heart gladdens at the sight of you again!”
Danamis grasped her forearms in return. “A victory not possible without you and your people. I owe my life to you—twice over. How fare your warriors?”
Citala lowered her chin. “One dead. A sacrifice that all would have made for the prize. A return here.”
“It is one too many. I am sorry for that.”
Citala half-turned to face the water, moving one hand to grasp his. “They have returned to Piso. They understand that the time is not right to show themselves plainly. That lies ahead, in time. I must return also, to the island. My father must be told of your success—and the hope that it brings.”
“I have pledged my honour to restore you. And I will do all in my power to bring this to pass. You must believe me.”
She raised a hand to his cheek, brushing the still livid boss of his bruise. “And I believed in you from when first we met. A landsman I could trust.”
He winced slightly as she touched the cut on his brow.
“Your wounds have not been seen to,” she said quietly. “The sea is healing. Come.” And she undid his cloak and pulled up his shirt over his head. Danamis unbuckled his sword belt and placed it on the beach. She laughed as he struggled, off-balance, with his boots. And he was laughing too as he unlaced his codpiece and peeled off the hose. He stood there in only his braes, the warm slight breeze invigorating him. Citala nodded and extended her hand to him. They waded into the water of the sheltered cove, the surf gently lapping the shoreline. She pulled him out further until the sea was just over their waists. He pulled her back and their eyes met again. She blinked, the pools of shining violet wider than before. And then he folded his arms about her and leaned in. She did not shun his gentle embrace and their lips met as her hands splayed upon his shoulders. She tasted of the sea, bracing and fresh, bitter and briny. They sank down together under the surface, still in each other’s arms.
DANAMIS AWOKE ABRUPTLY to the sound of thumping oars and harsh voices. He rolled over on his crumpled cloak, still naked, and, shaking his head, stood up. A small fishing shallop had been dragged up onto the beach a few dozen yards from him. The men were laughing at him. He wiped his arm across his sand-crusted face. Citala was gone. They had lain together on the beach until he had drifted off, at peace and contented. He could still smell her hair, a scent of peppercorn and sea. He frowned and retrieved his clothes, hastily pulling everything on, sticky and sand-coated. His horse, still patiently tethered, watched him and then flapped its lips out of boredom.
As he hefted his sword belt and scabbard, a cannon up on the harbour wall thundered. A moment later, a second gun boomed out.
“Shit.”
Danamis cinched in the prong of the buckle in his worn leather belt—next to last hole—and twisted it around, the hilt of the sword far back on his left hip. He left the cloak, hurriedly untied the horse’s reins, threw himself up into the saddle and spurred up the path back towards the gate. Ambling merchants scattered as he shouted a warning and trotted under the portcullis of the gatehouse, the horse’s hooves scrabbling on the cobbles. He should never have let his guard slip as he had, his foolish lax ways returning like a bad acquaintance. He had not even left any orders for the defence of the harbour and only Gregorvero and Bassinio—God willing—were down there to lead the men. He was no great horseman, and the creature whinnied and snorted as it navigated the precarious downward streets, losing its footing more than once. Danamis held on tight, his mind filling with every conceivable threat.
Again, guns sounded, further off this time. It was a ship. He rounded a corner and the piazza and quayside were before him. People were running down to the docks from every direction. He kicked the horse and shot forward, his eyes taking in the scene. He slowed, his breaths coming fast, and then reined in. He blinked, then squinted, only half-believing what he was seeing.
A large carrack had entered Palestro, sailing proudly between the two towers of the chain.
Another of its deck guns boomed out in greeting. It was a vessel he knew very well. A great twin-tailed standard, twenty feet long, trailed out from the mainmast, shivering in the breeze. Upon it was a blue seawolf, its scaly tail coiling three times. His father’s personal badge.
Lord Valerian Danamis, the lost admiral of Valdur, had found his way home again.
1653. The long, bloody English Civil War is at an end. King Charles is dead and Oliver Cromwell rules the land. Richard Treadwell, Royalist, exile, and now soldier for the King of France, burns for revenge on those who deprived him of his family and fortune. He returns to England in secret to assassinate Cromwell.
But his is not the only plot in motion. A secret army run by a deluded Puritan is bent on the same quest, guided by the Devil’s hand. When demonic entities are summoned, Treadwell finds his fortunes reversed: he must save Cromwell, or consign England to Hell...
But first he has to contend with a wife he left in Devon who believes she’s a widow, a furious Parisian mistress who has trailed him to England, and a young Musketeer named d’Artagnan, sent to drag him back to France. It’s a dangerous new Republic, for an old Cavalier coming home.
“Prepare for a swashbuckling, roller-coaster unputdownable read, full of derring do, bodice ripping and political intrigue. Clifford Beal is a great story teller who keeps his readers on the edge of their seats. Note to Hollywood producers, snap this one up now.”
– Jerry Hayes, The Spectator
www.solarisbooks.com
Germany 1626: A War, a Witch, a Reckoning...
Richard Treadwell is a young man who dreams of glory and honour on the battlefield—and the plunder and riches that would follow. Newly arrived in Hamburg to seek his fortune as a mercenary in the Danish army, he joins the vast war in northern Germany between the Catholic Hapsburg empire and the Protestant princes of the north. But he has also brought with him an old secret—and with it the seeds of his own destruction.
The Guns of Ivrea Page 40