by David Blixt
“On the road, your highness,” replied Lord William Montagu, the king's friend. “He's chased Lancaster out of Winchester, and is returning.”
Edward III, King of England, grew momentarily still. “He did not catch Lancaster then?”
Montagu shook his head. “The Earl had a lucky escape.”
“Lucky for whom?” asked the king. Lancaster was a danger, true. More dangerous was what would happen once he was dead.
In the interval, the king's tapping foot providing the only sound, Montagu reflected that it had been a year for narrow escapes. In August, as he tried to drive the Scots from his land, Edward himself had almost been captured by the Douglas. Returning from that humiliation, the king had then barely escaped falling into the power of his father's second cousin, the warlike Earl of Lancaster.
Escape, however, did not bring freedom. Just two weeks past his sixteenth birthday, the king remained under the sway of Roger Mortimer. Newly-made the Earl of March, all knew that Mortimer was the lover of the King's mother, Isabella of France.
Mortimer had spearheaded the invasion two years ago, championing his lover's son as rightful ruler of England in place of that degenerate cuckold Edward II. Victorious, Mortimer discovered a taste for power, for riches, for rule. He was opposed by many, the most recent being the Earl of Lancaster, who sought to capture his royal cousin and use him to rule in Mortimer's place.
Mortimer and Lancaster were like lions fighting over their prey. Having spent most of his twenty-seven years at court, Montagu knew the young king was not one to enjoy being thought of as prey. He bridled at his situation, and had hoped the Scottish campaign would earn him a measure of autonomy. Sadly, the reverse was true. He was now more dependent upon Mortimer than ever.
Edward resented his mother's paramour, of that Montagu was sure. That he was obedient to Mortimer's wishes was equally certain. Montagu wished he understood why.
Pent-up energy propelled the king from his chair. “Stuck here all winter! We should have gone abroad.”
Seated across the room, the king's younger brother grinned. “I told you,” said Prince John. “We should have gone to Crécy.”
Edward shook his head. “If I go to France, it will have to be with either gold or an army. Cousin Philippe is demanding tribute.”
“An army, then.” John was twelve years old.
“What army?” growled Edward. “Our soldiers are too busy fighting each other. They can't even hold Scotland…!”
Here was the root of the king's ill-humour. While his growth was stunted under other men's shears, the rights his grandfather had squeezed from Scotland were all lost through the so-called Peace of Northampton, the result of his own failure. His French lands were threatened too, and there was nothing to be done. Not until the day when he was free to wield the power he held now only in name.
The king paced, biting back the worst of his thoughts, lest an incautious word be reported to Mortimer. They all knew the servants were feed by the Earl of March.
Montagu yawned, and the king said, “Do we bore you, Lord William?”
“No, your grace. I was kept awake last night by my son's bawling.” In June, William's wife had given birth to a lusty boy with lungs of iron.
Edward winced. Married less than a year, he was deeply in love with his wife, whom he considered a confidant and friend of his soul. Yet of late he had abstained the royal marriage bed. If Philippa should produce an heir, the succession would be secure, and the Earl of March would not need then a king growing into manhood. An unworthy suspicion, perhaps. But best not tempt a man who had already deposed one king.
Seeing his sovereign's expression, Montagu had an inspiration. “If your highness is unwell, perhaps we should send to the Italian for a cure.”
Edward's laugh was dark. “And what should Pancio do to cure a man sick at heart?” Pancio de Controne was the king's personal physician, a native of the city of Lucca who had studied medicine at the University of Bologna.
“Tell you tales from Italy, of course. He still has many correspondents there. I know he is friendly with a doctor I met in Verona during my visit two years ago.”
Distracted by his own troubles, the king was heedless. There had to be some way to make his meaning heard. Snapping his fingers, Montagu said, “What is the date?”
Prince John replied, “Four days until the Feast of Saint Andrew.”
“Ah!” cried Montagu. “The heirs of Verona wed tomorrow!”
Edward paused in his pacing. “Each other?”
The king's little brother chortled as Montagu pressed doggedly on. “Forgive me, your highness, no. The two male cousins are each to marry young women from outside Verona.”
