Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part One: Castillon (6 page)

They rode down to the column carefully, Swan with the crossbowman across his saddle. The count rode out to meet them.

‘Who . . . what do you have there?’ He looked angry. ‘Another of the lice?’

Alessandro was riding towards them, his galloping horse throwing up dust. Swan wondered why he was in such a hurry.

Two of the count’s archers had the unconscious man.

Giannis bowed. ‘My lord, he shot at us with his weapon, and my young friend here was too foolish to let him get away.’

The count glanced at Swan, and Swan didn’t like his look.

Alessandro arrived. ‘Is that a prisoner?’ he asked.

Giannis nodded. ‘Yes, boss.’

The count shrugged. ‘I’ll hang him. I have the right.’

‘Let me question him first,’ Alessandro said. ‘My lord count?’

‘Why?’ asked the count. ‘Scum like this will say anything. Best rid the world of him and send him to hell.’ He made a motion with his hand, and one of the archers drew a knife.

‘I would very much like to question him, my lord—’ Alessandro said, but the man was beyond questioning.

Alessandro glared at the French knight. ‘I thought you intended to hang him?’

Swan gave his horse a little knee and turned in between the knight and the Italian man-at-arms. ‘Messires, I feel I should be back at my duty. Do you have any further orders?’

The count shook his head.

Swan rode away, all but towing Alessandro. The Italian was angry.

‘He did that on purpose,’ he said.

Swan shrugged. When they were out of sight of the count, he handed over the pilgrim badge.

Alessandro let out a sigh of pure frustration. ‘When I saw it, I thought it might be a livery badge,’ he said.

‘I don’t think of brigands as the kind of men who go on pilgrimages,’ Swan said.

Giannis handed his boss the crossbow. ‘A fine weapon,’ he said. ‘Well kept.’

Swan looked down at the column, just coming into sight below them as they climbed. ‘Does the cardinal have . . . an enemy?’

‘In Rome? Yes. Here?’ Alessandro shook his head.

Giannis looked at his
capitano
. ‘But he has valuable things with him.’

Swan reined in. ‘You have years of experience. But if it was up to me, I’d guess that the count means the cardinal harm.’ He looked down the column. ‘Or one of these other gentlemen.’

Alessandro nodded. ‘An interesting thought. One, perhaps, you should not share.’ Alessandro looked at Giannis, who shrugged expressively, despite his breast and backplate. He managed to convey, in a single shrug, that he was interested in the subject, but would not discuss it.

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident, and Swan was tired and covered in dust when he returned to the convoy at sunset. They were rolling into the courtyard of an inn.

Peter took his horse, wincing as he reached up for the bridle.

‘You should take more time,’ Swan said.

Peter wagged his head back and forth. ‘I’m bored. Pain is pain. Listen – master – I opened the purses.’

Swan looked around. He wasn’t comfortable discussing it.

‘Well – there’s a charge for straw and another for wash water. I thought as—’ The Fleming raised an eyebrow.

‘Tell me,’ said Swan.

‘I won’t say as we’re rich. But if you kill one bandit a day and take his purse, we’ll be able to keep eating.’ Peter shrugged.

Swan winced. He reached into his shirt and came up with the silver ecu.

Peter took it and bit it. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘You have some useful skills, for a gentleman.’ Peter said ‘ooseful skils’. Otherwise, his English was near perfect.

Swan dismounted and curried the horse with Peter. While they were working, Giannis came out and got to work on his own horse.

‘Giannis, this is my man, Peter,’ Swan said.

Giannis grinned. ‘Sure,’ he said.

When the horses were curried and fed, Giannis unrolled his cloak. ‘I want to keep the crossbow,’ he said. He handed Swan a dark red leather belt with a red leather purse. It had nice buckles and a pair of cast decorations to weight the rain cover. It wasn’t fine like a nobleman’s purse, but it was good work. It also had a good, heavy knife – German work – with an eating knife and a pricker in the scabbard.

‘There’s his belt,’ Giannis said. ‘That’s a fine knife – I throw in the purse, as’ – he smiled his gap-toothed smile – ‘as you don’t seem to have a purse.’

Swan looked at Peter. Peter walked over and lifted the crossbow.

‘That’s a nice piece,’ he said. The goat’s-foot lever was built into the stock. He ratcheted it back with an effort and a grunt of pain. ‘That cost—’ He looked at Swan. ‘Who was this man? That’s a fine knife. The crossbow and the knife are both Low German. I know the maker’s mark on that knife. He sells in Antwerp. It’s not the gear a brigand would have.’

