Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part One: Castillon Read online

  Cesare smiled in understanding. ‘Ah!’ he said. He looked at Swan. ‘Would you wash me a shirt?’ He looked embarrassed. ‘I’ll cover your wine.’

  ‘We poor men of letters have to stick together,’ Swan said. He wondered if it would sound better in Latin. ‘Pauperes homines de litteris opus haereat iuncto.’ He made a face. ‘Opus?’

  ‘Pauperes scriptores manere simul,’ Cesare said. ‘And I agree.’ He pulled off his doublet and his shirt and tossed Swan the shirt. Then he pulled on his doublet over his hairy chest.

  Swan looked at the crowd of dancing servants. ‘Do you know any of these people?’ he asked.

  Cesare smiled bitterly. ‘Not really. When you are a lawyer, you are not a gentleman and not a servant.’ He shrugged. ‘I know the men that serve L’Oustier, but not well enough to share a cup of wine. They’re most of them in the blue and red livery of the Paris guilds – eh? See?’

  Swan felt foolish. ‘I thought that they were soldiers.’

  ‘You must have a low opinion of soldiers. Marechault’s men are in blue and gold – his wagoners are hired men, so no livery. We travelled with them at the tail end of winter – again, I’ve seen them before, but I don’t know any of the wagon men.’

  Swan shrugged. His theory about the French knight was dashed. ‘I’ll see your shirt is clean,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be in your debt, English,’ Cesare said.

  Swan went back to the laundry. It was dark, except for a pair of rush lights going in the corner by the hearth.

  ‘Strip,’ said Tilda.

  ‘I have an extra shirt to wash,’ Swan said.

  Tilda shrugged. ‘A woman’s work is never done,’ she said.

  The whole laundry area was hung with linens – many of them religious. There were chasubles and surplices and altar clothes; shifts for nuns, long and coarse, and men’s shirts and braes.

  ‘Wouldn’t it dry faster outside?’ Swan asked. He’d stepped between the rows to strip.

  ‘Thieves,’ she said. ‘We hardly ever get thieves here. It does happen, mind,’ she said. She emerged in front of him, and pulled a shirt off the line and held it up to him. It was a fine lawn shirt with embroidered cuffs.

  ‘He’s a right bastard,’ she said. ‘And a bad priest. Pity thieves took both his shirts and his braes.’ She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

  He’d expected – or rather hoped – for something of the sort, but the moment of contact was . . . lovely. Very exciting.

  She vanished amidst the laundry.

  He followed her.

  ‘Unlace me? There’s a dear,’ she said. ‘The water in the smaller copper is clean, which is more than I can say of you. Wash. Jesus and the saints. Is that blood?’

  Swan poured warm water into a shallow bowl and used a coarse cloth – a dry, clean coarse cloth – to wash. His left arm had an enormous bruise and a long cut – even in the flickering rushlight, it looked bad.

  She got out of her kirtle and helped him wash the arm. ‘So you are a soldier,’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘My first battle was very nearly my last.’

  She kissed him. It went along nicely, and then she broke off and gave him some wine. Then, without shame, she pulled her shift over her head. ‘Might as well do my own while I’m about it,’ she said, and put all the linens in a larger copper.

  Swan was wakened by the first cock-crow. He was in no hurry to leave, nor was she in a hurry to be rid of him, but eventually he was dressed – clean, by God – and out the door, with a clean and ironed shirt over his arm. He walked back down the line of merchants’ wagons and again was not challenged. This time the courtyard was empty and his investigations were a little more thorough.

  He found Cesare asleep and snoring.

  Peter, too, seemed to be sleeping. The pewter cup was empty.

  He hung the shirt on a peg for horse harness over Cesare’s head, and went back out to the courtyard to look at the wagons.

  There were heavy tarpaulins treated with beeswax over every wagon. The wagons themselves were taller than a man, their sides heavily sloped outwards like fortress walls, their wheels as tall as a big man’s shoulders. Two were clearly living spaces – they had tall covers and doors.

  Swan had an apple from the kitchen, and he ate it while he looked them over.

  Then he went back into the stable, took his two new and very pretty shirts, and rolled them tightly. He put a piece of coarse sacking around them, tied the bundle tight, and put it into one of the cardinal’s carts.

