Tom Swan and the Last Spartans 2 Read online

  Swan watched as the duke went up to the archbishop’s apartments, and he waited for a summons.

  ‘You think the archbishop was poisoned?’ Clemente asked.

  Swan gave the boy a glare that silenced him.

  A few minutes later, Swan was summoned. He was led back to the bedchamber.

  A few hours had made a great deal of difference. Gabriele Sforza looked better. He had colour, and he was sitting up on white linen pillows and drinking broth.

  Duke Francesco was all but grinning. He had a hand on his brother’s shoulder when Swan came in and bowed.

  One of the soldiers leaned over and whispered in the duke’s ear.

  ‘Ser Thomas Suane,’ he said. He did, in fact, look like an ageing giant. He was big, and his face looked like that of a fighter. But his eyes were mild; not even calculating, but kindly. He wore magnificent clothes and a rather plain old hat. Not quite disreputable, but old.

  He reminded Swan of Cosimo di Medici. Their eyes held something of the same look. A detachment. Perhaps a humour.

  Swan made a deep reverenzia. ‘My lord duke,’ he said.

  ‘My brother wishes me to speak to you on a matter of policy,’ the duke said quietly. ‘As my brother asks very little of me, I’m delighted to be of aid. At the same time, I suspect my entire household would like to hear of the Battle of Belgrade, and you are the man to tell us. We would be honoured if you would join us for dinner. We will combine business and pleasure.’

  ‘I am at your service, my lord,’ Swan said.

  ‘Excellent! My good Ambroglio will escort you around the city.’ Sforza smiled thinly, took his brother’s hand, and kissed it. There was no acting there. ‘Eat only food I send you,’ Sforza said. He looked significantly at Fra Joseph, who gave a firm nod.

  ‘Until this evening,’ the duke said, and swept out, leaving Swan on one knee.

  One of the giant men-at-arms remained. He was a well-formed man, handsome, with a heavy mane of black hair, moustache and beard, against the convention of the time.

  ‘Ser Thomas,’ he said politely.

  ‘Ser Ambroglio?’ Swan asked.

  The two walked out of the chamber after saluting the archbishop. Once they were in the cloister, Ambroglio bowed. ‘I am an officer of the duke’s household. A sort of military chamberlain, if you like. The duke is fairly informal, but not everyone at court is a soldier. Do you have clothes?’

  Swan frowned.

  ‘You might as well say no, and get good ones. I’ll have them made immediately,’ Ambroglio said. ‘Unless you are far richer than I think.’

  ‘You do me a great service,’ Swan said.

  Ambroglio smiled. ‘You’re going to spend the afternoon telling me about Hunyadi and Belgrade,’ he said. ‘I won’t be the loser.’

  Swan thought quickly about courts, and men-at-arms. ‘One of my men is here with me,’ he said.

  Ambroglio glanced at a wax tablet in fine pearwood borders. ‘I can fit in two suits,’ he said.

  Swan liked the fact that he could so easily do Kendal a favour. ‘Then you can hear about Belgrade from two of us,’ he said.

  Ambroglio grinned. ‘Deal,’ he said.

  Despite Swan’s eagerness to be away for Venice, it was a very pleasant afternoon. They ate fruit and drank wine in a well-built barracks, and were measured by two tailors who seemed to know every man at the table. Ambroglio and two of his men took Swan and Kendal to see the new hospital, which was still in its infancy and was on its way to being one of the largest buildings Swan had ever seen, with a superb central court.

  ‘You don’t have your harness?’ one of Ambroglio’s men asked.

  ‘It is in Belgrade,’ Swan admitted, ‘with my company.’

  ‘You must come back with your harness and permit us a little passage of arms,’ insisted another. ‘We were not allowed leave to go and fight the Turk.’

  ‘So we can only fight you, at a remove,’ the first man said with a smile.

  Kendal rolled his eyes. When they were alone for a moment, he shook his head. ‘Maybe I ain’t made to be a noble. I can’t imagine fightin’ for no reason. Unless I was wroth; or there was summat at stake.’

  Swan smiled grimly. ‘I find the idea that a man can share in Belgrade by breaking a lance on my shield a little difficult myself,’ he admitted. ‘Although I do enjoy a pass with lances.’

  ‘I’ve been known to enjoy a dust-up,’ Kendal said. ‘But there’s usually a reason.’

