by David Gilman
All the city-state’s wealth and the surrounding towns and cities were controlled by two brothers. And now Galeazzo, the older of the two, sensing not only the danger that was about to befall the intended marriage but also the future of treaties with the English, rode urgently with his escort through the streets, which were almost unnaturally quiet. No man dared stagger from a tavern for fear of being maimed by the night watch, who enforced the strict rules of the city ordinance. To stumble drunk and beg for wine or money to procure it was to risk being arrested and then enduring the punishment of having a foot hacked off. Under the clear sky the walls of Milan looked as though they shuddered from the shadows cast by the hundreds of burning torches and braziers that illuminated the great city as Galeazzo and his men urged their horses to his brother’s palace nestled beside his palatine Church of San Giovanni in Conca. The irony of the debauchery in Bernabò’s palace almost touching the walls of the ancient place of worship was not lost on him.
Neither brother would dare enter the other’s palace with armed guards for fear of being misconstrued, so once his presence had been announced by Bernabò’s chamberlain Galeazzo ordered his men to wait outside. Despite his gout Galeazzo was spry enough to push past the old retainer. Bernabò, dishevelled and wearing a long nightshirt, nursed a gold goblet of wine as he leaned over the balustrade from the palace’s upper chambers.
‘You’d wake the dead!’ he called down, his voice booming across the marble floors.
Galeazzo reached him, grimacing from pain, then grabbed his brother’s arm.
‘My lord?’ the chamberlain called up the stairs.
‘Go back to bed,’ Bernabò told him, and then muttered to his brother. ‘I should rid myself of the old fart but I raped his daughter a few years ago. I felt I owed him. What do you want at this time of the night?’
‘Inside,’ said Galeazzo.
‘No, not there,’ said Bernabò, turning his brother away from one of the tall carved doors. His wolf grin told Galeazzo all he needed to know. There would be the remnants of an orgy in the room. He could smell the sickly smell of sweat, wine and sex. How Bernabò’s wife tolerated his behaviour he never understood. Regina was a chaste and faithful woman who bore Bernabò child after child. Perhaps it was only bearable because she lived in her own palace at Porta Romana.
Galeazzo was ushered into another ornate room that offered a terrace overlooking the city. On a clear day the Alps were visible and had the dawn suddenly risen Galeazzo knew they would probably see the retinue of lords and soldiers accompanying the French Princess. He didn’t need to see them; he could picture them in his mind’s eye. He accepted a goblet of wine. Bernabò stood at the open door of the terrace, impervious to the cold. He lifted his nightgown and let the air reach his private parts. Galeazzo, long used to his brashness, ignored him. ‘Isabelle is close.’
‘I’m happy for you,’ said Bernabò, his sarcasm hiding his sudden shock at learning she was still alive. When Galeazzo’s horses had clattered into the courtyard he had felt certain his brother was coming to tell him that the child had died on the journey. As he had anticipated. Now the terrace and the distant flickering of torches and braziers shielded his face. He drank and then turned to face Galeazzo.
‘Then what’s so damned urgent?’ he said, unable to keep the annoyance of his disappointment from his voice.
‘Not only does she have the Dauphin’s royal guard accompanying her, but there are a hundred men riding under Thomas Blackstone’s banner.’
Even Bernabò’s demeanour could not disguise his surprise. ‘Impossible,’ he said, quickly gathering his thoughts. ‘The Dauphin would have warned us. God’s tears, it makes no sense. Blackstone is their bitter enemy as well as ours.’
‘That may be, but he is hours away.’
Bernabò’s agitation stopped him thinking clearly. ‘Blackstone would not ride into our territory. He knows we would kill him.’
It was Galeazzo who applied reason. ‘The French are not stupid. They have contrived this and they could not warn us because they knew that we might strike at him on the journey here. And that would have endangered Isabelle.’
Bernabò glanced quickly at his brother. Had he known of the attack in Savoy? No. He could not. The last they had heard was that she had left Amadeus’s care, which was when the ambush had been planned. Beyond that, nothing. No word had reached Milan, either of the attack’s success or failure. It was obvious to Bernabò now why the attempt had failed. Blackstone had defeated the routiers.
