Tom Swan and the Siege of Belgrade: Part Two Page 5

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Are we hired?’

  Swan waved at Clemente. ‘A cup of wine for both of us,’ he said. ‘Tell me your current wages. I will check, of course.’

  Ser Columbino smiled. ‘I would assume you had already checked. Eight ducats a month per lance. I receive fifty.’

  Swan nodded. ‘For a three-month contract and then another three months on retainer so that you cannot serve against your former employer.’

  Clemente appeared with the wine. Swan noted that down in his favour – and perhaps the boy was a little straighter.

  Ser Columbino nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Below our rates,’ Swan said. ‘And I’m taking you to actual war. Possibly.’

  Ser Columbino looked away.

  ‘You have troubles of your own?’ Swan asked. ‘Best tell me – I’ll get to know them anyway. Bessarion needs a few men-at-arms of his own. He’s a damn good master. If you serve well, this could be a long contract and you could probably pick up more lances.’

  Ser Columbino didn’t meet his eye. ‘My own problem.’

  Swan shook his head. ‘I’ll only go and ask Messire di Montorio. Save me the time.’

  Ser Columbino sighed. ‘My pater was executed. By Sienna. For … treason.’ Now he met Swan’s eye. ‘It is not as easy for me to find work as your might think,’ he said bitterly.

  Swan leaned back, inwardly pleased. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘You have good men. The Spaniard is as hard as diamond, and the big man is a killer.’

  Ser Columbino looked up at the stands. ‘Yes.’

  Swan shrugged. ‘It’s not a problem for me – I doubt you’ll betray me to the Turks. And at worst, when we come back – if we aren’t all dead, of course – the honour of fighting the Turks for the Church might wipe away some stain.’

  ‘I already want the contract,’ Ser Columbino said. ‘I’m not sure who you are convincing.’

  Swan smiled and sipped some wine. The children were coming down the stands. Swan had pinned down his uneasiness. The woman in Iso’s headdress and long gown was not Iso. Swan wasn’t sure who she was – she was walking rapidly away from the governess with her veil down – but Swan knew bodies and muscles. Especially that body.

  ‘I’d like a little more money. Rimini owes us for two months and he can’t pay. I know this.’ Ser Columbino scratched his chin.

  Swan winced. ‘I’m sure something can be arranged,’ he said.

  The children arrived shouting like a troop of stradiotes ready to slay all before them – two boys and three girls. Behind them came the governess and two female servants, and a plainly dressed man in an arming coat with the marks of mail voiders.

  Swan bowed to him. ‘The master of arms?’ he asked.

  The man laughed, delighted. ‘Ah – Signor Suane, you are the very fox himself. Yes – and you joust to perfection.’ He leaned forward. ‘I am Lucius Viladi. I teach many weapons here. Yes, I say you are very good. Although perhaps a slight lean forward that you could improve.’

  As the man mentioned a flaw he knew he had, Swan bowed in acknowledgement of both the correctness of his diagnosis and the man’s own skill. ‘If I could stay, I would study under you,’ he said.

  ‘Bah – I am only an old man-at-arms. But I fought with Sforza and with my lord, and I was one of Cornazzano the Elder’s lancers when we called our company “the School of Mars”.’

  Swan had never heard of the School of Mars, but he could pretend, and he did.

  Swan also noted that Ser Columbino’s eyes never left the veil on the governess’s face.

  ‘Signora, this is Tommaso Suane of London,’ Ser Columbino said, bowing formally to the governess.

  She dropped a superb, straight-backed and very athletic curtsy. ‘Sophia Accaiaoulo di Ferenze,’ she said in a low voice. Under the veil, her eyes were cast down.

  Swan decided that the kindest tack would be to pretend he’d never met her. ‘The signora is the governess to the lord’s children?’ he asked.

  She nodded silently. ‘My lord is a fine jouster,’ she said. ‘The children loved watching you.’

  ‘I am glad to have pleased the children,’ Swan said with a certain glittering artifice. Signora Fredda made him nervous. He wasn’t sure why.

  ‘Was the demoiselle Iso with you?’ he asked the governess after their courtesies were exchanged.