  The clothes arrived long before sunset. Swan, who had learned many lessons about clothes, could see that the material was good but the tailoring uninspired. It was clear that they’d been made up and altered to fit; there was probably a stock of them. On the other hand, the black hose were better than any he owned. The black doublet was tighter than he liked and the padded shoulder-rolls were, he felt, ludicrous, but Ser Ambroglio had worn the same. His purse belt looked shabby, but he buffed it with wax and wore it anyway.

  On arrival at the great Sforza fortress-palace, Swan had to work not to smile. Where Cosimo di Medici lived in a splendour of antique magnificence, Sforza lived in a fortress of brick.

  But the campaniles on the interior of the fortress were almost as elegant as Florence boasted, and Greek and Roman art was everywhere. Interspersed with Christian martyrs were Greek gods and Roman goddesses. The marble underfoot was even more magnificent than Florence’s coloured marble, if that was possible.

  If Sforza had a throne room like the Pope, or a studio like Di Medici, Swan saw neither. He was led from gallery to gallery, and introduced to dozens of gentlemen and more than a few ladies. Ambroglio pointed out one young man who seemed to be a character from the Bible, as tall as the outsized statue he was admiring.

  ‘Lorenzo da San Germano,’ Ambroglio said. ‘Our Herakles.’

  Swan bowed to the young man, who greeted him with deep respect.

  ‘The hero of Belgrade,’ he said. ‘You will tell us everything?’ His enthusiasm was as large as the man himself. Swan thought of Zane, dead at Belgrade, and recalled, with a start of guilt, that he had promised to find the son. He bowed to the knight’s beautiful lady, who flushed and looked away.

  As they walked down the gallery, Ambroglio chuckled. ‘The lady with young Herakles is quite as magnificent, but we don’t generally bow to the courtesans. You understand, many of the young men are single; the duke is a soldier. He is no prude, so there are many of these women around the court.’

  Swan laughed. ‘My company had twenty-four of these ladies on its rolls,’ he said. ‘I’m happy to give them my best bow.’

  Ambroglio laughed. ‘You are an original, Messire il capitano. On its rolls?’

  ‘Yes,’ Swan said.

  Kendal smiled.

  Ambroglio tugged his beard. ‘An engaging notion. I can see this would have its effects.’ He shrugged. ‘And I also agree that in camp, they are comrades. In court …’

  Swan shrugged. ‘Ah, my friend, there you have us. We are but poor soldiers, used to the camp.’ He looked past Ambroglio, seeking relief from what could become a difficult subject, and his heart flipped over.

  Thump. Thump.

  There stood Violetta, on the arm of a superbly well-dressed man. Her beauty was unchanged; it struck him like a blow.

  He was amused that he felt no anger at all. He’d just paid out five hundred ducats and had a crossbow pressed to his head for her.

  Her eyes passed over him, steadied, and focused.

  Her face lit with a brilliant smile of pleasure.

  Ambroglio was far from a fool. ‘Someone you know?’ he asked. ‘Watch yourself here, capitano. This is one of the duke’s favourite captains, and he is a dangerous man.’

  But Swan was not to be deterred. And Violetta ran to him. ‘My dear,’ she said, taking his hand.

  The duke’s favourite captain turned a very dark red.

  Swan bowed. ‘My lord,’ he said. ‘Pardon us.’

  ‘Ser Thomas did me a very great service onc
e,’ she said.

  ‘And again, very recently,’ Swan said under his breath.

  Ambroglio caught up to him and made a reverence. ‘Messire Gaspare da Venticroce,’ he said. ‘Former governor of Genoa and now captain of Milan.’

  Swan bowed again.

  ‘Ser Thomas Suane, in the service of His Holiness,’ Swan said.

  ‘Ah! The Turk-killer,’ Venticroce said. ‘How do you know my Violetta?’

  ‘I knew her family in Rome,’ Swan said.

  ‘My adoptive family,’ Violetta breathed. ‘You know. I’ve spoken of them.’

  Venticroce frowned. ‘I know they mistreated you,’ he said.

  ‘And Ser Thomas rescued me,’ she said with a brilliant smile. The smile lit the room; men grinned like fools, and women either turned up their noses or tried to emulate it.