  And went back to his apple.

  He had to eye the carts with a certain regret as they prepared to ride away. He was much cleaner, but rest, food and a bath only sharpened his annoyance at his poor clothes and ill-fitting soiled hose. He was lucky the notaries even treated him like one of them.

  On a lighter note, Peter was riding sitting up. He ate porridge at breakfast and smiled at everyone like a man with a new lease on life.

  Swan caught sight of Tilda in the yard. She came up boldly.

  ‘Not disowning me by light of day, messire?’ she asked.

  For an answer he leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. Giovanni whistled and Cesare clapped his hands. Swan frowned. ‘That’s how we say goodbye to friends in England,’ he said.

  Cesare rubbed his beard. ‘For the first time I want to visit England, then,’ he said. ‘Are you the lady to whom I owe this beautifully clean and ironed shirt which smells a little of lavender?’

  Tilda cast her eyes down and swayed back and forth like a girl. ‘You are too kind, sir,’ she said in French.

  The cardinal came out. He looked angry. He wasn’t wearing a red hat or a cassock – he looked like an athletic man of sixty in boots and a tight jacket. He spoke – at length – to the French knight. He didn’t like what he heard, and finally shook his head.

  When he was mounted, he rode down the convoy to where the notaries were.

  ‘I need a letter,’ he said. ‘In Latin. We’re going to be late to Paris and I have work to do.’

  Cesare bowed in the saddle, so Swan felt he should do the same.

  Giovanni reached into his wallet and took out a beautiful pair of wax tablets set in rosewood and a gold stylus. ‘At your service, Eminence.’

  ‘Polite opening. Addressed to the Bishop of Paris. English army defeated, countryside full of brigands, forced to travel slowly with armed escort, please send news from outside world. I’ll bring some wine. Two weeks at best. Flowery signature. Bessarion.’

  Giovanni nodded. Suddenly Swan saw that Cesare had also copied down the cardinal’s words.

  They looked at each other. ‘An hour at least, Eminence,’ said Cesare.

  Alessandro rode up to the cardinal’s shoulder. ‘Delay, Eminence?’

  ‘The count insists we travel with his convoy,’ he said. ‘The valleys ahead are full of brigands, or so he claims.’

  Swan thought it was worth trying his luck. ‘The convoy won’t be quick,’ he said. ‘I’m a passable sword. Leave me a weapon and I’ll escort these gentlemen when they’ve done your letter.’

  The cardinal looked at him, and for a moment Swan thought the Greek could read his mind. He had the oddest look – the slightest lift of one corner of his mouth. The cardinal looked at his own man-at-arms, who in turn looked at Swan.

  The cardinal smiled. ‘It is very kind of you, my prisoner. I accept. Alessandro, find him a sword. And a pair of boots. Brigands might not be afraid of a barefoot man on a spavined horse.’

  Alessandro trotted down the column to the last wagon, dismounted, and rooted under the cover. He was back in no time, while the two scribes convinced a monk to lend them a desk and the cardinal rode to his place at the front of the column.

  The boots were very good – thigh high, goatskin, waxed to a deep black. ‘My spares, and my second-best sword,’ the Italian said. ‘I don’t trust you, but I think I might have to like you. So let me be honest. If you don’t come back, I love these boots, which me
ans I will find you and kill you for wasting my time. If you do come back, I will lend you both sword and boots until we get to Paris.’ He smiled. It was the first real smile Swan had received from the mercenary. ‘Do we understand each other?’

  Swan reached out and took the boots and the sword – a damned good sword, he was pleased to see. Then he held out his hand. ‘I understand you – perfectly,’ he said.

  Alessandro nodded. ‘I thought you might,’ he said, and rode away.

  Tilda watched him go. ‘What was that about?’ she asked.

  Swan gave her a lop-sided smile. ‘He thinks I may be a rogue,’ he said.

  Tilda smiled. ‘He’s sharp.’ She swayed back and forth again. ‘I can make an hour – if you don’t have any other appointments.’

  Swan stretched. ‘I’m so tired, mistress. I feel as if I was up all night.’

  ‘Perhaps a nap would do you good,’ she said. ‘Will you come back and visit me?’