“How old is the Heir?”
“Fourteen or so.”
“A year for young bridegrooms,” observed the king. “I wish him as happy a match as mine.”
“It should be a happy time,” said Montagu. “Like your highness, they are celebrating a peace. I've told you of Verona's daring lord. He has won his rights in the region. As I understand, only one city holds out against his authority.”
The king jaw clenched with outrage, and only too late did Montagu realize his words were salt in the Scottish wound. Quickly he pressed on. “When your Grace gave me permission to joust there, I found Italy a most friendly land. Verona, especially. And they now have little need of their fine mercenary army.”
It was as far as he could go. Was it far enough?
The king's eyes sharpened for a scant moment before glazing with feigned boredom. “I would like to see an Italian of the mold you describe. I've never met one yet worth a groat. Or a goat.”
“Your highness, shall I buy you one?”
“A goat?” asked John with a grin.
Smacking his brother's head playfully, Edward said, “I have no need of goats, Sir John. William meant an Italian. Do, Lord Montagu, by all means. Find me an Italian to lighten my spirits. If you find one that is not too dear, perhaps we can make him dance.”
A question asked, a question answered. Now, whom to send? Who could be trusted, and was yet expendable? Montagu felt a small shame when the name came to him.
That name was Montagu.
♦ ◊ ♦
Bellamonte, Italy
TAIL BETWEEN HIS LEGS, Don Pedro, Prince of Aragon, tried not to gallop from the palace of the orphaned heiress. Never had he been so humiliated. He imagined the beautiful, cruel woman laughing at him, though she had not laughed to his face. Her cousin Nerissa had, though, and he'd heard their voices raised in the tiled chamber as he fled, dignity in tatters.
Still clutched in his hand was a mocking device, the source of his humiliation. A small head on a stick, painted as a fool, a jester, dripping with bells and ribbons. From inside its head came the rattle of a single stone knocking about as proof of the cavernous emptiness it contained.
The only warm spot for him was the obvious sympathy conveyed by the lady's servant. Young Balthasar had not been bold enough to speak, but his eyes were free of contempt or, worse, pity. They had said, You're well out of it, my lord.
But Pedro was not out of it. Against his better judgment he had taken a vow, one he had thought nothing of at the time, since he had not conceived he would fail. Hubris. A meaningless word, until applied.
The vow was in three parts. For the first, never to reveal the details of his failure, he was happy – nay, eager – to comply. Second, to depart at once and never trouble the woman more – well, Pedro was perfectly willing never to set eyes on the lady again in this life.
It was the last part of the oath that troubled him. His father would never have allowed him to swear it, for Pedro had just blunted his line. No more sons for the house of Aragon. Legitimate sons, Pedro corrected himself. There is always Juan. He swore no vow. He was always cleverer than I.
After a considerable time sulking on the road, Pedro had enough sense to order them to find a place for the night. He had not told his steward anything save
that he had guessed wrong. The crimson in his cheek instructed Maurizio not to speak further. “Very good, my lord. And, so that I might prepare our train, where shall we be heading in the morning?”
After today, Pedro did not want to think of facing anyone. But he had to go somewhere. At last he found an answer. “Verona. We shall arrive too late for the wedding, but I should like to meet this young prince.” Don Pedro hoped this young bridegroom proved wiser than he. Even in the crimson surge of his humiliation, there was not a mean bone in Don Pedro's body. True, privilege had made him arrogant, this Prince of Aragon. Chastened, he would strive now to amend his faults and live a better life in the future.
Verona promised another enticement. I should also like to speak again to this astrologer my father sets so much store by. If my future is not here, then I should like to know where it lies, and what my foolish vow means. He glanced down at the grinning rattle in his hand. For I am a fool. By my own doing, no one else's. I made a fool of myself.
