Devil at Midnight (33 page)

Grace, said a gentle voice from inside her mind. This is not what you’re
here for.

She hung her head, contrite but still angry. She knew better than to look around for a speaker.
I know,
she thought to her angel, but how could
a
normal
person forgive
this?

She had to strain to hear the voice when it came again.

No one dies, Grace. This thing you
call
Death is not
an
end.

Maybe it wasn’t, but her heart still tripped like a hammer as she raced off to warn Christian.

C
hristian’s father was putting on a show, or that’s how Grace looked at it when the second shoe finally dropped. Nim Wei and her escort had arrived in Florence the previous night, making camp in the bare fields outside the walls. In the morning, Gregori slipped away. On his return, he’d announced—as if they ought to slap him on the back for it—that the city fathers had agreed to let their group stage a spectacle, a test of arms that would display their martial prowess to prospective customers.

According to Christian, Florentines were great employers of
condottiere.
When it came to waging small-scale wars against rival families, mercenaries were the preferred means. Gregori’s men would square off with Christian’s on the Ponte Vecchio, the old bridge across the Arno. Whoever ended up controlling more territory would be declared the winner. Cosimo de’ Medici was sponsoring the prize.

Grace would have been excited; the Medici family were history’s movie stars. Unfortunately, she was too busy choking down her terror.

She knew she was hovering too close to Christian as he and his men suited up in the shadowed corner of a cor-tile. On the other end of the bridge, Gregori’s faction would be doing the same in the courtyard of another merchant prince’s palazzo, probably with a similar marble fountain plashing in its center. Gangs of young boys were running back and forth across the river, reporting on each team’s progress to the sharp-eyed, well-dressed men who were taking bets.

The cost of buying standing room in one of the butchers’ shops that lined the bridge had increased by half since an hour ago.

“Peace,” Christian finally said to Grace. His expression showed no fear, only determination. “We can defeat them. The advantages the vampire gave my father’s men will only help him underestimate us more.”

“Maybe you should go to her,” Grace said, unable to prevent her ephemeral hands from clutching at his sleeve. “It’s daytime, and she’ll be weak, but maybe there’s something she can do to even the odds.”

“Grace,” Christian said, an oddly sweet castigation. “You do not truly want me to do that.”

“You could just go then. Run away with your men.”

Ignoring how it would look to those who couldn’t see her, Christian took her shoulders between his gauntleted hands. The articulated metal scales shielded the knuckle side of his fingers, and they were unexpectedly mobile. “You know I want to be the kind of man you are proud to love.”

“I am proud. Always. But Christian—”

“No.” He cut her off, calm but stern. “Trust me to know my business.”

“All right,” she said, swallowing back her protests. “I’ll have faith in you.”

He smiled with dazzling boyishness, his beautiful dark eyes gleaming with an emotion that clenched her heart.

“As I have faith in you,” he said.

 

 

I
t was easier to talk of faith than to have it, but Christian did what he could. His men were armed with pikes,
zweihander
swords, and whatever their personal favored small weapon was. No missile weapons were permitted, for fear of injuring bystanders. In addition to this, they were expected to eschew killing blows.

None of Christian’s men counted on his father’s side honoring this-least of all Philippe and Matthaus.

“Do not worry about us,” Philippe said as he wiggled two-handed into his visored helm. Matthaus adjusted its mail attachments to hang correctly around the neck and shoulders.

“We will look out for each other,” Matthaus agreed. “We do not want you distracted.”

Michael was beside the couple. He straightened up from buckling his second knee guard to clap a hand on Philippe’s shoulder. He had yet to pull on his metal gauntlets, but he would soon. As with the visors-which they did not always wear-today the need for protection outweighed the need for less encumberment.

“You are ours,” Michael said to Matthaus. “We will do whatever we can for you.”

Christian had to turn away with his throat burning. Oh, he did not like this feeling. Someone was going to die today. He knew that in his gut.

Settle, he ordered himself.
You will get through what you have to-without dishonoring yourself in front of
Grace. You need only take the step immediately in front of you.

“Ready?” he asked the others once he saw that they were.

As one, they nodded. Their strides rang in unison as they exited the courtyard for the broad via. A huzzah went up from the bands of boys, excited that the fight was going to begin. Christian ignored the noise. The fateful bridge stretched before them, its three graceful arches sinking into and reflecting off the Arno’s small ripples. Caught by a sadness he could not repress, he turned to look back at the city. The sight he was seeking was the easiest to find: the beautiful egg-shaped Duomo soaring above the rest of the red-tiled roofs. For the better part of a century, the sanctuary had remained exposed to the elements, awaiting Brunelleschi’s genius to figure out how to enclose it. Even after meeting Grace, Christian was not certain he believed in heaven. The dome reminded him it was possible to believe in man.

He had only paused for a moment, but it bolstered him. He did not turn again from his path until they reached their assigned staging area at the Ponte Vecchio’s northern end. The crowd on either side of the bridge’s length was thick, stuffed into the boteghas in their finest and most colorful raiment. This was a festival for the Florentines, an excuse to drink and bet and show off for their neighbors. Christian knew these Italians. They would not quibble if blood was spilled.

The stench of bloodshed was there already, thanks to the ponte’s predominant businesses. The river made a handy place for the butchers to dispose of their offal.

With an inward sigh, he continued forward without his men, to exchange formal greetings with his father. Gregori would not be fighting. Each side was restricted to six men, and with Hans gone, that meant he had to sit out. The crowd cheered as father and son bowed to each other. The official-a skinny, funereal man in a flat black cap with gold trim-announced that the contest would begin with alternating pike charges, the side who would go first to be determined by the toss of a coin. They were not to follow the assault with a “push of pike,” as would be customary in battle, but only see what damage could be done in the initial collision.