  It was difficult, talking to a woman whose face was covered all the time. He could see her face through its silk veil only if he stared at her, which was rude. Was she beautiful? Plain? Her curtsy spoke of a finely trained body …

  Swan thought for a moment of Alberti, who disliked women. He wondered what it was like to be a beautiful woman. And then he wondered what it was like to be a plain woman. And finally, what it was like to be Alberti, who thought women were breeding animals. All that in a single beat of his heart, and then …

  ‘Why, no,’ Signora Sophia said in her low voice. It was a superb voice – Swan would have sworn it was a trained voice, that of a singer or a …

  No. Swan’s mind reviewed the afternoon’s events – Iso’s insistence that they joust, her ridiculous headwear, her gown, and the appearance of another woman in those garments. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘You are very fond of her, of course,’ Signora Sophia said with surprising frankness.

  ‘Very fond,’ Swan said automatically.

  Signora Sophia’s head came up at Swan’s unintended sarcasm.

  ‘You must excuse me,’ Swan said. ‘I need to attend to my horse and armour.’

  Ser Columbino bowed. ‘My lord, may I assume that my company meets your needs?’

  Swan returned the bow. ‘I will give you my answer within the hour,’ he said. With his eyes he signalled to Peter, and gave him the ‘trouble’ sign they’d perfected in Vienna – left hand palm down, first two fingers together like a priest giving a blessing.

  Peter picked up the wicker basket with his harness and the boy, Clemente, brought his helmet and gauntlets.

  As they moved away, the governess hissed, ‘What did I say?’ but Ser Columbino’s reply was lost in the sound of horse hoofs on cobbles.

  Peter leaned in close. ‘What’s up?’

  Swan bit his lip. ‘The Demoiselle Iso – find out if she entered the barracks in the last hour – no, she’ll dress like one of the French whores. Find out if either of the French women came in through the main gate in the last hour.’

  Peter shrugged. ‘I will – but why?’

  Swan shook his head impatiently. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But she wanted me to think she was in the stands, and she wasn’t.’

  Peter’s face registered instant understanding. ‘Fuck,’ he said. He set off at a run.

  Swan went to the stables with Clemente and they unsaddled the warhorse and rubbed him down, first with straw and then with a brush. Swan gave him two good measures of oats.

  His hands were shaking.

  Peter came back. ‘She was there, all right – the gate guard was all shifty, too.’ He sighed. ‘She went all the way to the sixth deck. I took a look. I don’t think anything’s missing, but I’m sure your portmanteau’s been opened.’

  Swan was tired and hot – his muscles were deeply fatigued from jousting and wearing his harness, and his brain was tired from playing cat and mouse with half of Rimini, or so it seemed.

  ‘She planted something,’ Swan said. He looked at Clemente. ‘You with me, or with her?’ he said. ‘This might get nasty, boy. And if I’m dead, you can stay here and keep your hunched back.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Take me out of this cesspit and I’m yours, lord.’

  Swan kept his voice very low. ‘Slip up to my accommodation. Go through my clothes as if you are looking for something – my horn comb. Tell anyone who asks. Bitch about it. Look for …’ He paused and looked at Peter. Peter shrugged.

  ‘Look for something small and valuable,’ Swan said.

  ‘Like a coin?’ asked the boy.

  ‘You should g
o yourself,’ Peter said.

  ‘The moment I go up the steps, she’ll have me arrested – if I’m not staring at shadows.’ Swan shook his head. ‘Why?’

  ‘Nice lady friend.’ Peter laughed.

  Swan cursed. ‘I knew this was too easy. The men-at-arms, the whole set-up.’ He looked blankly at his horse’s rump for a moment. ‘Listen, boy, it’s life and death. I assume whatever is there will be gold, and shiny. Not a coin, unless it is an old …’

  He paused. ‘The Egyptian scarab. Or a ring. I’ll bet on one of them. Look for a golden bug with enamel wings – blue and gold, about this big. Or a ring. A ducat of your own if you find whatever it is.’

  Clemente bolted away.

  Peter peered out of the stable. ‘We could ride for it,’ he said.

  Swan looked up at the crossbowmen over the gate. ‘No. I wish I understood the game, but no.’ He sighed, and made himself carry on with the currying of his great horse – his most valued possession.

  Before the bell in the campanile rang the hour again, he saw young Clemente come racing out of the barracks. The boy ran into the stables and Swan pulled him aside into the shadows.

