Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade: Part Three

by Christian Cameron

  Loredan frowned.

  ‘Malatesta’s son!’ Swan shouted.

  Loredan nodded. He turned left, headed for the front of the house, his sword dripping blood. Swan pushed the boy back into the crowd of Columbino’s men-at-arms. ‘See to the little lord!’ he shouted.

  He saw Don Juan di Silva sweep the boy off the marble floor and carry him out.

  ‘You are all under arrest for threatening the security of the state!’ Loredan shouted.

  ‘Top floor,’ Columbino roared from behind them. Swan heard the cavalry charge of armoured feet on steps.

  Loredan had Matteo Corner at the end of his sword. The older man had a rumpled gown over his nightshirt, and no weapon. ‘Tell me where Foscari is,’ Loredan said grimly.

  ‘At the Doge’s palace, sleeping in his bed,’ Corner said haughtily.

  Loredan’s sword reached out to the old man’s neck.

  ‘Touch me, boy, and you’ll find out who actually controls this city,’ Corner said.

  ‘Jacopo Foscari – tell me where he is or die,’ Loredan snapped.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ Corner said.

  But Swan had seen movement in the loggia – the balconied area that overlooked the canal. A woman screamed.

  Swan ran past the old man and thrust his shoulder against the heavy door. It gave, and he was into the room beyond. He saw Malatesta’s governess in her shift, with a dagger. The dagger had blood on it. There was a man at her feet bleeding out.

  Signora Sophia looked like an image of Medea. Her right hand was blood to the wrist. Four other women crouched in terror. ‘Foscari jumped for the canal,’ she said. She pointed.

  By the light from the room, Swan could just see a small boat being pulled by four oarsmen racing away into the darkness. Almost against the riva below him was a boat with two dead men, crossbow bolts telling the tale of their defeat.

  ‘Loredan – Foscari has a boat and he’s getting away.’ Swan gestured and Loredan passed him. A floor above, he heard Di Bracchio issuing orders. There was a sharp snick and a scream.

  ‘I hit someone.’ Di Bracchio cursed. ‘Loredan!’ Loredan was already racing for the steps.

  ‘I will not faint,’ Signora Sophia said firmly. ‘I cannot open my hand,’ she admitted.

  Swan took the bloody dagger out of her hand as softly as he could manage. The man at her feet was no bravo – he was one of Foscari’s friends. Swan recognised him from the Contarini party. He had on a pair of the pearl-decorated hose.

  ‘What do I do now?’ the signora asked Swan.

  ‘Take his purse?’ Swan said with a smile. He turned and slipped through the door. Corner was well down the portego shouting at his wife. Swan pushed open the door to the great man’s office. There were papers on the desk. Swan glanced at them – accounts. Food. Straw. Wine. He took them, shoved them into the front of his doublet – paused, and took the cameo from its bracket and ran for the steps.

  At the back gate he met Di Bracchio. ‘I fear for the women,’ Swan said.

  Di Bracchio paused and scratched his chin. ‘I’ll see to it,’ he said.

  Everything took too much time. They needed oarsmen – three were dead. It took time to collect them. It took time to get the men-at-arms back out of the palazzo and to prevent the crossbowmen from looting. Loredan ordered them to empty their pockets. Swan stood behind him and mimed dropping things into his purse.

  An oarsman laughed.

  ‘I can’t see them any more,’ Di Bracchio said.

  Swan handed him the sheaf of papers from the desk. ‘I assume he’s going to the inns,’ he said. ‘That’s where his little army is.’

  They piled aboard the river galley and the oarsmen beat the water to a froth getting them up to speed. The light boat raced across the Grand Canal but it was too big to turn or use a side canal.

  But Loredan knew his city intimately and so did Di Bracchio. They had a whispered conference – allies now – and agreed.

  ‘We must take Foscari,’ Loredan said. ‘If he escapes, it is all for nothing.’

  Swan shrugged. ‘We have Corner and Malatesta’s son,’ he said. ‘I suspect the plot can be frustrated now.’

  Loredan shook his head. ‘These men are playing for big stakes. They’ll sacrifice a few pawns.’

