by Tom Pugh
“Name your price,” said Longstaff. “I have no time to bargain.”
“No time to share a meal with an old friend?” Il Medeghino pushed his plate away. “These days, I have to remind myself what it means to be young. I will not have women here and punish drunkenness. Some of the men think I act out of jealousy, though they’d never say that to my face.” He looked at Longstaff. “I saw you earlier, running the rule over my men. Tell me what you think of them.”
Longstaff forced a smile.
“What do I think of men careless enough to let a thief break into your private chambers?” He shook his head. “A woman of ninety could defend this place with a broomstick.”
A tall warrior rose to his feet – Longstaff recognized him from the initiation ceremony – and tossed a thick slice of meat at the cage above. Durant’s face appeared, pressed against the bars.
“Your last meal, Frenchman. Chew it well.”
Don’t react, begged Longstaff silently, imagining Durant’s confusion at seeing him in the place of honour beside Il Medeghino. For a moment, the two book-finders made eye contact. Keep silent, you stubborn bastard, or you’ll get us both killed.
“My champion, Gattuso,” Il Medeghino gestured with his cup. “You saw him fight. Tell me what you thought.”
“I saw him play with a novice, which is hardly the same. He seemed competent.”
“Competent?” The old man chuckled. “Could you beat him?”
Longstaff spread his hands.
“I hope I never have to find out.”
“Matthew,” said the old man fondly. “I don’t know whether to kiss you or kill you. So I’ll let fate decide, and provide my men with some entertainment into the bargain.”
Longstaff should have known. He imagined himself in England, mounted on a fine horse, approaching the doors of his ancestral home. He pointed at the cage.
“I need them both, the man and the book he wanted.”
“Why?”
“God knows,” Longstaff shook his head. “Just trying to fulfil the terms of my contract.”
“What’s a book to me? I’m a man of the world, Matthew, not a monk. It will be a small price to pay for the pleasure of seeing you fight again. Tomorrow morning.”
Longstaff looked at Gattuso. The huge warrior was already on his second plate of meat, chewing with his mouth open, head thrown back in laughter, half a dozen men competing to pay him compliments.
Longstaff closed his eyes. “If he kills me, see that someone gives my dog a home.”
CHAPTER 16
In a small chamber off the Great Hall, Longstaff commended his soul to God. No longer the young fighter he’d been eight years ago, could he claim to have gained in experience what he’d lost in speed and power? He still practised with the sword, but it had been years since he’d last fought a duel.
He wasn’t risking his life for Durant’s worthless skin. He climbed stiffly to his feet, thinking of the house at Martlesham, of his father’s shade wandering restlessly through rooms inhabited by the man who’d denounced him to King Henry.
He stretched neck and shoulder muscles, forcing thoughts of England to one side. Fight to win. If he fought for any other reason, he would lose. Longstaff swung the katzbalger until his body was covered in a film of sweat. He was still quick, still strong.
The doors to the Great Hall opened. The tables had been cleared away and sunshine poured in through the high windows. Il Medeghino’s men stood in a rough circle around the walls, carrying shields made from wood and ox hide. Longstaff was pleased that none of the spectators wore swords.
Gattuso stood in the centre of the hall, long hair caught in a twist of leather. He wore a sleeveless leather jerkin, so that Il Medeghino’s cross-shaped brand was clearly visible on his bicep. He raised a great-sword above his head when he saw Longstaff, and two hundred men cheered.
Gottlieb led Il Medeghino onto a platform beneath the windows. The prospect of the fight appeared to have given the old man new energy. The platform was covered with thick carpets and, as he walked forward to address his men, motes of dust swirled into the morning light.
Longstaff glanced up at the iron cage, swinging gently on its chain. He could see Durant’s fingers, the side of his face pressed against the bars.
Il Medeghino raised his arms.
“I lie awake at night thinking about what it means to be the best. A man might think he can paint, until he sees the Sistine Chapel. He might think he can sing, until he hears Maddelena Casulana,” he pointed at Longstaff and Gattuso. “These two men are the best I’ve seen. This is the level you have to reach if you want to bear my mark and win your fortune as condottieri.” He stared down at his men. “Longstaff fights for the Frenchman, Gattuso for the honour of our brotherhood.”
