The Long Sword (13 page)

I bowed.

‘And how exactly shall I punish you for the
lese majeste
of attacking my person?’ he asked suddenly.

My hand went to the empty space over my hip where my arming sword should have been.

He shrugged again and turned away. ‘We will see,’ he said.

We made it back to the convent by riding quickly on the main streets with our helmets on and our visors closed. I dismounted in the yard, gave my horse to one of Nerio’s pages, and ran, fully armed, for Father Pierre and Fra Peter. I found them at prayer.

I had never interrupted a priest at prayer but I cleared my throat a few times, and eventually Fra Peter and two of his knights turned to look at me, and he saw it in my posture and my face and came to the back of the chapel, scattering nuns and lay sisters as he came.

‘I have the papers, but della Scala means us harm, I’d swear to it. He claims a bishop, Robert of Geneva …’ I paused.

Fra Peter let slip a nasty word.

Father Pierre’s head came up.

Well, we’re all merely mortals.

‘If it were up to me, I’d take the legate and ride right now,’ I said. ‘Somehow the populace has been convinced that we are Guelfs and the guilds are arming under their banners.’

Ser Niccolò Accaioulo took a deep breath. ‘Of course, we
are
Guelfs. Famous ones, too.’ He shrugged elaborately. ‘Whether this is planned or happenstance, our presence is making it worse.’

I shook my head. ‘Begging your pardon, messire, but Nerio’s presence gave della Scala a little pause. It might have been what saved us. We rode into a trap.’

Father Pierre, clad only in his Carmelite robes, strode down the nave of the chapel to join us.

‘You men of blood,’ he said. He was angry. ‘What have you done?’

I was more than a little crushed, I can tell you, to have my spiritual father assume I was to blame.

Fra Peter raised his hand. ‘Your Excellency, this is apparently brought on by your brother in Christ, Robert of Geneva.’

The legate narrowed his eyes.

‘They will use the Accaioulo as an excuse to attack us,’ Fra Peter said.

‘They would provoke war with the Pope, with Venice, and with Florence,’ Ser Niccolò said. He pulled at his beard. ‘Someone has told them otherwise, eh, messires?’

While we stood, the abbess and two senior nuns rose from their knees and went to the great oak doors of the chapel. There, a pair of novices whispered to them; the abbess looked stricken, and put a hand to the cross at her neck.

She approached the legate with her eyes cast down. ‘Excellence, there is a rabble at the gates,’ she said.

Fra Peter turned to me. ‘You and your men are armed. You must hold them until the knights of the Order are ready …’

Father Pierre looked at us – and smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I will not allow a single Veronese to be killed. Much less you gentlemen, who love me. God will protect me, messires.’ He turned to me. ‘Do not follow me, unless you are unarmed.’

Fra Peter gave me a look. It is surprising how much information a man or a woman can convey in a single flick of the eyes. I knelt before the legate, and he put a hand on my head and blessed me.

‘Come!’ he said. ‘But leave your swords. Because I will neither live by one nor die by one.’ He walked out of the chapel and I followed him into the yard. It was already dark, and we could hear the crowd at the convent gates.

‘Mount,’ I said. ‘For the love of God, gentles, mount and draw your swords, but take no action unless the crowd strikes the legate.’

Nerio pressed his horse in beside mine. ‘You know what you are doing?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I lied.

Nerio saluted me with his sword.

Ahead of us, Fra Peter and Fra John of the Scottish priory – John Cameron, that was – opened the gates.

A cluster of nuns appeared around the legate with torches.

The legate wore neither cope nor chasuble, nor any garment of gold. But in the orange torchlight, he seemed to glow. The mob – the crowd, I should say, because they were citizens and craftsmen, not the poor – the crowd gave back a step.

‘Brothers and sisters in Christ!’ Father Pierre said. He said it gently, firmly, and his voice carried.

He took a small wooden cross from one of the sisters. They stood their ground with the resolution of English archers or Swiss spearmen – women can be stauncher than men. Behind them stood a dozen knights of the Order, all in their scarlet, but none armed beyond daggers.

‘He’s the Emperor’s man!’ shouted an educated voice safe in the heart of the crowd. A voice whose Italian was tinged with French.