There was some comfort in that, at least. If the foolishness was his, then it was within his power to mend. It would be worse if he were powerless, unable to remove the taint of the fool from his person. But he alone was in control of his destiny, and it was time to grow up. No more cut doublets and pearled hose. Practicality, that was the key. Be practical, preserve what honour he'd retained. He could no longer be above anything, not even the most menial task…
Recalling, he realized there was something he could do, a small deed, one that just yesterday he found degrading. “We shall stop at Pisa along the way and retrieve Señor Leonato's niece. And from there, on to Verona to congratulate the Greyhound and his heir.”
♦ ◊ ♦
Aden, Yemen
ABU ‘ABD ALLAH Muḥammad ibn ‘Abd Allāh al-Lawātī al-Ţanjī ibn Baṭūṭah, known to his few Latin acquaintances simply as Ibn Battuta, paused in his writing to gaze west. The setting sun sparkled across the water, casting long shadows on the land beyond.
Travel invigorated Ibn Battuta. Already he had twice completed the hajj, journeying from Alexandria to Cairo, then up the Nile to Aydhab, only to be turned back and forced to reach Mecca through Damascus and Medina. But that was not nearly enough. Bitten with wanderlust, he had gone on to Shiraz and Bagdad before returning to Mecca to study for almost a year.
Now he was off again, exploring the area around the Red Sea, first on the dangerous waters, then overland to Taiz and now Aden. His lone regret, occasional yet striking, was lacking the right companion with whom to share this adventure. Not a woman – there were always women. Rather, a friend, a kindred spirit, someone as interested in the heated baths of Bagdad as in the stars of a desert sky.
Thought of the stars brought one man to mind. The tutor, whom he had not seen but once in the last fifteen years, yet with whom he still corresponded when so many friends had fallen away. Ibn Battuta considered himself blessed to have been able to study at the knee of such a wise man even for that one year. It was precious in life to find a teacher like Tharwat al-Dhaamin.
Three years ago, al-Dhaamin had been Battuta's choice for a companion. That letter had gone astray, taking nearly a year to find his mentor. Al-Dhaamin's reply found Battuta already in Medina, and spoke regretfully of obligations of iron.
Ibn Battuta continued to write, cajoling the elder man with all the wondrous sights of the East. Tharwat did not reply for a long time, and when he did he wrote of injuries. Severe ones, if mentioned at all by one so reticent.
Indeed, the only subject al-Dhaamin waxed eloquently upon was his latest pupil, the young Prince of Verona. Nothing would please the old astrologer more than that his two disciples should meet and share their knowledge. But al-Dhaamin worried it might be too soon for such a meeting:
His mind is ready, but his spirit is not. He is in a temper, and must be tempered by the hammer of age before his steel is cooled. If that day comes, if I am still alive, if he is free, I shall bring him. We sail on a sea of uncertainty.
So eloquent in writing. Yet Battuta could not help imagining each word being conjured through that scarred and mistreated throat. He had yet to hear the tale of those scars, and worried he never would.
Dipping the quill in ink, Ibn Battuta set it to the paper:
I am troubled to hear of your infirmities. You are kind to remind me of my good fortune, for good health is truly a crown worn by the healthy that only the ill can see.
As for your charge, the little prince who is almost a man, I say from this city, built in a volcano's shell, be careful of striking cold iron. A carpenter's door is loose. Do not be so free with your wisdom that there is none left for your worthy self.
Still, if that day comes, if he is free, bring him to me, and I shall teach him how I ride the wind.
With that, Ibn Battuta washed the ink from his fingers and offered the packet of letters to the next ship sailing westwards. There was no telling when it would arrive. But at least the astrologer could now easily be found. His stars had placed him in Verona.
♦ ◊ ♦
Verona, Italy
THE NOISE WAS ANNIHILATING. Berthold von Neifen, Count of Marstetten, Imperial Vicar of Italy, trusted right-hand to His Grace Ludwig, King of Germany, King of Italy, King of the Romans, and Holy Roman Emperor, closed the shutters, hoping to shutter the sound as well.
Prince Rupert was out there somewhere, carousing and cavorting with the bridegrooms and the rest of the nobility. But Berthold wanted sleep. It would be an early morning, and while the intemperate Rupert was the emperor's nephew, it was the Count of Marstetten who stood as official imperial representative. For the second time in ten years, Berthold held the title of Imperial Vicar to this rich, and richly contested, country.