  Unfortunately, it was a smile that indicated there could only have been one reward for a rescue, and the middle-aged condottiere was not a man who relished sharing anything. ‘Explain yourself, my dear,’ he said. Swan admired the fact that the man had good control of himself, but then it seemed unlikely that Sforza’s captains would be louts.

  ‘My sweet, Ser Thomas is in the service of the Church,’ she said fondly.

  Venticroce did not look like a man who expected much good of the Church.

  But any further exchange was prevented by the entrance of the duke and duchess. The duchess was portly and a little sallow, but she had a warm smile and she favoured Swan with her hand as he knelt.

  ‘God’s mercy and grace on you,’ she said. ‘A true crusader!’

  Swan flushed. He didn’t relish thinking of Belgrade, and somehow he did not like to be congratulated about it or told that he was a crusader, either.

  After the duchess passed, the duke paused and raised him to his feet with a gentle tug. ‘Welcome to our court, Ser Thomas,’ he said. He wasn’t looking at Swan at all, however.

  He was looking into Violetta’s eyes, and Swan wondered …

  ‘Can you imagine?’ Venticroce said. ‘They know each other from Rome.’

  The duke favoured Swan with a small smile that was full of meaning. ‘Why am I not surprised?’ he asked. ‘Are they related?’

  Swan coughed. No one else laughed. ‘My lord, I am English,’ he said.

  The duke nodded. ‘So I have heard, but your Italian suggests you are not English. I have Englishmen in my army; not a one of them sounds like you.’ He looked at Violetta again. ‘I hear you are a prince?’ he said.

  Swan smiled in what he hoped was an ingratiating manner. ‘My father was … ahem. Well born, my lord.’

  Sforza’s smile was like iron. ‘Yes. Cardinal Beaufort, I understand.’ He nodded. ‘In truth, I see the likeness,’ he said. And swept away down the room.

  ‘That’s you told,’ Kendal muttered.

  ‘I do not know this gentleman,’ Violetta said.

  Swan introduced ‘William Kendal, gentleman-at-arms’ to the lady and to Venticroce.

  ‘Another Englishman,’ Venticroce said.

  ‘The Italianate Englishman is the Devil incarnate,’ muttered Ambroglio.

  Swan smiled thinly. ‘You are safe from Messire Kendal, whose Italian stretches only so far.’

  Dinner was served on long tables laid out, board by board, on stretchers of wood; the household servants put up the tables in teams, with a military efficiency, so that an endless train of men walked in; the stretchers went down, then the boards, and even as the boards were being laid, maids followed with magnificent white cloths and runners of Turkey cloth, boys came with heavy bronze candlesticks and salt cellars, and then napkins, Venetian glass and bowls of rose water, bronze cups of nuts, and silver pitchers shaped like Greek amphorae full of water. The flow of men and women never stopped, and it was like watching expert soldiers build a pontoon bridge; by the time the last board was being laid at the head of the table, the first boards were covered and the table was set. A steward watched the process with a small cane in his hand, but it never touched a servant; they worked with a will and in near-perfect discipline, and the only time one spoke was when a very young page seemed confused.

  Swan was led by the hand to sit very close to the duchess, hard by her confessor, another Augustinian friar. He greeted Swan in passable English and told him in a whisper that he’d been to London and Oxford.

  ‘And I knew Cardinal Beaufort,’ he said.

  Swan writhed, but the confessor merely smiled and went back to his mistress.

  Over dinner, Swan was encouraged to discuss Belgrade. He did his best by Hunyadi, and he was very careful to say nothing objectionable of ladies, of children or of Christianity, which, he found, left him very little to say.

  Violetta was uncomfortably close, just four heads down and across the table. When Swan was done recounting a very brief version of events, she asked, ‘Were there no women?’

  Swan smiled, thinking of the washerwomen. Thinking of Maria, the former slave. Of Šárka. Of the camp women from the Turkish camp.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No women at all.’

  ‘A military camp is no place for a woman,’ Venticroce said.

  Violetta’s smile was somewhere between fatuous and poisonous. ‘Oh, of course,’ she said. ‘In antiquity …’

  ‘Perhaps women, like men, were mightier in the Golden Age,’ the duchess said quietly.

  Conversation turned to politics and the Peace, as men called it, capitalising it at each pronunciation. Sforza had been one of the architects of the Peace of Lodi, which had changed Italy. His captains, all men of war, were less enthusiastic.