‘Brothers and sisters!’ Father Pierre called again. ‘Do you know that the Holy Father has preached a great crusade? Do you know that the princes of the West are even now gathering at Venice under the banner of the King of Cyprus to strike a great blow for Christ, and retake Jerusalem if it can be accomplished?’ He smiled his gentle smile. ‘I
would
serve the Emperor, if he would come to me and tell me that he would lead a thousand of his best knights to Jerusalem. In the eyes of Christ, there are no Guelfs and no Ghibbelines! There is only the flock of Christ – and the wolves that seek to divide us so that they can consume us. Brothers and sisters, shall we all pray for the state of Christendom?’

‘He is a liar and a hypocrite!’ the voice said, conversationally. ‘The Pope will sell this city for gold – to barbarians!’

I knew that voice. I’d listened to it for too long – after Brignais.

It was d’Herblay. In Italy. Safe, deep in a crowd, and I was standing, head bowed, unarmed.

But Father Pierre ignored the voice as if it didn’t exist. He knelt. He was within a spear’s length of a man with a heavy axe; there were armed apprentices even closer than that. The nuns drew back a little, so that all could see him. Then they knelt, ten women of faith.

The knights knelt. If you have never knelt in steel leg harnesses, let me tell you that it is God’s own penance for the Orders of Chivalry.

After a pause of a breath most of the people in the crowd knelt, too, but my horse sensed my tension and began to fret, tossing his head and moving his back feet.

Father Pierre raised his hands and began the paternoster.

All the people in the street began to say it with him.

It isn’t listed as one of his miracles. But I was there. He
glowed.
And not a man or woman died.

The crowd broke up quickly. I waited by the gate, eager to follow my quarry, but Father Pierre was on to me as soon as he rose to his feet and walked back in to the walls. He saw me and smiled.

‘Your whole body speaks of violence,’ he said. ‘Jesus came to speak of peace. Walk inside.’

‘But—’ I began.

He didn’t frown. He looked pained.

I took a deep breath, took my hand from my dagger hilt, and turned away from the gate.

In truth, had I killed d’Herblay in Verona that night, my Emile would have been a widow, and I might have been a much happier man. Yet, as Fra Peter said to me, the habit of obedience is essential to honour. Once you put your trust in a man, you must be prepared to obey. And perhaps, in my scarlet surcoat, I would merely have walked out into the streets and been killed.

We left Verona very early. I didn’t sleep much, and neither did Fra Peter or Ser Niccolò, but in the end we had everyone saddled and ready in the courtyard as the darkness began its retreat from morning’s light. We opened the gates on an empty street, and we rode into the next square, formed our column, and moved to the river as quickly as we could manage.

They were just opening the gates, a fine triple arch to the north. I presented our travel documents to the officer on the gate.

He flicked through them. And nodded.

The gates continued to open.

We passed through them, bags and baggage, in about the time it would take a man to say the Ave Maria. No one was disposed to linger. I saluted the gate officer, took our travel papers back, and rode through. When I emerged on the other side, I found I’d hunched my back against … well, boiling oil, which I feared all the way under the arch.

We passed Montorio, a Cavalli castle, a little outside of town, and one of the knights of that house rode up to us with his banner displayed. He knelt in the road and accepted the cross of a crusader, and we rode for Vicenza – and Venice.

Vicenza was beautiful, although not as beautiful as Verona. Padua was richer yet. The plains of northern Lombardy were, if anything, yet richer, and the hills were incredibly lush. Everything smelled wonderful – the hills smell of flowers and crushed grass even at the height of summer.

Fiore looked at the country north of Verona with a predatory eye. ‘They say the cows give butter,’ he said. ‘That’s how rich they are.’

Indeed, as we passed from town to town and city to city, I was struck nearly dumb by the riches. Every town had a cathedral and some had two. There were monasteries and castles on every hill; vineyards covered the hillsides, and there were almost as many olive trees as I had seen around Sienna and Pisa.

As far as I could tell, this country had never known war. And having just come from Avignon, the contrast with France couldn’t have been greater – the difference between a beautiful house and a burned-out shell. The peasants wore good wool, and many had Egyptian cloth shirts; women wore fine gowns, often well fitting, and with enough buttons to pass as the gentry of England. They ate good bread and drank good wine and their sausages were among the best I’ve ever had.