‘He might if he just killed someone for it,’ Swan said.

‘You haf never been a brigand, haf you?’ Peter said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Swan translated into Italian for Giannis.

Giannis nodded. ‘He’s no fool, this man of yours,’ he said.

‘He owes you on this deal, even with the knife,’ Peter said.

Swan turned on Giannis. ‘My man says you’re trying to cheat me,’ he said.

Giannis shrugged. ‘Cheat is a harsh word,’ he said, smiling. ‘You are a rich boy. I am a poor man-at-arms. What will you do with the crossbow – hunt killer sparrows?’ He shrugged. ‘Listen – you did the work. I admit it. But I can’t afford even half this machine. I just want it.’

Swan looked at Peter. ‘He wants it. He admits it’s worth more.’

‘Get him to buy our wine tonight and call it a deal,’ Peter said.

‘Listen,’ Swan said to Giannis. ‘I’m as poor as a slave right now. Buy our wine tonight at dinner, and I’ll take the dagger and purse and we’re even.’

Giannis offered his hand and they shook.

In the common room of the tavern, Swan sat on a trestle with his back against Peter’s and worked on the belt. The lawyers came in and waved, and he waved back, but they were forced by the flow of patrons to sit near the fire.

He had to ask around to get a needle, heavy thread, some resin and some wax – but as he expected, a tavern was the place to buy all these small necessities, and for the first time in his life, he had cash, and a purse in which to put it. He tried not to keep drawing the heavy hunting knife and fondling it, but in truth, it was the finest thing he’d ever owned.

Killing people and taking their goods was looking better and better.

Alessandro came and stood over him while he cut off part of the belt, stripped its tip of some white metal and used the anvil in the barn to reset the rivets. Then he resewed the edge of the belt. Alessandro spent most of the time talking to Giannis, but when Swan returned from the barn a second time, he turned.

‘You seem to know your way around a needle,’ he said.

Swan shrugged. ‘My master-at-arms said a gentleman who couldn’t sew was going to be very unhappy on campaign. When I was a royal page—’

Alessandro shook his head. ‘Don’t claim you were a royal page.’

Swan looked up. ‘Why not?’

‘Easy to prove or disprove in Paris. If true – you are worth more, yes? If false—’ He shook his head.

‘Ah,’ Swan said. He bit his thread. ‘Peter says he knows this knife maker,’ he said, and drew the knife and handed it to the Italian soldier, who took it by the hilt and tossed it in his hand.

‘From the assassin, yes?’ he asked.

Swan nodded.

‘Hmm,’ Alessandro grunted. He hefted it. It was as long as a man’s forearm, elbow to the tips of his fingers, with a thumb-rest that doubled as a guard. Alessandro took out the bye knife—the small eating knife that rested in the scabbard. He nodded. ‘Nice work.’

‘Not as nice as the crossbow,’ Peter said.

Alessandro smiled out of the corner of his mouth.

The room was loud and growing louder, as the town’s four prostitutes had just come in, wearing red dresses and with flowers in their hair. They were particularly unappetising to Swan, but the rest of the men clapped and hooted.

Swan leaned closer to Alessandro. ‘I would like to propound a theory,’ he said.

The Venetian bit his lip, glanced around the room, and nodded. ‘Outside, I think.’

They didn’t exactly slip outside, as several men growled when they pushed by, but they made it into the stable yard. The merchant’s carts were lining the south wall, and the count’s carts lined the west wall.

‘Propound away, my young scapegrace,’ Alessandro said.

Swan glanced around. ‘You went to university, sir?’

Alessandro nodded. ‘Yes. Padova. With Messire Accudi, in fact.’

‘So you know that the very best kind of theory is that which can be tested?’ Swan asked.

Alessandro nodded. ‘Get on with it. You weary me with all this talk of school.’

Swan nodded. ‘The count is a fraud. He’s a brigand – a good actor, and possibly a genuine knight. He’s not after us – he’s after Merechault. We’ve become a nuisance by appearing with a dozen men-at-arms.’ They walked slowly along, arm in arm like two old friends.

‘Fascinating,’ Alessandro said. ‘And your proof?’