  Swan didn’t think Malatesta would actually sacrifice his son, but he didn’t want to bet his life on it. The boy was in the stern, sandwiched between Don Juan and Stone Barn and trying very hard to be brave. Swan balanced on the catwalk and went aft to the boy and knelt by him. Only then did he see that Signora Sophia’s dagger – or the boy’s sword, or both – had cut the palm of his left hand deeply.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ the boy asked bravely. ‘My father will avenge me.’

  Swan bowed his head. ‘My lord, we are protecting you. You will be safe with us.’

  ‘Where am I being taken? Where are my people?’ the boy asked. His control of his voice was very good. It scarcely trembled.

  The small boat rocked and Di Bracchio knelt by Swan. ‘To my father’s house, the Ca’ Bembo,’ he said. ‘Your governess is on her way with your servants.’ He gave Swan a wink.

  Swan wished he was not so transparent.

  ‘Ah!’ the boy said. He all but collapsed in relief. ‘You are not going to … kill me?’ he asked carefully.

  Swan shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.

  Past the Rialto there were shouted cries from the watch. They landed below St Mark’s and once more the soldiers formed on the embankment. Loredan had a wound – a minor one, on his arm – he rubbed it. ‘I wish I was in armour,’ he said.

  Swan did as well.

  They came up on the Turk’s Head, a pilgrim’s inn, from behind. It had a central cortile, three surrounding wings and a wall against the main street. It was the first place on the list in the letters, and Swan knew that Di Vecchio stayed there because he’d seen the man emerge from the yard. They worked as stealthily as they could through the alleys along narrow canals – the cale – to get to the inn’s gate. It was bolted, but there were sounds from within.

  Kendal came out of the darkness. ‘How is she?’ he asked, which raised him in Swan’s estimation.

  ‘She has a cut on her head, but she’s fine,’ Swan said. ‘She played her part beautifully.’

  ‘Wish I could say the same here. They got the alarm half an hour ago. And men have been coming in – ten or maybe twenty.’ He shook his head. ‘Miserable night for archery, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Do what you can,’ Swan said. ‘So they’re warned?’

  Kendal nodded.

  ‘Did a man arrive a few minutes ago?’ Swan asked. ‘We missed Foscari at the Ca’ Corner.’

  ‘I don’t know him,’ Kendal said with a shrug. ‘Like I said, men have been coming in all night.’

  Swan looked at Loredan and Di Bracchio.

  Loredan chewed his lower lip, his equanimity shattered. ‘Now what do I do?’ he asked the night. And Di Bracchio.

  ‘If we storm the inn and miss Foscari,’ Alessandro said in his old, capitano voice, ‘we’ve still gutted the conspiracy. Foscari can’t seize the Senate with five men and a boat. If we wait too long …’ He shrugged. ‘Have you got more men hidden?’

  Loredan looked desperate. ‘I have tried to keep this … secret,’ he said. ‘It affects the markets, and public trust. We work in secret.’

  Di Bracchio shook his head. ‘I have a different love of Venice to yours, Loredan. I say – ring the bells. Call out the Milice. Bury the conspirators in loyal Venetians. Fight them in secret and what you tell me is that you don’t actually trust the citizenry to control their own destiny.’

  Loredan shrugged. ‘I don’t.’

  Di Bracchio spat. ‘I thought I was the jaded cynic.’

  Loredan shrugged. ‘But you are right. We must attack. And …’ He looked at Swan. ‘Ring the bells. It is true – in the light, the people will crush the conspiracy.’ He looked at Di Bracchio. ‘Too much of that sort of
thing and they might see themselves as powerful.’

  Di Bracchio laughed. ‘No – I’m sure the Ten have ways of making sure that the citizens never become a threat to public order,’ he said.

  His sarcasm was lost on Loredan. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Clemente came out of the darkness with Swan’s breast- and backplate, a dry cloak, steel gauntlets and a steel skullcap – it turned out to belong to one of the archers. The bent boy helped Swan into his cuirass and then produced a leather flagon of hot cider. ‘Master Petr says he and Bigelow are on the second floor of the warehouse there,’ he said. ‘He says they can open the shutters and loose arrows whenever they can see a target. All you have to do is give the word.’ Clemente clearly relished his role. ‘He also says men are arming in the courtyard. He can shoot them like rats in a trap.’

  Loredan and Di Bracchio looked enviously at Swan’s partial armouring. Swan passed on Petr’s message.

