Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part One: Castillon Page 4

  Then he unbuckled the man’s belt and took his purse and dagger. He had to touch the blood. But he did. Then he put all three purses in the leather sack the first man had been carrying.

  Even in the shocked reaction to his first real killing, he eyed the wagon. The canvas was split, and he could see the cargo. On the wagon box, where the drover sat, was a chest with iron reinforcement. It had a lock. They’d been trying to force the lock when he came up.

  But he didn’t need trouble, and the distant hoof-beats were getting closer.

  It seemed a waste, though.

  He got mounted, and convinced his antique horse to trot.

  He was no sooner moving than a dozen mounted men appeared in front of him, three of them fully armoured, with lances. They rode at him hard.

  It was not a fight he could win, so he was very pleased when he recognised the French man-at-arms from the abbey, and behind him he could see the two notaries. He saluted.

  The French knight rode up, raising first his lance and then his visor. ‘Messire,’ he said. ‘You are one of the cardinal’s men?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Swan.

  ‘Have you been attacked?’ said another of the men-at-arms in blue and red. He sounded hopeful.

  Swan pointed at the road behind him. ‘Brigands attacked one of your wagons. I’m afraid they killed the wagoner. We happened on them.’ He shrugged.

  Cesare was waving from farther up the road.

  ‘You burst through them?’ asked the man-at-arms.

  ‘No,’ said Swan. ‘There’s more of them coming. We outran them.’

  At this, the party whooped, and set out for the wagon. Swan left them to it.

  He rode until he caught up with Cesare and Giovanni. The two notaries were clearly pleased to see him. It steadied him.

  ‘What happened?’ Cesare asked.

  ‘I left them,’ Swan said. He shrugged. His hands were shaking. ‘We should keep going.’

  By nightfall, they caught the convoy, well north of the valley of the L’Isle. The wagons and carts were drawn in a circle, and the three of them were challenged on approach.

  Cardinal Bessarion sent for them as soon as their presence was known. Alessandro came to fetch them. He gave Swan a civil nod. ‘You came back,’ he said.

  ‘I have your boots,’ Swan said.

  ‘You managed to get a sword-cut on them,’ Alessandro said.

  Swan looked down and was disconcerted to find that the tan top of his right boot had a cut right through the leather. ‘Uh – sorry.’ He shook his head.

  ‘He stayed and fought them. He killed at least one brigand,’ Giovanni said proudly.

  ‘Did you?’ Alessandro said. He looked at Swan with renewed interest.

  Bessarion was sitting on three camp stools – reclining, with a book. He didn’t sit up, but merely waved his book at them, and a servant fetched wine. Swan was grateful for wine, and he drank his too fast while the notaries read their letter aloud.

  Bessarion nodded sharply. ‘Well done,’ he said in Italian. ‘You had trouble with brigands?’

  Giovanni bowed. ‘Messire Swan dealt with them, Eminence.’

  Bessarion extended his hand to Swan. He knelt and kissed the cardinal’s ring. It was, apparently, what foreigners did with cardinals. The cardinal’s hand clasped his lightly. ‘That was well done, Messire Swan. I won’t insult you with payment, but—’

  Swan winced. In his persona as a great man’s son, he couldn’t accept payment, it was true.

  ‘It is a pleasure to serve’ he said.

  Bessarion’s eyes seemed to twinkle. It was probably a trick of the firelight, but Swan had the feeling that he amused the cardinal. The Prince of the Church held out the book he’d been reading, carefully marking his place with a ribbon. ‘Do you know it?’ he asked.

  Swan almost dropped it when he opened it. It was a small volume bound in whitened parchment, and between the covers it was very ancient. It wasn’t a copy, or at least not a recent copy.

  The lettering was alien, the hand almost square. But the first page clearly said that it was about the stars. Swan flipped it open – turned a page. And shook his head.

  ‘It’s not Aristotle’s Greek. It’s about mathematics.’ He felt foolish. ‘I can’t even find a title page.’

  Bessarion smiled. ‘That’s because it isn’t a modern copy, young Englishman. This is at least five hundred years old. Monks made it – perhaps when Alexandria, in Egypt, was still Christian.’

  Swan sucked in a difficult breath. ‘Oh!’ He grinned. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. I see you have the heart of a true connoisseur.’ He extended his hand and Swan put the book reverentially in it. ‘It’s by Ptolemy.’

  Swan felt he was being tested. ‘King Ptolemy?’ he asked.