Swan stopped in front of one of the count’s wagons. Now that he knew the liveries, he knew that the count’s wagons were the three that were not marked. ‘If I take my knife and slit the tarpaulin, you’ll find nothing inside of any value,’ he said. ‘But here’s a lesser proof.’ He pointed at the merchant’s wagons. Two of the wagoners sat on the boxes, watching. ‘The count’s wagons are never guarded. Because all his men know there’s nothing in them.’

Alessandro grunted. He turned both of them back towards the inn. ‘It would help to explain something which has vexed me,’ he said.

Swan paused. ‘Yes?’

Alessandro shrugged. ‘I understand that there was a great deal of theft at the abbey. A priest lost his shirts. Other things went missing – Cesare said someone stole a rich monk’s riding gloves. The abbot tried to blame us, as foreigners. It made the cardinal angry.’

Swan set his face like stone.

‘I do not care – very much – what you might be. But if you are a thief – leave my boots and my sword and ride off into the night,’ said the Italian.

Swan took another step. ‘I’m no thief,’ he said. ‘I’m a gentleman and a soldier.’

‘Of course,’ Alessandro said. ‘Where
did
you get a pair of riding gloves?’

‘I found them in the road,’ Swan said. Their eyes met in the darkness and Swan didn’t flinch.

And in that moment, his plan crystallised.

After Alessandro went off, he had a brief conversation with the youngest of the prostitutes. He caught Alessandro watching him, and winked while he pressed money into the girl’s hand. ‘That much again when we’re done,’ he said.

After dinner, he played piquet with the lawyers for an hour. His luck was fair, and he ended the game a few silver sequins ahead of when he started. Most of the rest of the inn was in bed, and the men-at-arms had gone to the stables to sleep.

Swan walked out through the kitchen. There was one slattern watching the fire, a second washing cups, and a third providing personal services to one of the French merchant’s men – the whore he’d spoken to earlier. Swan walked past, and out through the kitchen door into the darkness of the yard.

The merchant’s wagons were unguarded. He walked all the way down the line of wagons and made himself walk all the way back to the kitchen.

He wasn’t challenged.

His heart beat like a drum in a dance, but he drew his new knife, stepped up to the last wagon in the row, and slit the tarpaulin across.

A quarter of an hour later, he met the whore in the portico of the church.

‘Why here?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘I do most of my fucking here,’ she said. ‘It’s dry.’

He handed her a whole silver ecu.

She laughed.

‘Now you run,’ he said. ‘If you are here to be found in the morning—’ He hardened his voice. ‘I’ll kill you. Myself.’

She laughed. ‘You ain’t the killing type, lad.’ She bit the coin. ‘I’m gone, now. I’ll find another town.’ She looked at him. ‘You’re a funny one, though. You didn’t steal anything.’

He grabbed her wrist.

‘Ouch! Listen! I was done fucking the archer and I watched you through the door. You moved things, but you didn’t take anything.’

He shrugged. He bent her arm back the way his uncles had taught him. ‘I can break your arm, and then cut your throat,’ he said.

He must have looked the part. She whimpered. He let go, and she ran.

He was careful. He went up and over the wall into the inn yard, waited until the wagon guard was looking elsewhere, and crept into the stable. His greatest fear was that Alessandro would be there waiting for him, but the
capitano
was not there. Swan got into his blankets.

Peter’s hand gripped his arm like a vice. He put his lips almost against Swan’s ear. Swan froze.

‘I owe you, but I won’t swing for you,’ he said.

Swan turned very slowly. He was so close that it made him uncomfortable. This was like whispering with a girl in the loft of his mother’s inn. His heart was hammering.

‘We won’t swing,’ he said.

Peter grunted.

Swan lay awake, trying to tell himself that his plan was foolproof, but now the whore and the Fleming could kill him, and he was still awake when the light showed through the roof and the cock crowed.

There was a scream and a roar of anger from the yard.

His heart beat double time, and he thought,
I’m an idiot
.

He’d just seen the flaw in his plan, and it was far too late to fix it.

Cardinal Bessarion listened to the angry remonstrances of the count and the endless gush of invective from the injured merchant for an hour. Eventually, he bowed to both men and left them, mounting his destrier and riding at the head of his own convoy, out of the inn yard and on to the road. He rode side by side with his captain for a mile.

Swan watched them from the middle of the convoy, where he rode with the lawyers, as the road was deemed safe enough without him. He managed a blank face – he made some Latin jokes that fell flat, and he tried to engage Giannis, who waved and rode away.