A weak voice interrupted from above. Durant, fingers curled around the bars of the swaying cage.
“None of this is necessary, Il Medeghino. Let me join you; I have skills you can use, medical skills… ”
Il Medeghino gestured. Gottlieb unhooked his double-headed axe, threw it in the same fluid motion so it struck the iron cage with a deafening crash. Il Medeghino let his arms fall and the men beat fists against their shields, pounding out a slow tattoo.
Gattuso attacked. Longstaff gave way under the heavy blows. The clash of steel produced roars from the crowd. Gattuso thrust at his stomach, tried to gut him left to right. Longstaff turned the longer sword aside, too slowly. The point of Gattuso’s sword pierced his leather jerkin, nicked the flesh above his hip.
The men howled at the sight of blood, faces a blur of hate. Gattuso struck at Longstaff’s eyes, etched a thin red line across his cheek. Longstaff barely felt the wound. He countered with a controlled stroke from right to left. Gattuso swatted the blade aside.
Longstaff stepped back. He flexed his shoulders as long dormant appetites demanded satisfaction. He swung in a wide arc – sword-arm moving with the old fluency – expected to bury the blade in Gattuso’s side. The giant countered easily. Longstaff pressed him against the shield wall.
Gattuso seized an unwary novice by the hair and threw him at the Englishman.
Longstaff stumbled, grabbed at the novice, and felt the boy’s hot blood across his face. Gattuso shook his sword free, neatly reversing the swing. Longstaff stepped backwards, tripped on the corpse, and fell awkwardly to the stone floor.
“Move!” Even above the din made by Il Medeghino’s men, Longstaff heard Durant’s yell of warning. He rolled to his right as Gattuso’s great-sword struck the stone floor. It sent up a shower of sparks. For a moment the champion seemed to lose sight of his opponent.
Gattuso charged, attempting to cut a hole in the Englishman’s side. He shifted his weight from right to left and carved a broad, backhand stroke in the air.
Longstaff ducked beneath the whistling blade, countered with a wild swipe, his brain working as hard as his sword arm. Gattuso always attacked on the left. Yesterday, he’d shown the young initiate too much right shoulder. Did he have a blind spot, a shadow at the edge of his vision?
Longstaff disengaged, assumed the formal en garde position and held his head perfectly still. Only his eyes moved, tracing a tight triangle from Gattuso’s eyes, to his left and right shoulders.
As he looked right, so the tip of Gattuso’s sword followed. Longstaff feinted to strike from that direction. Gattuso moved to counter a blow that never fell, overextending himself. Longstaff’s lighter blade came whistling down from the other side, to tear a shallow furrow along Gattuso’s bicep.
Longstaff stood in the eye of the storm. The mob cheered at Gattuso’s blood. They’d forgotten he was their man, seeing nothing but a fight to the death.
Longstaff stepped forward as Gattuso lunged. It was a clumsy stroke, easily turned. He remembered something Il Medeghino had told him many years before. There is no irresistible thrust, no reason why a fight between two well-matched swordsmen cannot go on forever, except that everything must have its end. The man wh
o lives is the one who keeps fate at bay for a fraction of a second longer than his adversary.
Finally, Longstaff’s blood broke out into the old fateful song of death and violence. He retreated smoothly beneath a sequence of heavy blows, as Gattuso tried to bludgeon him into submission. The crowd jeered, but Longstaff was moving fluidly now, finding inspiration in the simplest strokes. He saw Gattuso’s eyes dilate with fear.
Longstaff swayed to one side as Gattuso’s blade whistled past. He went on the attack, favouring his adversary’s stronger side. The giant seemed unnerved as he tried to anticipate the moment when Longstaff would feint and reverse, and his concentration wavered as their two blades came together. Longstaff flicked his wrist and the katzbalger leapt over the great-sword, cutting a bloody line across Gattuso’s forearm.
The sword began to slip from Gattuso’s fingers. Desperately, he tried to pass it to his left hand, but the point of Longstaff’s blade lay at his throat. The crowd fell into silence.
“On your knees.”