‘So what? We kill him anyway.’
‘It cannot be that simple,’ said Galeazzo. ‘There’s another reason behind it all.’
‘Then you figure it out. You’re the clever one. I’ll have his heart roasting on a grill and his head on a pole.’
Galeazzo shook his head. ‘Why would he offer himself to us? Why was he escort to the Princess?’
Bernabò remained silent. He knew his intemperate manner might inadvertently trip him up. His brother would be sharp enough to seize on anything untoward he might say. Better to wait until the wine wore off and the cold light of day helped him decide what to do.
‘The Dauphin offered him something that he could not refuse,’ said Galeazzo, still thinking through the mystery of Blackstone’s impending presence in Milan.
‘Perhaps he thought he could ride back to Florence and rejoin his men. There are still several hundred of them down there guarding the roads.’
Galeazzo suddenly felt alarmed. ‘Could they be moving north to attack us? For all we know Blackstone has sent word to Montferrat and the Pope. What better time to attack us than when our guard is down amidst the wedding celebrations?’
Bernabò hawked and spat onto the terrace. ‘There’s nothing. We would have heard. Montferrat is your enemy; the Pope is mine. I’m a boil on the Pope’s arse and if he was going to try and lance it I would know. Blackstone is not gathering a force against us.’
Galeazzo calmed. ‘Yes, you’re right, we would have heard,’ he said. He paused, letting his thoughts travel to the French court. Realization dawned. ‘He saved the French King’s family at Meaux,’ he said simply. ‘The Dauphin has told him we sent the assassin. It can be nothing else. The Dauphin repays a debt and Blackstone has the best reason there is to risk everything.’
Bernabò grunted. That made sense. Nothing but revenge would drive a man into the arms of his enemy. ‘Neither the Dauphin nor he can know who sent our killer. We are in the shadows. Besides’ – he grinned – ‘he was my assassin.’
‘They know!’ Galeazzo insisted. ‘Even if we did not pay him, we arranged it. Where is Antonio?’
Bernabò feigned ignorance but the sudden glance towards the orgy room betrayed him.
‘Here?’ whispered Galeazzo. ‘You invite your son to your orgies?’
Bernabò tossed the goblet aside. His irritation had got the better of him. ‘Attend to your wedding. I’ll deal with Blackstone.’
‘No!’ Galeazzo got to his feet, ignoring the pain from his swollen foot. ‘We cannot kill him. You fool, he’s bound to have Edward’s promise of safe conduct. He would not allow Blackstone to come here if he did not. I cannot risk upsetting the English King by killing him.’
Bernabò made his conquests through brute force and threat, but Galeazzo spent years forming alliances and agreeing treaties. The English court was no enemy of the Visconti. They traded with Milan; they sent ambassadors. Galeazzo was more wary in his dealings with the Pope, because the pontiff was French: he and the English Crown shared a mutual sense of distrust of the Holy See at Avignon. One day Galeazzo would propose even closer links with King Edward. He had secured one King’s daughter – why not a son from Edward to marry into his family?
Bernabò was aware of his brother’s ambitions. ‘I’m not kissing any king’s arse. Whether Blackstone comes into the city or not I’ll kill him.’ He knew there was no choice because if Blackstone reached Antonio and forced a confession even more truths might be exposed and hi
s involvement in the attempt on the Princess’s life would be hard to disprove. He stalked out of the room, leaving his brother standing alone in the chill night air.
Galeazzo watch the light flicker as his thoughts settled. The gold-encrusted statues, fine silks and frescoes that adorned the walls might be ostentatious but they trumpeted the Visconti’s wealth. And the greater the wealth the more power could be bought. There was no doubt that Blackstone had King Edward’s favour and Galeazzo was suddenly torn between wanting to protect the Englishman and seizing the moment with his brother to kill the knight whose men still stood between the Visconti family and Florence. Which temptation would he yield to? Reason once again came to his rescue. Neither he nor Galeazzo would raise a hand against Blackstone. Bernabò’s bastard son had paid the assassin who murdered Blackstone’s wife and child. The Vipers of Milan were complicit in their deaths and a snake can strike more than once. The Visconti serpent had many heads. Antonio Lorenz was more than capable of killing Thomas Blackstone – but would Bernabò allow his son to challenge the Englishman? Whether he would or not they had only days to kill Thomas Blackstone and the Lords of Milan must not be seen to wield the knife.