“Agreed,” Christian’s father said silkily.

Christian did not know if Gregori rigged the toss, but it fell in Christian’s favor. His men-at-arms would take the offensive first. He walked back to them, and they gathered round.

“No holding back,” he said. “Any opportunity we have to exact a toll on them, we must exploit.”

The success of a pike assault depended upon weight and momentum. Otherwise, the long blade-tipped poles would glance off their targets. To meet the charge, Gregori’s fighters formed a small triangular schiltron. They settled on one knee with their pikes planted on the ground so the points rayed out in a hedge. For the first time, Christian noticed that their armor had been blackened, like dread knights spreading awe and fear at a tournament.

Christian barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He reminded himself the overly dramatic gesture would come in handy for telling the sides apart in any confusion.

He nodded, and his men tipped down their faceplates.

They took off together without a signal, without hesitation, even with a kind of joy at doing what they had trained for most of their lives. Halfway there, they leveled and aimed their weapons, their speed increasing in unison.

Christian sucked a breath and held it for impact.

When they hit, it was as if they had run full tilt into an immovable castle wall. Two of Christian’s men fell over but none of Gregori’s. Christian got a solid strike past Timkin’s guard, though without doing injury. The best their attack accomplished was William splintering off Lavaux’s pike tip. The hot-tempered man did not like that, but it hardly disabled him. He would simply replace the broken weapon.

“Excellent,” praised the funereal Florentine as mostly Christian’s men panted. “Now the younger Durand’s team may form up.”

‟Scheisse,” Michael cursed, exchanging a look with Christian. If this was how strong Nim Wei had made Gregori’s men, they were well and truly in for it.

But there was nothing to be done about it.

“Defensive maneuvers only,” Christian instructed as they set themselves. “Block all strikes. With the force they are able to put behind their blows, we cannot rely on armor protecting us.”

Gregori’s men did not charge with the same coordination as Christian’s. Their strides were staggered, their acceleration uneven. All the same, the hollow clangor of them pounding forward was impressive. Christian’s heart nearly burst with pride as his men braced each other shoulder to shoulder.

To his amazement, the collision did not level them. They skidded back on their knees until sparks flew from their poleyns, but none of them were knocked over.

Christian heard the cheers of their watchers through ringing ears. The surprised tenor of the sound said Christian’s men were not the favorites, odds-wise. But he could not allow that to matter. According to the rules the Florentines had established, Gregori’s fighters had to withdraw, to await the next stage of the contest. Christian could see most of Gregori’s men would rather have pushed on now. The normally impassive Timkin looked as if he had swallowed a sour lemon.

And then the anvil fell, the signal that Christian’s father would not restrict himself to one underhanded trick. The official with the flat black cap was calling out scores for bettors when Lavaux pretended to catch his toe on a stone.

As he “accidentally” lost his balance, Lavaux was facing Christian’s men-facing Philippe, in point of fact. Christian leaped to his feet, crying out, but he had no time to stop what was unfolding. There was a small opening between the plates that shielded Philippe’s chest and right arm. Taken by surprise, Philippe had no chance to parry effectively. As Lavaux tripped, the sharp steel head of his pike found the chink in Philippe’s armor, sliding through the chain mail underneath like it was butter. Pikes could be hard to handle; the poles were flexible and the ends would bounce. The angle of this supposedly happenstance thrust was flawless. Blood spurted up the shaft in a red fountain.

The whole affair took two heartbeats. Christian’s cry was joined by Matthaus’s, who had also jumped up. When Philippe toppled with the long wooden haft sticking out of him, it was William who caught him. Philippe was already dead. His head flopped bonelessly to the side while more blood—from his mouth, Christian presumed—trickled out from beneath his helm.

Matthaus looked at his fallen comrade, then at Lavaux, and then he attacked Lavaux like a snarling beast. Christian was more than ready to help him avenge his lover, but the Florentines intervened.

“Stop!” they ordered, swarming around Matthaus to pull him back. “Fermate! You cannot kill a man for an accident.”

“Accident!” Matthaus cried, his voice echoing hoarsely behind his sallet. “This son of a whore killed Philippe on purpose! ”

“It was God’s will,” Lavaux taunted from his protected sprawl. “God’s judgment on a catamite.”

Mace and Oswald had been looking on uneasily, but Lavaux’s reminder of who he had killed shored up their wavering loyalty. The Florentines lost whatever sympathy they might have been feeling at the same time. So often accused of the crime of sodomy themselves, they could not be seen to approve of it.

“Obviously this is unfortunate,” the main official said after an awkward pause. “Do you wish to continue?”

Christian looked to Matthaus, his visor now shoved up. Grief would come to him soon enough, but at the moment his eyes blazed with pure fury.

“Yes,” Matthaus said, the words bitten out like gravel between his teeth. “We very much wish to
continue.”

William returned from carrying Philippe’s lifeless body to a watching barber-surgeon. The tunic that draped William’s armor bore a long splotch of red.

“Yes,” William seconded. “And, pray you, do not ask any of the elder Durand’s men to retire. We would prefer to fight all of them.”

The official stared at William’s set expression, clearly gauging just how deadly it was. He must have known this fight had turned personal. A fresh spate of excited murmurs rolled through the crowd. Shouts for new bets rang out, and somewhere a woman let out a wail whose cause Christian could not discern.