  ‘Quietly, caro mio. What do you have?’ Swan asked.

  The boy handed him the scarab. Swan weighed it in his hand and whistled. Peter came up, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Look what it is,’ Swan said.

  ‘They’re going to say we stole it,’ Peter answered.

  Swan pursed his lips and thought. Almost instantly, he decided on a bold front and an immediate assault. To overcome the feelings of impotence and fear of failure, he had to act.

  Still in his arming clothes, which were oily, besmirched with old rust, and thus looked more like a servant’s garments that anything else he owned, he walked across the great courtyard and into the shaded entry to the great hall. It was broad day, and there were only servants in the hall, cleaning, dusting, polishing and loafing. Swan walked straight to the curio cabinet and put the scarab down in the velvet behind its niche – quickly, like the thief he could be, and with one smooth motion, as if he’d stumbled and caught himself with his right hand on the cabinet. Then he turned without a word and walked back out of the hall. His heart was beating like a piece of metal beaten by a smith, but he didn’t think anyone had seen him – or, to be more exact, many had seen him, but none had noticed him.

  He went back out into the sun. After some thought, he went to find Ser Columbino, who was walking in the lord’s garden.

  ‘I am sorry that I had to vanish,’ Swan said.

  Ser Columbino shrugged. ‘These things happen. A sudden indisposition …’

  ‘I can offer ten ducats a lance and the replacement value of horses lost. Or a replacement horse. Whichever I prefer.’ Swan nodded. ‘Seventy ducats a month for you.’

  ‘And food and fodder?’ the Siennese knight asked.

  ‘Paid.’

  ‘How long?’ Ser Columbino asked. It was a very good contract.

  ‘Here to Vienna and back. Longer if I go to Belgrade or Serbia or farther east. You are bound to me all the way until we return to Rome. I will advance every lance one month’s pay and pay the balance when I can – when we reach Rome if not before. If we all survive this, I can almost guarantee you a longer-term contact with His Eminence.’

  ‘This condotta is worth about a thousand ducats, and you will pay it on completion? And I just trust you?’ Ser Columbino asked.

  ‘You get a month in advance. I expect I’ll pay the first month in gold at Venice. After that – no, I probably won’t pay you again until we return to Italy.’ Swan shrugged. ‘I work for Bessarion. You don’t have to trust me – we’ll sign a contract with notaries and seals.’

  Ser Columbino exhaled and narrowed his eyes. ‘I fear being stranded in some outlandish place with no money and no food,’ he said.

  ‘I fear being captured by the Turks,’ Swan said. ‘I won’t let you starve.’

  ‘Three months of half-pay when the contract is ended, under the usual stipulations,’ Ser Columbino said.

  ‘I don’t need to pay you not to fight against me,’ Swan said. ‘I’m not Venice or Milan. I don’t care who you serve after me.’

  ‘I must put it to my men. It is an outlandish condotta.’ Ser Columbino nodded.

  ‘No one else in Italy will pay you ten ducats a month per lance,’ Swan said. ‘And Bessarion will pay, unlike, say, Venice.’

  Ser Columbino shrugged. ‘You are a very good lance,’ he said. ‘Why do you not have a company of your own?’

  Swan laughed. ‘I usually move around with less ceremony and more … care. A company of lances would be too obvious.’

  Ser Columbino frowned. ‘I’ll put it to my men,’ he said.

  When he left the garden, Swan spoke to a rose bush. ‘Did I say this was going too well?’ he asked it.

  When he’d given all the plots a decent interval in which to mature, he went back to his bunk on the sixth floor, stripped of his sweat-soaked arming clothes, and washed in the basin again. He was just dressing when Montorio appeared at the head of the stairs with a dozen men-at-arms in light harness. Swan noted that all of them were annoyed at the long climb, and sweating freely.

  ‘Messire Suane,’ Montorio said in a hollow voice. ‘I arrest you in the name of the Lord of Rimini. Seize his baggage.’

  When their eyes met, Montorio had the grace to shrug. He didn’t even look apologetic. His eyes said, I told you.

  The Englishmen bridled. Swan turned to Peter. ‘I don’t want anyone hurt,’ he said slowly and clearly. ‘This is a misunderstanding.’