Bernabò slammed closed the heavy ornate door into the orgy chamber. The light cast by the dying candles and oil lamps was so dim that the figures who sprawled in varying degrees of undress seemed entwined in death rather than drunkenness. Figures loomed large and wide-eyed from the painted frescoes on the walls, glaring down on distorted shapes that writhed and grunted in the shadows, contorted creatures undulating in passion, copulating with heaving effort. The stench of sweat mingled with perfume and wine in a pungency nausea-inducing to anyone sober – a problem not experienced by those whose bodies littered the chamber. Bernabò kicked away two women who blocked his way, their sweaty embrace broken by his hard curse and the hurt he inflicted. The room’s miasma clouded his vision.
‘Antonio!’ he bellowed, his voice startling the aftermath of the orgy into a degree of wakefulness. A naked man quickly pushed away the two women who squirmed over him.
‘Lord, he’s in the next chamber,’ he said, pointing across the room to another set of doors.
Bernabò strode across the chamber and pushed open the doors. In each corner of the room a candelabrum illuminated more clearly the effects of the night’s bacchanalia. Bodies sprawled in drunken stupor on the ornate marble floor, red wine spilled around them. The silk curtains around the great four-poster bed were open, exposing the entwined limbs of men and women. A young woman’s body was tied to one of the bedposts; it sagged, held only by cords around her wrists. Blood from her torn flesh streaked her back, trickling down her legs to mingle with the spilled wine. A young man in his early twenties leaned back against a gold-encrusted cabinet. He was lathered in sweat with blood flecks across his face, chest and arms. In one hand he held a near-empty bottle of wine, in the other a short metal-tipped riding whip that he had clearly used on the woman’s back. His glazed eyes turned away from the woman and settled on his father, who stood looking from him to the woman.
‘Father,’ said Antonio Lorenz.
Bernabò gazed around the room. ‘Get them out,’ he snarled.
For a moment it seemed Antonio would protest, but no one dared argue with the Lord of Milan. He nodded obediently and was still sober enough to walk among those on the bed and sprawled drunk on the floor, raising and lowering his whip against their flesh.
‘Get out! Get out!’ he bellowed, throwing the bottle at one woman. He snatched at another’s hair, hauled her from the bed and then kicked her across the room. ‘Leave! Now!’
The sudden violence galvanized the revellers: they ran for the door, tripping and falling, shoving each other aside to avoid falling victim to the blows. Finally when the room was clear Antonio slammed shut the door.
Bernabò had settled onto a silk-cushioned chair and watched as his bastard son lashed those privileged to partake in one of Bernabò Visconti’s orgies – all members of the nobility. Antonio grinned and tossed aside the whip. He was lean and muscled, and his love of hunting and skill as a swordsman were well known. A cruel man, he had never shown pity towards any living creature. He nurtured violence and employed silent killers known only to him. He was, Bernabò knew, utterly malevolent. And he loved him for it.
Antonio found another bottle, tipped wine into a gold goblet and handed it to his father. Then he swigged from the neck of the bottle and sighed. ‘Father, it has been a long night but I had arranged to bring more women as you requested.’
‘Send them away when they get here,’ Bernabò said. He gestured towards the girl tied to the bed. ‘She’s dead. Make sure you get rid of her before daylight.’
‘I will,’ Antonio answered. The death of a common serving woman carried no penalty. If she had family they would be paid and their lives would see some benefit from her death. ‘What is it?’ he asked, seeing the look of concern on his father’s face.
‘Princess Isabelle lives,’ he said.
Antonio faltered as the bottle almost reached his lips. ‘How can that be? We arranged poison and brigands.’
‘You paid the woman to poison her; I arranged the routiers. Both attempts have failed.’