  ‘Will the Grand Turk attack Italy?’ Ambroglio asked Swan.

  Swan looked at the duke, whose attention he had. ‘After Belgrade? He lost a great army.’

  ‘We hear of this victory,’ Sforza said. ‘How total was it?’

  Swan flicked his eyes at the duchess to indicate that he was not saying everything. ‘Very complete,’ he said.

  Sforza frowned. ‘Can you be more specific?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Swan said. ‘He lost all his guns, and all his camp; all his materiel. And all his infantry. I doubt a few hundred escaped. The peasants were hunting them for rewards when I left. The only portion of his army able to cover themselves was his sipahis, who are like our men-at-arms, although lighter. Many were overset by Hunyadi’s charge, but many – the Guard of the Porte – were never committed.’

  ‘That’s the answer I was looking for,’ Sforza said. ‘Will he come here, Ser Thomas?’

  ‘Assuredly,’ Swan said.

  The table fell silent.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked one of the captains.

  ‘Not a popular opinion,’ hissed Ambroglio.

  Swan shrugged. ‘The Grand Turk has other armies and a great fleet. Unless we follow up on our victory, by next year he will come again. Into Albania, perhaps, or to finish Greece.’

  Across the table a man shrugged. ‘One man’s opinion, and a young man at that. Trust me, lad, the Turks will never come to Italy.’

  Swan failed to stop himself. As usual.

  ‘Based on your experience of them, sir?’ Swan asked.

  The man looked at Swan. ‘I’ve been fighting since you were in nappies. Which of us needs experience? They have hordes, it’s true, but they can hardly stand against our superior military science and technology. Our armour; our swords; our artillery.’

  Swan had a flash of being locked, sword to sword, with the Sultan, in his Milanese arms harnesses and carrying his great Damascus sword. ‘Their armour is quite good,’ Swan said. ‘Where they lack it, they just buy yours. The Sultan had Milanese arms on his harness.’ He smiled as if he was going into action. ‘The Sultan has more gunners in his employ than, I suspect, all Italy. He pays very well. His janissaries are the best professional infantry I’ve seen.’

  Venticroce laughed. ‘In all your years as a soldier, is that it?’ The other Milanese captains laughed with him.

  Swan swallowed, st
ung. ‘I find it interesting,’ he said carefully, with a slow, patronising tone meant to offend, ‘that you crave my opinion as the only one here who has fought them, and then you ridicule my opinion because it does not meet with your own.’

  That brought a new silence.

  ‘You are making no friends at my table,’ the duke said. ‘I think all they crave is your silence.’

  ‘Then I beg your leave to be excused,’ Swan said, his throat tight.

  ‘Ah, Ser Thomas, my courtesy would be greatly diminished in everyone’s eyes if you were to withdraw,’ Sforza said. He was angry. Swan could feel his anger.

  Swan nodded. ‘I crave your pardon,’ he said. ‘I will sit in silence and learn humility.’ Sadly, his voice tilted these words so that his inflection was ungracious, sullen …

  Now the silence was stony.

  Violetta laughed aloud. She looked up the table at Swan. ‘Success has made you too bold,’ she said into the silence. ‘No, that’s a lie. You were always too bold. And you gentlemen,’ she said with a flash of her eyes, ‘have baited a guest. For all his cock-of-the-walk arrogance, messires, he has the right of it. He has fought the Turk.’

  The duchess laughed. She whispered to her confessor.

  Swan nodded, but remained silent.

  A stiff conversation about lances, heavy or light, began among the captains.

  ‘What kind of lance do you use, Ser Thomas? Based on your years of experience?’ Venticroce asked.

  Swan knew he was headed for an abyss, but the Devil was in him. ‘I use whatever my squire hands me,’ he said. ‘I’ve never thought it a matter for much moment.’ His smile dripped sarcasm. ‘I leave that to my elders. They know a great deal about … jousting.’ He made the word ‘jousting’ sound like a sordid pastime.

  ‘Quite the little cock,’ Venticroce said, quite clearly.

  Swan was not sure whether to accept the insult or not. Should he pretend not to have heard? No one wore swords at Sforza’s court except his guards. Men fought in the lists, a venue closed to Swan as his harness was in Belgrade.

  The duchess’s confessor leaned over. ‘The duchess says that, although the lady may be a whore, she has more sense than most.’