Текст книги "Castillon"

Автор книги: Christian Cameron

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But not as interesting as the kitchens.

However, it took no great daring or sleight of hand to pick a pewter cup full of wine off the sideboard and carry it out, across the yard, to the stable. In any great hall there’s always someone too rich, too drunk or too stupid to remember his cup. Swan carried it to Peter and left it by his head.

Then he walked along the edge of the French merchant’s wagons.

No one challenged him.

Wagons – especially unattended wagons – interested him almost as much as tales of war and chivalry. He walked slowly along them, tapping them idly with his fist. He wasn’t able to stop and search any of them – the courtyard was far too full of monks and visitors.

But it was interesting that at least one wagon was empty.

He walked on, around the back of the great central building, past the herb garden and the dispensary, to the back of the kitchen. The heat pouring out of the kitchen was visible as ripples in the air, and the summer night was hot enough to melt wax. Most of the trestles were now here, in the back, and a bagpiper was playing while a circle of men danced. There was a lot of food.

Swan smiled. He walked in boldly and took a large chunk of pork. He didn’t even have an eating knife, so he had to eat it in chunks, like a dog.

‘You’re really just an overgrown boy, aren’t ye?’ Tilda said. ‘But you’re a gent. I saw you up there.’

‘I tried to catch your eye,’ he said. ‘You ignored me.’

She shrugged. ‘You weren’t an archer, were ye?’

He shook his head.

‘Too many teeth,’ she said. ‘I should ha’ known.’

‘You have all your teeth,’ he said.

She shrugged. Hugged herself despite the night air’s warmth.

‘But you know we’re here – eh? You know your way around a kitchen. And a cook.’ Tilda smiled, but it was a hesitant smile as if a wall had grown between them.

He smiled and nodded.

‘And you aren’t going to tell me any more,’ she said.

A few feet away, a very thin girl hit a man so hard he went down. Everyone laughed.

‘I’m a bastard son. I haven’t a penny, and I’ve promised the cardinal that my father will pay a thousand florins for me.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s the truth.’ He looked at her from under his eyelashes to see her reaction.

She was smiling a little and looking elsewhere.

‘I’m Thomas,’ he said. ‘That’s the truth, too.’

She nodded, pursed her lips, and nodded again. ‘I can find you a pricker and an eating knife, maybe,’ she said. ‘I admit it – I like that you sound like a gent.’

He decided to risk telling the truth. ‘I’d rather have clean clothes,’ he said.

She looked at him – just out of the corner of her eye, the way grown women look. ‘If I do your clothes, you’ll be naked,’ she said.

He tingled. ‘I could perhaps live with that, if you won’t sell me to the cardinal.’

‘Naked?’ she asked.

‘I’m told it’s what he likes,’ Swan quipped.

She nodded. ‘Mmm.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve been a fool twicet, youngling. Once I followed a soldier what told me he’d marry me, and then, to atone for a life o’ sin, I thought I’d work in the abbey.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Godly people.’ She shook her head. ‘There are some, I allow. And some as ought to have done what I done.’

A heavy pottery jar of hard cider was thrust into Swan’s hands. He took a drink and handed it to Tilda, who drank.

Then she took his hand – hers was a curious mixture of rough and smooth.

It took time to get a fire lit in the laundry. There were coals from the day’s fire, but no wood in the hamper, and again he was carrying wood. He stopped for more cider, and another slice of pork. There were a hundred people dancing.

Cesare was leaning against the cool stone of the abbey, watching. He put a hand on Swan’s shoulder. ‘If you work like a servant, they’ll treat you like a servant,’ he said in Italian.

Swan smiled. ‘I know,’ he said with far too much honesty. ‘I’m getting clean clothes.’

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 means 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 grated 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.

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.