  Loredan smiled. ‘Come, that evens things a little,’ he said. ‘You are well served, Ser Suane. Perhaps with your Englishmen we can goad these traitors into a mistake. Have them begin shooting.’

  Swan bit his lip. Lofting war arrows into a crowded inn yard – crowded with men who had never actually harmed him.

  But Alessandro said, ‘Do it. Then they have to break out. Let us cover the street. Send a handful to the alley out back and the thing is done. The archers change everything.’

  Still Swan hesitated.

  ‘You are curiously soft, Ser Suane,’ Loredan said.

  Swan sighed. ‘Clemente, tell Petr to start shooting. And then run to the church and have them sound the alarm.’

  Loredan looked as if he might protest. Alessandro gave Swan a solid nod of approval.

  Clemente scampered off, running almost sideways with his twisted back.

  A hundred heartbeats pounded away inside Swan’s breastplate. He was pleased – even puzzled – to find them strong and regular. He got his gauntlets on and flexed his fingers. Drew his sword.

  Even in the pitch darkness, with no illumination from the torches held by a couple of Loredan’s soldiers, he could see that his blade had a deep nick.

  The first of Petr’s arrows flew. Swan didn’t see it, but it made a distinctive sound between that of a bee’s humming flight and a cat’s growl.

  Immediately they could hear the sound of a wounded man on the other side of the inn gate, and shouts raised.

  Swan counted six arrows before the sounds from the inn’s cortile were too loud for him to follow the shooting.

  Loredan banged on the gate with his fist. ‘Open in the name of the Senate!’ he bellowed.

  As if at his command, the bells of St Nicolas began to ring. They pealed the alarm – in the time it took an old priest to mutter a paternoster, every bell between St Mark’s and the Rialto was ringing.

  But by then, everything had changed. The men in the yard had had enough of arrows. And they had understood quickly the threat, its nature and their predicament.

  Before Loredan could step way, the gates to the inn yard opened and spewed forth an army.

  ‘Jesus, saviour of all mankind,’ muttered Di Bracchio. He had his sword in his hand.

  Swan looked at Ser Columbino, and ran to Loredan, who was standing his ground, unarmoured, against thirty men in full harness and another thirty in less armour. The inn yard was well lit – there were lanterns and twenty torches burning and a shocking number of men lying on the rain-slick horse shit with yard-long quarter-pounder shafts in them.

  Swan took it all in with a glance, drew his dagger left-handed, and then he was fighting for his life.

  His very first opponent was fully armoured. He had a poleaxe and he thrust with it. Swan was running forward – he stopped, stumbled, and made a desperate, unplanned slash at the haft of the poleaxe. His one-handed cut drove the weapon down past his outstretched right leg. Swan let his momentum carry him forward and turned his sword. His opponent, wearing a fortune in plate harness, had left his visor open in order to be able to see something – anything – in the near-darkness, and the man was backlit by the yard torches.

  Swan’s pommel took the man just above the chin, breaking teeth. Swan’s whole pommel went into the man’s mouth. Swan had no time for mercy – he shifted to the left and used the pommel to turn the man’s whole head and break his neck, all but tearing the cheek off the man’s head and driving him to the ground. His dagger flashed out and down – through an eye.

  Swan raised both sword and dagger because he felt naked and took a blow on the sword. It snapped at the notch. Swan rose, dropped his sword hilt and grappled, thrusting his right arm deep into the keyhole made by his second adversary’s bent arm. He grabbed his dagger blade with his right hand and slammed the man-at-arms into the cobbles head first, but the flange on his opponent’s elbow armour ripped a gouge in his bicep like a sword wound and the injured man kicked – in pain or with intent – and his armoured foot caught Swan’s unarmoured leg and the pain was intense. Swan went down on one knee.

  Loredan was stretched on the cobbles, and Di Bracchio, of all people, was standing over him with two swords, one in each hand.

  Swan pushed himself to his feet on fear and desperation, backed up a step, and got a hand on the poleaxe that his first man had carried. He tugged at it, even as the second man, his shoulder ruined, got his dagger out. The man was roaring – a battle cry, a cry of pain – it was all one. The dagger came clear of its fleshy scabbard and the man powered to his feet.

  Swan got the steel head of the poleaxe clear of the dead man. The head was shaped like a human hand holding a rondel dagger. It was very light.

