The Master of Verona (14 page)

Asdente rode through the rear echelons of the Veronese and Vicentine defenders. He held his stolen shield high, hoping no one looked too closely at the colour of his surcoat. He cast around, looking this way and that.

Some poor Paduan stumbled across his path. Keeping in his character of an angry Vicentine, the Toothless Master swung his weapon in an upward stroke. The horrible spiked metal ball hit, and a cloud of pink mist hit the air. The fool's chin came right off, landing on the ground behind him. The man flailed, but Vanni was too busy to do him the favor of killing him. He'd just spied what he was looking for, a bobbing head of chestnut hair where the fighting was heaviest. His prey's back was invitingly turned.

Asdente veered his horse and set it at an easy canter, to all appearances off to help his lord, weapon held at the ready.

Following in the Scaliger's wake, Pietro hacked and slashed with his longsword. He tried to remember his one lesson from years ago. The voice of the instructor rose up from memory, shouting, 'Thrust, don't hack! A point always beats an edge!' But when your enemy was running with his back to you, a swing was as good as a stab. Working to control his blade while staying in his saddle, Pietro was too busy to be terrified. His greatest fear was of losing his weapon. It seemed far too big for his hands.

What astonished him was how fast everything seemed to move. He'd seen the fightbooks with their orderly woodcut prints of stately knights doing slow, measured battle. In the field it was completely different, and the learning curve was deadly. But before him was the best teacher a man could wish for. Even as he chopped at the men around him, Pietro was aware of the easy martial moves of the Capitano's mace — the arcing swings that killed, then looped around for the next victim. Pietro tried his best to emulate the moves.

Some Paduans were turning now, knowing they couldn't outrun death. Pietro saw an axe rising and quickly hauled his blade up to meet it. He caught the axehead on the upstroke, yanking the weapon from the Paduan's grip. Pietro hurtled past the man, who flung himself to the ground in terror. Already there was another threat looming on Pietro's right, a man with a spear, but the Capitano was there first. A fiery wheel of destruction, the Scaliger bared his teeth in a joyful grimace as he pulled back on the reins. The horse under him checked as Cangrande leaned back in the saddle, dodging a spear thrust that would have caught him under the chin. His left leg flicked out of its stirrup. Snaking out, he wrapped it around the spear, pinning the shaft neatly between the saddle's wooden front and the groove of his left knee. The silver spur at his heel flicked out, slicing into the soldier's arm. The weapon involuntarily released from his grip, the Paduan turned and fled.

But four more Paduans were already moving in to kill the Scaliger and take his horse. Still leaning back, Cangrande used the mace to fend off an attack on his right side. Sitting up, his left hand grasped the haft of the trapped spear, spinning it over his head to slice through a man's cheek, then reversing the weapon to hammer the butt end into an exposed throat. Jupiter took down another man, pinning him to the ground and snapping at his face. The greyhound's teeth were covered in blood.

Pietro had pulled up on his reins at the same time as Cangrande, thinking to move to the Scaliger's aid. Now he just watched in amazement. "Good God…" Mouth open, Pietro realized he'd let his sword hang at his side. If a Paduan had come across him, he'd have died a stupid death then and there. But the enemy were all ahead of him, fleeing towards Quartesolo and the bridge over the Tessina to safety.

Just to be sure there were no Paduans at his back, he wheeled his horse about. The field behind him was littered with the dead and wounded and surrendered, but there were no armed men on foot. Pietro was about pick up the chase again when he noticed a single rider galloping towards them. He carried a Vicentine shield, the castle tower and the winged lion quite visible on the red and white background. But there was something wrong. Pietro was hard pressed to put a name to it.

The rider wasn't looking at the Paduans running towards the river — his eyes were fixed on Cangrande's back! There was the faintest glimpse of triumph across the snarling wrecked face.

Pietro shouted, "Cangrande!"

The Scaliger looked back, but too late — the bastard had already launched his attack, a heavy swing with a morning star, the ball and chain at the peak of its arc. Cangrande's head was bare, his helmet tossed aside in defiant contempt.

The fingers on the Capitano's right hand relaxed, discarding the mace. The spear came up across the head of his horse, the free hand gripping the spear's lower haft. Thus braced in both hands, the wooden pole whipped up over Cangrande's head. He leaned back over the
secondo arcione
of his saddle, arching his spine painfully, holding the spear away from him, a bar over his body.

The hurtling chain bit into the spear's haft and the metal ball curled underneath and around it, passing the Scaliger's face by inches. The chain wrapped itself harmlessly around and around the wooden pole, leaving the spiked ball hanging impotently.

Cangrande yanked forward, pulling the handle from Asdente's grasp. In a continuation of the same move the spear was reversed and thrust backward. The butt connected with the Paduan's groin. Doubling over in his saddle, Asdente gasped.

"Be grateful, Vanni," said Cangrande. "I could have used the sharp end."

"Go — to Hell," gasped the Paduan.