Gattuso’s sword fell to the stone floor with a crash. Longstaff drew a bead of blood with the point of the katzbalger. As Gattuso closed his eyes in submission, he looked across at Il Medeghino.
The condottiero climbed slowly to his feet and walked to the edge of the platform. His voice was soft.
“Let him live.”
Longstaff tightened his grip on the sword and wondered if the old bastard would have done the same for him.
“Don’t make me ask twice, Matthew.”
Longstaff stepped back. Two hundred fighting men stared at him, hate in their eyes. Il Medeghino climbed down from his platform. He walked round the circle of men, before coming to a stop in front of Gattuso.
“My God, but you motherless sons of bastards have a stretch of work ahead of you.” He prodded his champion in the chest. Gattuso, twice the old man’s size and less than half his age, hung his head. “Have you thanked him?” Il Medeghino spat. “Have you thanked Signor Longstaff for sparing your life?”
Gattuso stiffened, the bloody arm hanging uselessly at his side.
“Do it,” commanded Il Medeghino.
Gattuso raised his head. “Thank you,” he muttered.
Il Medeghino held out his hand for the katzbalger. Longstaff hesitated. The crowd was growing restless; they’d wanted his blood.
“Give it to me.”
“As you wish.”
Il Medeghino stared at the blade a moment, and then raised it over his head. The men quietened.
“Which of you can tell me when the fight was won?” Silence. “Step forward if you think you can replicate the Englishman’s achievement.” Il Medeghino looked at Longstaff. “Not one of them.”
He reversed his grip on the sword. Moving with the speed of a snake, he buried the point in Gattuso’s throat. The giant’s eyes widened in surprise. Blood ran in a waterfall down his jerkin, the sword quivering beneath his chin.
Il Medeghino turned. “I train condottieri here. Men who bear my mark are not bound by skill or strength. It is victory or death. Any man who can bear the shame of defeat is in the wrong place. Pack up and go back to your pox-ridden villages, spend your nights snivelling into your mother’s tits. You won’t be missed.”
He was in a fine rage now. Longstaff lowered his head, watching from the corner of his eye as the old man roared at his men, then chased them out of the Great Hall, away from the bloody figure on the flagstones.
Il Medeghino turned to Longstaff. “The thief is yours. I suggest you take him and go.”
The hall was empty apart from the old man and his bodyguard. The cage was suspended from the high rafters; the chain looped over and secured to a shoulder-height bracket fixed to the wall.
Longstaff looked at Gottlieb. The bodyguard stood his ground, arms folded across his chest. Longstaff sighed as he uncoiled the heavy loops of chain, set his feet and took the weight. Still weary from the fight, his shoulders burned as he slowly lowered the cage, hand over hand. Il Medeghino frowned – Longstaff cursed; the old bastard had always said his better nature would get him killed. He released his hold and the cage hit the flagstones with a deafening crash. Durant groaned in pain, slumped against the bars. His clothes were torn, filthy with dried blood. Longstaff’s expression of satisfaction was not wholly unfeigned.
Gottlieb spat on the flagstones before producing a key and opening the cage door. He dragged Durant out by the hair.
“Put a gag in his mouth,” said Longstaff, “bind his hands.”
Gottlieb bared his teeth, scars puckering in anger.
“Do it,” snapped Il Medeghino.
“As well as you bound me,” added Longstaff. He didn’t think Durant was stupid enough to show pleasure at his sudden change in fortune, but was in no mood to take risks.
“Your book,” Il Medeghino placed the volume in Longstaff’s hands. It was big – three lengths of a man’s hand by two – Longstaff tucked it under his arm before turning back to Durant.
The Frenchman stood with his head bowed, dark hair obscuring the narrow face. Longstaff pushed him through the doors of the Great Hall. Il Medeghino accompanied them across the courtyard, past the fighting men. Gottlieb unlocked the door in the outer gate, took his master’s arm and helped him over the step.
Sparrow was waiting for them on the narrow track. She bared her teeth at Longstaff, furious at having been left outside so long. Il Medeghino smiled. “Good-looking animal. Surprised she puts up with you.”
“So is she, most of the time.”
Il Medeghino put a hand on his shoulder.