  ‘One of them,’ Bessarion said. ‘I have trouble reading it, too. It’s about mathematics – the mathematics of measurement. Angles as relations to other distances.’ He shrugged. ‘There are men in Italy who understand this sort of thing.’ He nodded to Swan, who took that for a dismissal. He retreated from the cardinal’s tent area, and went to find Peter.

  Peter was awake and better. Swan changed his bandage and got them both supper from the cardinal’s cooks. He sat on the ground to eat, and felt his eyelids closing.

  ‘Unroll your blankets, you fool, or you’ll freeze at midnight,’ Peter hissed. His oddly sibilant Dutch-English and his slightly too careful pronunciation made him sound as if he was giving orders.

  Swan went and fetched his blanket roll and the sack he’d filled with purses. He used it as a pillow, but before he could get to sleep, he heard horses, and then he was summoned by Alessandro.

  The Italian dusted the leaf mould off his back. ‘You killed four of them?’ he asked quietly.

  Swan met his eye. ‘Yes.’

  Alessandro whistled. ‘You weren’t going to mention it?’ he asked.

  Swan shrugged.

  ‘And you robbed them?’ Alessandro asked.

  Swan realised he hadn’t thought this through. ‘They were dead.’

  Alessandro nodded. ‘I don’t mind. But the French think that someone else killed them and took their money. How do you want to play this?’

  Swan looked at the Italian. Even through a haze of sleep, he could tell that he was worried, and further, was not telling him something.

  ‘Let them think that,’ Swan said.

  Alessandro shook his head. ‘If I do, my master must travel slowly for days. If I say you did it, the French have no reason to go slowly, because all the brigands are dead.’ He waved. ‘Come.’

  Swan followed him unwillingly, but consoled himself that he still had the sword.

  They walked to a different fire, where the French soldiers were gathered. Alessandro was well known here – they handed him wine.

  ‘This is your fearsome Englishman?’ asked the count.

  Swan bowed.

  ‘Did you kill four armed brigands by yourself, boy? Why didn’t you tell me when we rode up to you?’ The big knight took a step towards him.

  Swan looked at the ground. ‘I . . . killed them, yes. I wasn’t thinking so well, after.’

  The knight winced, but he did not sneer. ‘This I believe. Did you take their purses?’

  Swan shrugged. ‘I’m not sure why—’ he said.

  The count nodded. ‘It this your first time in battle?’ he asked.

  ‘Second,’ Swan admitted.

  ‘Mm,’ said the count. ‘So – this one to you, Messire Alessandro. We have no more brigands – that we know of. But I will beg you to ride with us another day or so.’

  Alessandro shrugged wearily. ‘If you insist.’ He bowed, and the two of them walked back towards Swan’s sleeping roll.

  ‘Did you see anything? When you fought the brigands?’ Alessandro asked. ‘I am phrasing this badly. Did something . . . alert you?’

  Swan stretched. ‘A dead man. If that’s what you mean. We saw the wagon, and it looked
as if it had broken down, and then I saw . . . a body. In the bushes. I knew—’ He shrugged. ‘It felt like a trap.’

  Alessandro put a hand on his shoulder. ‘This I must ask. Did you open the wagon?’

  Swan looked at the ground. ‘No.’

  Alessandro said, ‘I’m not trying to insult you, Englishman. But something doesn’t add up.’

  Swan met his eye in the dark. ‘I took their purses. You know I have no money. It is within the laws of war.’

  Alessandro laughed. ‘Laws of war. Messire Swan, for the first time I think perhaps you are a young gentleman.’ He looked into the darkness. ‘It was one of my men on that wagon. And he is dead.’

  Swan nodded. ‘But – he wore the blue and red. I saw him – Cesare says it is the Paris livery.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Alessandro frowned. ‘You notice a great deal, Englishman. Yes – I dressed him as a Parisian. I hoped to . . . learn something.’

  Swan scratched under his beard. ‘You distrust the count?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Well. We’ll see. I do not suspect you. I merely wish you had seen more.’ He paused, fingering his dagger. ‘Why do you ask if I distrust the count?’

  Swan looked around carefully. ‘He pretends poverty.’

  Alessandro’s eyes narrowed. ‘He lost his patrimony in the king’s wars, or so he says.’

  ‘His sword is worth five hundred florins. His shoes are as good as the shoes the King of England wears.’ Swan shrugged.

  Alessandro nodded. ‘You see a great deal. I missed the sword. But yes – I’ll give you this much. There is something not quite right about Messire the Count.’ He waved. They had arrived at Peter’s fire. ‘Go to sleep.’