And the closer we got to Venice, the denser the traffic on the roads. By the time we reached Padua, we were passing trains of merchant wagons and laden pack animals carrying cloth from the northern fairs, cloth that had come over the passes from Savoy and the Swiss cantons, from Germany and Flanders and England. And we passed a pair of wagons carrying Bohemian glass and armour, sword blades from Germany, and then load after load of grain from all the country about.

Fra Peter winked at me. ‘Have you been to Venice?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘You know I have not,’ I answered.

He laughed. ‘You are full of surprises, William. But Venice is … remarkable. And all of this is but a tithe of the products that flow through her port. Most of it comes by sea, or up the canals.’

Well, who has not heard of Venice?

We had planned to take a more northerly route from Padua and the legate had tasks in every city, but he received letters at Padua, one from the Pope urging him to haste, and letters from the bishops of England, Normandy and Burgundy.

That night in Padua, Sister Marie came to my room. She found me reworking the scabbard of my arming sword. It was a fine sword, and I prized it, but the leather was coming off the wood core of the scabbard where Juan had stepped on it. All the donats were gathered around my straw pallet, watching me, and Miles Stapleton had a stinking pot of fish-hide glue he’d got from the leatherworker across the convent yard.

‘But the wood’s broken!’ Juan said in his Catalan French.

Sister Marie appeared at the door. I remember this as if it was yesterday. She wrinkled her nose at the smell and then pushed in with her intense curiosity about everything that characterised her.

I pulled a small, flat piece of bronze out of my shoulder scrip. It was a clipping off a larger piece, and I’d bought it for almost nothing the day before. I held it up so Juan could see it.

He grinned.

I used my eating knife, which was sharper than a razor, to shave the broken wood away. My eyes met Sister Marie’s, and she smiled, so I went on.

I took the brush from the warm glue and spread the stinking stuff on the wood, and pushed the broken edges together. ‘It looks repaired, like this,’ I said. ‘But it’s like a man with a broken bone. If you don’t splint it, it won’t knit. So I take the metal plate …’

Suiting action to word, I laid one small bronze strip on the back of the scabbard, and the second on the front, as if I was splinting a bone, indeed. Then I pulled the leather of the scabbard cover back into place. ‘The leather makes a tight seal. You have to sew it up while the glue is still warm and wet.’ I used a curved needle – a rare commodity,
purchased back in Bologna for half a florin – and in twenty stitches, I had the whole scabbard fixed.

I used a little more glue on the mouth of the scabbard’s chape, and slid it back on to the point of the scabbard; then I put two holding stitches through the leather. I turned the scabbard around. The plates showed a little under the thin-stretched red leather, but altogether, it was a decent job.

Sister Marie shook her head. ‘The glue inside will dry and fill the scabbard,’ she said.

I grinned; it’s so nice to actually know something, when you are a young man. ‘Miles?’ I said, and Stapleton produced a second smelly tin, this one full of tallow. I took my arming sword and coated the blade a fingernail thick in tallow, and then slid it home.

‘Good for the scabbard’s wood; good for the sword. And now the glue has nothing to hold.’ I smiled at Sister Marie, and she grinned.

‘You are a useful young man,’ she allowed. ‘Can you fix a book cover?’

I shrugged. ‘I imagine I can,
ma soeur
. I made all the fittings for a Bible once.’

‘Hmmf,’ she said, or something like it. ‘Well, that was a good trick, that with the tallow. If I break my scabbard, I’ll come and find you.’ She turned to go, and paused. ‘My old memory is playing me games,’ she said. ‘I came with a curious letter. Addressed to “Guillaume D’Or, Miles Dei”.’ Her eyes met mine.

I shrugged. And reached for it.

‘The bishop of Nantes included it,’ she went on, her eyes fixed on mine. She was withholding it.

I sighed. ‘Truly, Sister, I have no idea.’

She placed it in my hand. ‘The legate’s couriers are not for your private letters,’ she said. She raised one eyebrow, as if to suggest that she knew a thing or two, which I did not doubt for an instant.

She slipped out of the room.

Juan shook his head. ‘She thinks all men are fools,’ he said. ‘She is too forward.’