“God has been kind to let me see you one last time. I loved you like a son, you know,” he paused. “I am sick, Matthew.”
Longstaff didn’t know where to look. “How bad is it?”
“You have eyes in your head. The doctors say weeks – months, if I’m lucky. Not enough time to make up for a lifetime of sin. The priests are desperate to forgive me, but I was never scared of life, and I’m damned if I will run from death,” he exhaled. “I don’t blame you for leaving after Marciano. I know you didn’t come back because you wanted to see me, but I’m grateful anyway. Not many fathers are so fortunate.”
Longstaff locked his jaw against a sudden swell of sadness, whether for the old condottiero or his own lost innocence, he wasn’t sure.
“Go,” said Il Medeghino. “I need my rest.”
Longstaff turned on his heel. He didn’t want the old man to see the pity in his eyes. He drew his sword, pressing the point into the small of Durant’s back. They marched in single file along the narrow ridge, the hem of Longstaff’s coat kicking up dust behind.
When they dropped down from the ridge and were no longer visible from the high walls of the fortress, Durant turned and mutely begged to be released from his gag. Longstaff knocked him off his feet. “Take me to the horses.”
The Frenchman stumbled through a forest of stunted pines to a wide clearing. Charcoal burners had stayed here once – Longstaff could see the remains of tall, triangular kilns. Beyond them, the two horses were hobbled in the shade of an oak tree.
Durant’s horse snorted with pleasure when he saw his master. Martlesham reserved his welcome for Sparrow.
The Frenchman had left his oversize pack in one of the kilns. He dragged it out with bound hands, poking around among the contents until he found a scalpel. He did not seek permission to cut the ropes and pull the gag out of his mouth. He turned to Longstaff and spread his hands. “I made a mistake,” he said. “I admit it. You have every right… ”
Longstaff did not let him finish. He swung his fist in a flat arc, knocked Durant down, then emptied his pack onto the ground.
“Mine,” he shouted, waving the book he’d taken from Ivan the Terrible. “Where’s the palimpsest?”
Durant probed his jaw with a fingertip. “Safe.”
Longstaff kicked his chest. The Frenchman caught his boot in both hands, twisted the ankle over on itself, throwing Longstaff to the spongy floor.
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“You still need me,” he said nervously. “I thought I was dead. Why didn’t you tell me you and the condottiero were friends?”
“Friends?” Longstaff climbed slowly to his feet, murder in his eyes.
Durant raised his scalpel. Longstaff stalked him across the clearing. Durant threw the sharp blade onto the forest floor, ripping his shirt open.
“Kill me, then. You’ve earned the right, though only a damn Englishman would kill a man hours after saving his life.”
He looked ridiculous, leaves in his hair, puffed up with wounded pride, pink from so many hours above the roasting fire. Longstaff couldn’t help but smile.
“Only a Frenchman would drug a man and leave him for dead on a mountaintop.”
Durant looked down, muttering, “and only an Englishman would accept a drink from a Frenchman after he’s been stupid enough to share a piece of information he should have kept to himself!”
“You’re blaming me?” Longstaff threw back his head and roared with laughter.
Durant raised his hands in protest. Then he began to laugh. “God, that hurts,” he lifted a hand to his chest.
“Can you ride?”
“Give me a moment,” Durant dropped to his knees and began to search his scattered possessions. Longstaff peered over the Frenchman’s shoulder. He saw a Coat of Seven Colours, phials with liquids in various, unnatural hues, herbs bound with ribbon, powders in thin leather bags and pastes in tiny glass jars.
Durant saw Longstaff’s incredulity. “Powdered pearls,” he nudged a leather bag with his boot, and pointed at the phials and jars. “Ground hellebore, roasted bean straw, arnica cream, charas.” He opened his shirt, applying a translucent salve to the bruises on his chest. Longstaff inspected his own injuries; a lump the size of an egg on the back of his head, a shallow cut on his cheek and a more serious wound above his hip, which oozed blood whenever he moved.
“Let me have a look,” said Durant. “The least I can do.”
Longstaff lay on his side and allowed Durant to clean his wound. The Frenchman sewed the edges together in a tidy line, then stood back to admire his handiwork. “Nine stitches and another small scar for your collection.”