‘God’s blood! How hard can it be to kill an eleven-year-old child?’ Antonio said disbelievingly.
Bernabò tugged his fingers through his beard. His brother’s words still unsettled him. ‘Galeazzo was here. And he brought more news. Thomas Blackstone rides with the Princess. The Dauphin sent him to us as a gift. Drove him like a beast from the forest onto hunters’ spears and arrows.’
Antonio’s face grimaced as if the wine had soured. ‘He comes to kill me.’
‘No, he has no knowledge of you or the part you played in trying to kill Isabelle. He comes for Galeazzo and me. The French have told him where the assassin came from who killed his wife and child. He comes for us,’ he repeated.
‘I can kill him,’ said Antonio.
Bernabò nodded. Perhaps he could. No one had yet bettered Antonio at sword fighting, not even his own swordmaster, and he had gained a fearsome reputation in the lists. It would be a spectacle worthy of a king’s ransom.
‘Even at the wedding celebrations,’ said Antonio enthusiastically. ‘Imagine Blackstone being humiliated and slain in front of the thousands who have flocked here for the wedding.’
Bernabò moved to his son and placed a hand on his face. ‘No. He knows nothing of you and it must remain that way. You are too valuable to me. You have an assassin’s skill of staying in the shadows. That is your world and I will not…’ He hesitated and patted the man’s face before turning away. ‘…lose another son to Thomas Blackstone.’
Antonio bridled; his body stiffened. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘I know my enemy.’
Bernabò poured a drink. There was no doubting Antonio’s ability but the risk was too great. Two years before, when they had sent the assassin who went by the name of Bertrand to kill Blackstone and his family, the lithe young killer had been like a ghost. No one was better placed to kill Blackstone. Had he not been abandoned by the English that day when he had claimed sanctuary of the Church he would have returned and been useful again. The murder of Blackstone and his family had been carefully planned but had been only partially successful. That the assassin had been another of Bernabò’s bastard sons was known only to the Visconti brothers and Antonio who controlled him. Bertrand had been a strange boy who could hide behind the mask of different characters. He had been so different from them all: a man who neither drank nor whored but studied the art of killing as a priest studied scripture. Bernabò shrugged at the memory. The rage and grief he’d experienced at his son’s death had been short-lived. The love he felt for his illegitimate children almost matched the emotions he felt for his hunting dogs. Almost. And Bertrand had failed to assassinate Blackstone.
Bernabò looked at his son. ‘Antonio, you will stay well away from Blackstone. He does not know you exist. I will deal with this. Wh
at’s important is that Galeazzo must never know of what we planned. Understood?’
Bernabò stared into his son’s eyes. There could be no misunderstanding. If Antonio’s tongue was ever loosened by an excess of wine or any suspicion ever fell on him for his role in the attempt on the Princess’s life, then his body would be found floating in the river with his throat cut – his murder most likely committed by his own father. No one was allowed to stand between Bernabò Visconti and his desire for greater power.
‘I understand,’ said Antonio.
‘Good. Now dump that girl’s body and pay her family well.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
They had had an early start. Mist rising from the far-reaching plains clung stubbornly to the forest treetops. Men hunched in the chill as they relieved themselves, small whispers of steam flagging their efforts. Soldiers crawled out of their blankets, coughed and spat, and rubbed cold hands over stubbled faces. Blackstone’s men were already awake and ready. It was the French and Italian escorts who were stumbling around the camp.
‘Small thanks that our enemies didn’t strike while we have that lot for company,’ said Killbere.
‘We’re safe enough now the sun’s up,’ said Blackstone. ‘But I saw no sense in offering the Visconti an easy target. We’re in spitting distance of them and the Princess has enough troops around her for protection.’ He glanced behind him at his captains and the men they commanded. They waited patiently, letting the morning unfold. ‘They know we’re coming and I thought they might have struck at first light.’
‘Seems they’d rather stay in their warm beds and give us enough rope to hang ourselves,’ said Killbere. ‘What about your woman?’ he said, nodding towards Aelis, who stood in the distance tying her medicine satchel onto her horse.