  He grinned. ‘Do you have a dozen of us, out there on the roads? Coming in rotation?’

  She shrugged. ‘And if I do?’

  He laughed. ‘It must be honesty day. Let’s play at napping.’ He took her hand. ‘Of course I’ll come back.’

  She rolled her eyes.

  An hour later, booted and wearing a sword and carrying a dirty but presentable pair of gloves that he’d picked up off a side-table in the abbey, he leaned against a pillar in the stable, eating another apple. The two notaries came out of the scriptorum.

  ‘Do you know how long it takes to write a formal letter between two Princes of the Church?’ Cesare said, disgustedly.

  ‘About an hour?’ Swan said. ‘Here, have an apple, messires.’

  Accudi caught his in the air, got a leg over his horse, and stretched. ‘I have a sword of my own, Messire Swan,’ he said.

  Swan shrugged. ‘Now I do, too,’ he said. The two notaries laughed.

  They left the abbey easily enough, trotting through the outskirts of the town, which was just filling with French soldiers pouring in from the south. Swan wasn’t particularly worried about being lynched on the spot, but he rode more freely once he was in the countryside to the north and east of the town and out from under the walls.

  At noon they stopped at a roadside shrine with the L’Isle river flowing at their feet and ate good sausage and bread with local soft cheese. Swan had a good leather bottle now, thanks to Tilda, and he shared it freely.

  ‘Your lady-friend provided the wine, eh?’ Cesare said.

  Swan smiled and didn’t answer. He was watching the hills. They weren’t steep, but they rose well above the valley.

  ‘You look . . . concerned,’ Giovanni said.

  Swan raised an eyebrow. ‘Something shiny and of steel was on that hillside,’ he said.

  After lunch they rode quickly. The notaries were, as usual, excellent company, and for more than an hour all conversation degenerated into Latin jokes, most of them bawdy.

  In a little hamlet of perhaps a hundred villagers, Swan asked the two lawyers to wait under the tree in the central square while he asked directions. He rode into a walled compound. He leaned down from the saddle in front of the stone house that seemed to function as the auberge.

  ‘Have you seen a convoy of wagons?’ he asked the man sitting on the bench.

  ‘Maybe, and maybe not,’ the man said. ‘Who are you?’

  Swan shook his head and made a face. ‘No one of any importance,’ he said. ‘But I wish to catch my master. How long ago did they pass?’

  ‘Before noon – hey! Give me a penny, master!’ The man was suddenly wheedling. He got up off his bench. ‘I told you what you wanted to know.’

  Swan shrugged. ‘I don’t have a penny of my own, friend.’

  The man glared. ‘I guess if that horse is all you have you don’t have much.’ He nodded. ‘Your boots are nice.’

  Swan nodded. ‘Is that a professional opinion?’ he asked.

  He didn’t order wine. He backed his horse out of the yard. The two Italians were looking at him. He waved a hand and they moved out of the village at a trot.

  ‘Brigandi,’ Swan said. and touched his heels to his horse’s flanks.

  They rode for almost a mile before Swan pulled up.

  ‘Where?’ asked Cesare. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The peasant in the auberge was no peasant. He was a soldier slumming, wearing a peasant smock.’ Swan was watching the hillsides.

  ‘How do you know?’ Giovanni asked.

  Swan shrugged. ‘I can’t tell you. Maybe that he was so bad at begging. His hands were clean. He had wrists like me. But I can’t pin it down.’

  ‘But you’re sure,’ Giovanni said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sure enough to go back and find another way?’ Cesare asked.

  Swan looked back and forth between the two Italians. ‘Messires, you are both older than I am,’ he said humbly. ‘But if you will be guided by me in this, you will not go back.’

  ‘What do you propose?’ Giovanni asked.

  ‘That we move fast and stop for nothing. We ignore mothers with wounded sons and priests who only need a moment of our time.’ Swan suited action to word and touched his boot-heels to his horse, which responded with a burst of what, in a better horse, might have been a canter.

  The three of them rode along, leaving a dust cloud, for ten minutes. By then, Swan’s horse was flagging, and he felt like a fool. He reined in. ‘Perhaps you two are better without me,’ he said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Giovanni said.

  They went on at a walk. Swan looked behind them.