  Bigelow’s face told him how much trouble he was in – if he needed a guide. The archer looked ready to kill – or weep.

  Swan continued to lace his doublet as they led him down the six flights of steps and into the blinding spring sunlight of the courtyard.

  Montorio glanced at him. ‘You bear this well,’ he said. ‘You really appear unconcerned.’

  Swan grinned and hoped he was right. ‘I am unconcerned,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure you’ll tell me what I’m arrested for.’

  Montorio winced. ‘Theft, I fear,’ he said. ‘My lord is in a rage.’ Quietly, he added, ‘Why? I saw you look at it. You must have known it would be missed.’

  Swan shrugged. ‘Sometimes, I steal,’ he said. ‘Not here, though.’

  Montorio glanced at him in distaste.

  They entered the great hall. Malatesta was sitting amid his classical statues on his Greek stool. His eyes seemed to glow. Iso stood close by him, her hands clutched at her throat. And the rest of the court was there – Alberti, scowling, and a dozen women, all hiding their eyes, and the governess and the children.

  Two spearmen dropped his portmanteau and his smaller saddlebag at the foot of the dais.

  Other men brought in Peter and all Peter’s bags.

  The Wolf narrowed his eyes. ‘So – Bessarion sent me a thief. Make this easy – tell me where it is, and all you will do is die.’

  The spear point in his back drew blood. Swan realised that for all his cleverness, these were men of violence and they wanted blood. His.

  He stood very still. ‘I have taken nothing,’ he said. And then, carefully, ‘Here.’

  No one laughed.

  The Wolf grinned and showed his fangs. ‘Good. I like it better if you struggle. Search his bags.’

  The spearmen went through his bags. They did it with the ruthless intensity of professionals. They examined his breviary and his gold cross and coral beads, and they opened his razor case to see the bronze-handled razor and took apart his strop and his two sharpening stones.

  Then they slit open the collar of his cloak.

  Another man joined them and went through his boots and his doublets. His sweaty arming coat was produced. And slashed to ribbons.

  That tore it – Swan loved his arming coat.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he shrieked. His indignation wasn’t even a little feigned. ‘That’s half a
year of my money – damn you!’ he spat.

  He got a nice quarter-inch of spear in his back for his pains.

  The man with the arming coat looked at his lord. ‘Nothing here,’ he said.

  Malatesta fingered his beard. ‘Where is it? I can search all your Greeks and all their baggage. I can just start killing them – no one will care.’ He looked at Montorio. ‘And has he suborned the Englishmen?’

  Montorio nodded. ‘They all put their hands on their sword hilts. To be fair, Messire Swan told them to make no trouble.’

  Malatesta shook his head. ‘You Englishmen always stick together,’ he said, as if amused. ‘It is treason to suborn my soldiers.’

  ‘Start by telling me what is missing,’ Swan said as calmly as he could manage.

  ‘You know, you thief!’ Malatesta roared.

  I’ve played this badly, Swan thought. I’ll die here, trying to be smart when I’ve been stupid.

  There was blood running down the small of his back.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Swan said softly, trying to keep to his story. In fact, he did know, and he did know where the damned thing was. The part he hadn’t thought through – along with the violence – was how he’d get Malatesta to find it. A small error.

  ‘My Egyptian amulet! We all saw you admire it!’ The Wolf pointed at the governess. ‘She saw you handle it.’

  The governess looked at the floor.

  Swan nodded. ‘It is a beautiful piece,’ he said. ‘I don’t have it. How could I?’ He shrugged. ‘I haven’t been near it all day.’ Except when I put it back, but I can’t say that.

  ‘You must have taken it last night,’ Alberti said softly.

  Swan met the humanist’s eye. He hoped his look promised revenge.

  ‘Really?’ Swan asked. ‘While you all watched me?’

  Malatesta stood. ‘I ask you again – where is it?’

  Swan shrugged. ‘Perhaps in the curio cabinet. Have you looked?’

  The spearman to his left backhanded Swan. He was knocked back on the spear point, which went in almost half an inch. His lip was split. He moaned. He wondered how deep the spear point had to go to kill him. But the imp in his soul – the one that kept him tormenting older pages at Henry VI’s court even when they beat him – kept him from blurting out what he knew.