It was a duty Berthold both enjoyed and loathed. He liked Italy, but not Italians. He found them too susceptible to types. Heartless Florentines. Loud and lusty Romans. Those noble inebriates, the Venetians. Big-hearted but sly Napolitani. Puffed-up Milanese. Skinflint Genoese. Stuffy Padovani. Hedonistic Bolognese. Unintelligible Bergamaschi. Every one of them ready and wrap you in their arms and, smiling, leave a knife in your back.
The country had so much promise – land, climate, sea, all full of prosperity. Prosperity led to achievement, both materially and philosophically. So much of the world's culture had begun here.
Yet that culture had fled. The Holy Roman throne was now in Germany, while the papacy was in Avignon. So busy squabbling over minutiae, these Italians could not hold on to what was their own. Woe betide the world if there ever came another Aeneas, another Romulus, another Caesar, to pull them together and unite them once more.
Which is why Verona gave the Emperor such unease. Other cities focused on excelling in one or two fields – war, trade, banking, religion, art. Verona threatened to exceed its neighbors in all. Tomorrow it would take another stride towards ultimate excellence. After that, it was not a question of if Italy would challenge the Empire, but when. The Greyhound's ambition swelled so large, it stretched the sides of the world.
Despite the loss of an eye, the Count of Marstetten saw the world clearly. At thirty-eight years he was able to hold two opposing thoughts without qualm. In his heart, he quite liked the Heir of Verona, if not his sire. In his mind, he saw the danger in them both. If Rupert did not succeed, if this prince was not brought under the imperial yoke, there was only one alternative.
While it would pain Berthold to cause young Franz's destruction, pain would not stay his hand.
♦ ◊ ♦
Avignon, France
“VERONA SHOWS POTENTIAL.”
Cardinal Napoleone Orsini nearly choked on his bread. His host quickly offered water to wash it down. When he could speak, Orsini merely repeated the city's name, his tone conveying incredulity.
“You've had letters, I trust. Tomorrow is the wedding. The Greyhound makes peace, not war. The Holy Father approves such Christian acts, yes?”
“His approval is tempered by the fact that Verona is thick with
the Bavarian. Those runagates Occam and Bonagratia were welcomed by the Scaliger. And helped by your friend Alaghieri,” added the Cardinal with heavy warning.
Francesco Petrarca ran a finger around the lip of his goblet. “Ser Pietro befriended them while he was here. No one can fault him for friendship.”
“So long as that ship doesn't founder. Alaghieri helped introduce them to the Emperor. He and his master are lucky not to find themselves excommunicated once more.” His words firm, Orsini's tone conveyed that in this case his sympathies were not entirely aligned with Avignon's.
Not that they had ever been. Worse than rooting the Church in a foreign land, this pope had changed the very nature of the papacy, changed it in ways Orsini could barely stomach. Besides, the cardinal liked Pietro Alaghieri very much.
Petrarch continued to trace the circle of his cup. “Still, I think you should suggest the Holy Father reach out to the Greyhound again.”
“Whyever would he do that?”
“Because Pietro writes that the Scaliger and the Emperor are like two stags in a forest. The elder may have more bulk, but the young one is eager, and has more points on his rack. The Pope might be interested in taming the younger one. After all, which would the Scaliger prefer, an overlord close at hand, or one far away in Avignon?”
“That sounds rather too fanciful for Pietro.”
Petrarch bowed his head. “I may have added the colour of simile.”
“I had a feeling.” Orsini began to warm to the idea. There were obvious papal benefits in driving a wedge between Verona and Emperor Ludwig. Obvious, too, the accolades that would fall on Orsini should he suggest it and be proven correct.
Less obvious was why Petrarch was making the suggestion. Helping Verona would benefit his former client, Ser Alaghieri of Florence. Who, it was said, had topped Petrarca's sister and left her with child. Yet here was the girl's brother, acting in Alaghieri's interest. Far from aggrieved, it seemed almost as if he owed something to the Italian knight.