  Swan cocked it all the way back behind him and swung like a boy chopping wood.

  The wounded man-at-arms probably never saw the blow. He took it on his helmet, the axe’s spike bit deep, and the man went down as if his strings had been cut.

  Alessandro was still fighting. Closer to hand, Ser Columbino and Ser Zane, the Stone Barn, were almost back to back against multiple opponents, all in armour. Swan was cautious now – he had two painful wounds. He flicked the head of his weapon forward, almost invisible in the dark, hooked a man’s ankle – and pulled. The man went down and Swan hit his helmet several times.

  And then – no transition – he was beside Ser Columbino, behind Alessandro. He thrust his poleaxe like a spear against eyes and noses, and then he reached down and slammed the head into men’s ankles and knees – few of his blows were parried because it was so hard to see. Most of his opponents had closed their visors, and they were virtually blind in the rain and the darkness.

  Alessandro went down. It was sudden – Swan slammed his weapon into a man’s armoured knees, dragged it back, and Alessandro fell. Swan was in a low guard and he had no choice but to attack – he couldn’t wait for the armoured man to strike. Swan slammed the weapon up from Dente di cinghiare, point down on the left side, and got the spike into his enemy’s hands. The man bellowed and dropped his sword. Swan swept the weapon up in the same tempo and came down, fendente, as hard as he could. But he too was hampered by darkness and his blow rang off his opponent’s shoulder armour—only the haft had hit as he misjudged the measure in the darkness.

  He stumbled back a step and swung again, a rising thrust to the armpit. He struck, but not with enough force to penetrate the man’s mail.

  But from behind Swan, a spear licked out and caught the stumbling man-at-arms in the groin. He went down, clutching his balls. One of the Arsenali leapt on him and wrestled his sallet up, choking the man on his own chinstrap until a second oarsman cut his throat.

  Swan caught only a moment of that. He simply couldn’t fight any more. He stood leaning on the sticky haft of the poleaxe and heaved air in and out of his lungs despite the carnage a few feet away. He knelt quickly, praying for Di Bracchio.

  He couldn’t tell – not in the dark. There was blood on the ground under his friend.

  All the alarms in the quarter were ringing. Even across t
he Grand Canal there was ringing. And Swan thought the enemy’s numbers were thinning.

  There was a thick rope of Arsenali formed in front of the inn gate, spears lowered. The Malatesta men-at-arms were not fanatics. They backed away, leaving eight armoured men and half a dozen unarmoured men lying on the cobbles. There were ten or more already down with arrows in them, and even as Swan watched another Malatesta man-at-arms fell.

  Swan saw a thin figure run into the stables even as Di Vecchio, his armet closed as if for a joust, raised his sword. ‘Terms!’ he yelled.

  Loredan was unconscious or dead. Di Bracchio was the same. Swan looked around for an authority. All the Arsenali were looking at him.

  He managed to get to his feet. An arrow struck one of the Malatesta squires. It hit his backplate and failed to penetrate, but it knocked the boy off his feet.

  ‘Hold your arrows!’ Swan shouted. He stepped forward. ‘Throw down your arms. Yield and your lives will be spared – unless you are a citizen of Venice.’

  One of the unarmoured men – a rich boy in splendid hose and carrying a sword hilted in gold – roared his defiance. ‘They’ll just kill us all! Let’s fight!’

  Swan stood – alone – in front of a growing phalanx of commoners with spears. Venetian commoners were a tough lot – most of them had served against the Turks, and some had made repeated voyages of piracy or merchanting or both together. At even odds they would have quailed before fully armoured fighters, but with odds of four to one and the steady support of the English arrows, there could be just one result.

  Swan didn’t much like being the voice of authority. But he did it anyway. ‘Throw down your weapons,’ he said. ‘Or die right now. I promise you nothing but that you will live to have a trial – and the Malatesta men will be prisoners of war.’

  ‘Let’s charge them!’ said the boy with the golden sword.

  Many voices were raised. Swan shook his head. ‘This is no truce.’ Like Jove in an ancient painting, Swan pointed at the young man who kept speaking. ‘Shoot, Petr!’ he called.

  Peter’s arrow struck the boy almost instantly, as if it had emerged from Swan’s finger. The young man fell back into the ranks of the Malatesti, already dead.