"You should really stick to making shoes, Asdente," observed the Scaliger. Pietro laughed at the literary allusion, but Asdente looked blank. Cangrande sighed. "For Christ's sake, man, read a poem!" He cracked Asdente's skull with the spear's butt, and the Paduan's limp body toppled out of his saddle to land in an ungainly heap on the trampled earth. For good measure, Jupiter bit him on the upper thigh.

The Capitano dropped to the ground and retrieved the morning star. Weighing it in his hands, he flashed a bright grin at Pietro. "Sneaky bastard."

"Yes, my lord," agreed Pietro.

Cangrande climbed back into his saddle. "Pietro, my darling boy, you just came between me and death. That renders something as formal as 'lord' a trifle ridiculous, don't you think? Come up with another title. And I'll think of one for you."

Hearing the hinted promise of distinction, Pietro flushed. "Thank you, lord. I mean…"

But Cangrande was already spurring after the fleeing Paduans. "
Giach giach giach giach!
Come on!" The Scaliger touched his spurs and his mount raced forward.

Pietro tried to follow, but his spurless heels did nothing to convince his horse to move. Pietro hissed at it, hit its sides with his fists, shook the reins — nothing.
I guess I'm stuck
, he thought.

He glanced around him, looking for danger. If his horse wouldn't move he was a sitting target. The battle was carrying on past him, and try as he might he couldn't get the beast to budge.

Suddenly loosing a frightened whinny, the horse reared violently. Whatever spooked it, a noise, a wasp, a sudden blinding reflection off someone's armour, all Pietro knew was the lurch beneath him as his horse went up on its hind legs and pawed the air.

With a fierce thud the front hooves returned to earth. Pietro rocked back, his jaw snapping shut inside his helmet. He fought to sit upright again as the horse gallopped madly towards the battle. "Whoa! Whoa!!"

At the bridge of Quartesolo the fighting had grown desperate. The bridge was the Paduan path to freedom and the killing field between it and San Pietro was utter chaos.

It was at the bridge that the score of men gathered by the two Carrarese held their ground. This tight cluster of defenders had begun to notice how few the Scaliger's forces really were. They could turn the fight around with a hard push — as long as the archers on the walls did not open fire. Several men glanced up, wondering why they had not been hit with a hailstorm of arrows. Perhaps the archers didn't want to hit their own men? That made them all the more eager to engage in close fighting.

The Paduan ring naturally earned the attention of all the unengaged Vicentines. They pressed forward, only to have their horses speared and to fall under a trample of hooves. The bodies of the mounts provided a wall for the Paduans that the next wave of attackers had to navigate, exposing themselves as they did to their enemies' blades.

"Hold them!" shouted Marsilio, echoing his uncle a few feet away. He was again loading his crossbow and scanning the field to find quarry. His uncle disapproved of the weapon, as it was not strictly within the knight's code. But Cangrande had brought bowmen, and Marsilio was feeling rightously vengeful.

There! Cangrande was in sight, held up in helping some Vicentines deal with a smaller group of men who had turned to fight. It was a tricky shot — sighting down the length of the weapon, Marsilio waited for a clear line of fire. He tracked the riding figure, squinted, braced himself, and triggered the release.

Suddenly a knight in a plain helmet and gambeson darted into his vision, blocking Cangrande from view. Had the bolt hit its target? Marsilio couldn't tell. All he could see was the madman riding recklessly for the Paduan line. His horse was a giant
destrier
, fully armoured. A beast that size could tear a hole into the Paduan resistance, opening a gap that the other Vicentines would exploit.

Il Grande saw the same danger. "Stop him!"

Such a monster might not even feel anything less than a mortal blow. Marsilio began reloading his crossbow. He couldn't stop the horse, but the rider was easy pickings. His practiced hands racheted the new bolt into place as his angry eyes looked for a clear shot.

Moments before, Pietro was frantically trying to get his horse under control. It ran willy-nilly, carrying the bone-jolted teen along for the ride. Worse, he could see where it was blindly charging — straight into a tight band of Paduans bristling with spears and halberds and swords. Anywhere but there! "Come on, boy!" he cried as he yanked on the reins again. Perhaps if he'd worn spurs he could have made the beast veer, but reins alone were no good. The most he achieved were slight variations in the horse's angle.

Looking up into that fearsome band of men by the bridge Pietro saw a dark-haired young knight on horseback adjust behind the front line of Paduans. Then Pietro caught sight of the wooden cross and a long curved piece of metal at its head. A crossbow! The comely Paduan brought it up level with his target, squinting along the bolt for the center of the Scaliger's chest.

Pietro had no breath left to shout a warning. Instead, he steered his horse directly into the path of the arrow's flight. He saw the bolt release, a faded grey line tracing through the air at him. Fearful of the impending missile but unable to veer off, he closed his eyes.
Dear Christ, please..!

Bows had long been prohibited by the law of men and the rule of the Church, called cowardly by knights and unholy by priests. The closest to a compromise that fighting men had made was employing the crossbow in the place of the bow of yew. Slower to load and heavier, the crossbow still had the power to take a fully armoured knight out of his saddle and leave his body seemingly hanging in midair as his life spilt out of him.