  ‘Gentlemen, I’ve made a number of mistakes. The dust cloud,’ he pointed behind them, ‘is like a red flag.’

  Cesare winced. ‘Why us?’ he asked. ‘What brigand wants us?’

  They were climbing steadily, and Swan could see a long, sharp slope ahead, a set of rapids in the river, and tall bluffs. He stood in his stirrups, trying to make out the path of the road.

  ‘The road crosses the river at a ford,’ he said.

  Before a nun could say three paternosters, they were across.

  On the far side, just where the road turned rocky as it passed over the end of the eastern ridge, was a wagon. It was one of the wine merchant’s wagons, and there were four men by it.

  They looked uncertainly at the new arrivals.

  They were not any of the men who’d been dancing the night before, and none of them wore livery.

  Thirty yards away, by the stream-bed, Swan saw a pool of blood and an arm sticking out of the weeds. The arm was blue and red.

  ‘It’s a trap,’ he said quietly. ‘When I attack them, ride like lightning.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Giovanni.

  Cesare muttered.

  Swan’s horse was tired, so he rode straight up to the nearest man. From a few yards away, he called out, ‘Wheel trouble?’

  The man nodded. But he didn’t speak. He was watching Swan as a cat watches a mouse – and yet he was utterly confounded when Swan whipped his sword from his scabbard and cut him down with a powerful blow from above.

  The other three men stood rooted to the spot.

  Giovanni, who had a fine Arab, put his spurs to her, and she went straight to a gallop.

  Cesare did the same, but aimed his Arab’s head at one of the men by the wagon and rode him down.

  Swan whirled and his horse misstepped. Swan cursed and slid from her back, ducked, and moved with her a few horse lengths while the other three men shouted at each other. He burst round the end of the wagon, catching the man Cesare had knocked down by surprise, and rammed his sword into the man’s gut despite his coat of plates. He almost died trying to get it out. The point was wedged between two plates. The third man had a falchion, a heavy sword like a scimitar, and he cut overhand at Swan, an untrained blow but nevertheless a powerful one. Swan saw the twitch in the man’s stance that heralded the blow and pulled on his hilt with a sudden burst of strength. The sword-point gra
ted and came free, and Swan got his guard up and wished he had a buckler. The two swords rang together.

  The man was essentially untrained, and obviously scared to death.

  Swan was scared, but he did as he’d been taught. He pivoted his weight, let the heavier sword ‘win’ the bind, and cut sharply down with little more than the pressure of his wrist. Two of the scimitar-wielder’s fingers fell away, and the man dropped his sword and screamed. Swan stepped in and drove his pommel into the man’s mouth, teeth sprayed, and the wounded man was down. Even as the fourth man ran at him from beyond the wagon team, Swan plunged his sword through the body of the man writhing on the ground.

  His mother’s brothers all said you had to do it. ‘Don’t leave anyone behind you,’ they said, when they drilled.

  The fourth man had a spear.

  Swan got into a low guard. His knees were weak. He’d practised this. It hadn’t usually gone all that well. But the spearman was no better trained than the falchion man, and he thrust ineptly, a tentative attack, which Swan beat remorselessly aside with all the energy of doubt and fear. He stepped through, got a hand on the shaft, and killed the man with a simple cut to the neck – and then cut him twice more as his body fell.

  He stood, breathing like a bellows.

  He could hear hooves, and the sounds of shouting.

  I killed them all.

  He was kneeling beside the last man. He wanted to vomit, wanted to take some action. Wanted to pray.

  It was all more personal than the battle had been.

  He watched his hands cut the man’s belt and take his purse and dagger. Then he went to the falchion man and did the same. He tottered to his horse and tried to get a foot over the old thing’s back. He was shaking too badly to mount.

  But the hoof-beats were still distant. Across the ford, he could see dust, and more steel moving on the hillside beyond the ford. He had a little time.

  He went to the first man he’d cut down. There was a stunning amount of blood around the man – a pool like a small lake, of a red opaqueness like magic wine. He’d never seen so much blood.

  He threw up into the pool of blood.

  His horse and saddle saved him, and he stood there, one hand in his stirrup leather, for as long as a man would say a benison. Without the horse, he’d have fallen in the blood.