  Swan would have thought about it more, but the moment he had his blanket on his shoulders, he was asleep.

  The next morning he fed Peter gruel from a copper pot. The Fleming laughed when he was done.

  ‘I think perhaps it is you who are my servant,’ he said.

  Swan shrugged.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Peter asked.

  ‘London,’ Swan said.

  Peter nodded. ‘I thought so. You are schooled?’

  Swan smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Bishop’s School, Inns of Court. I never went to Oxenford.’ He leaned closer. ‘You?’

  ‘I am an archer. Once I was a cloth fuller, but the trade fell off. My wife died.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s money in war.’

  ‘I have no money, but when I have a chance to go through the purses—’ He paused.

  Peter nodded. ‘I heard about your heroic deed of arms, young sir.’ He met Swan’s eye. ‘If you make this a habit, fighting four men, you will soon be dead.’

  Swan flashed on the pool of blood. ‘I’m . . . it just sort of happened.’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘Can you ride again today? Alessandro acts like a prick, but I suspect he’d put you on a wagon if I asked nicely.’ Swan shook his leather bottle. It was empty.

  ‘I can ride. You know I’m on a better horse than you are.’ He looked at Swan, who blushed.

  ‘Damn. Another of Alessandro’s little tests.’ He made a sign to avert evil. ‘Keep it. You need to ride easy. My plug will keep me going.’

  Swan had never undressed. He pulled his boots on, laced them to his doublet, and played with the hang of his sword until he liked it. He tied the leather sack behind his saddle and mounted. No sooner was he up than Alessandro rode over to him.

  ‘A good day to you, messire. I wonder if I might ask a favour, in the cardinal’s name.’ He bowed, and Swan returned the bow. ‘I am a man short. Would you be an outrider?’

  ‘I’d like a better horse. My servant needs the courser.’

  Alessandro nodded. ‘You have my spare boots and my spare sword. Why not my spare mount? Listen, messire, at this rate you’ll marry my sister.’

  Alessandro’s spare mount was an average riding horse – nothing to look at, but well enough trained and sturdy. Swan spent three hours prowling the high ground to the west of the convoy with another of the cardinal’s guards, a Greek named Giannis who couldn’t initially understand a word of Swan’s Greek but was happy to converse in Italian.

  At the mid-morning halt, the two of them reined in several hundred feet above the convoy. Giannis dismounted and, with consummate professionalism, produced a stolen cooked chicken.

  ‘Do we take turns on watch?’ Swan asked.

  ‘Like Christ and his angels watching over sinful man,’ Giannis said with a gap-toothed smile. ‘But I’ll share. The boss says you gutted the bastards who killed our Dmitrios.’

  Swan was queasy at the praise. ‘They tried to kill me. They weren’t very good.’

  Giannis shrugged. ‘Bandits seldom are. The real killers go to the mercenary companies.’ He shrugged. ‘But there are some villains among them. Here’s to Dmitrios. He’ll be singed in hell before he goes anywhere near heavan, but he was a good comrade, for a fucking schismatic, I beg your pardon.’

  Swan laughed. Then he pretended to stretch. ‘Don’t move too fast, but there’s a man with a crossbow. He’s not aiming. Now he . . . fall flat!’

  Giannis fell flat, and by the time the bolt was rattling among the rocks, he was already on his horse. Swan was riding flat out for the crossbowman. His ugly horse skimmed the rocks like a goat.

  The man on foot had no chance.

  Swan cut him off. Giannis rode him down. Swan slipped from his horse, and slammed his sword-hilt into the back of the man’s head while he tried to ward off the Greek.

  ‘Like the Turks,’ Giannis said. ‘Except there’d be ten of them, they’d have horn bows, and they’d be set to cover each other.’ He shook his head. ‘If you keep charging men like that, you won’t live long.’

  Swan immediately looked around. They were on top of the ridge that ran parallel to the road, and the man had been in the cover of a large rock. He felt foolish. The Greek was right – if the man had had a partner, he’d have been dead.

  He took the man’s purse. It held two French ecus in silver – a decent sum. Swan showed them to his partner and tossed him one. The Greek caught it and grinned.

  ‘Glad I shared my chicken with you,’ he said. He ran his hands over the man. Pinned to the inside of the man’s coat was a lead badge, such as pilgrims wore. He took that. He also took the man’s crossbow and his bolts.

  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 ou
t 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.