Demon Knight

Tyndrum, then glanced around. A man must not arrive at a ball covered in mud and reeking of horse, but that did not mean he had to go home in the same dreadful engine of torture in which he had arrived. He thumped a handy shoulder.

'Facino, I grant you the privilege of holding the condottiere's hand on the journey. Make sure he doesn't choke. I'll see your horse gets back safely.'

As a staunch Italian republican, Facino was unimpressed by the Spaniard's impeccable pedigree, and he erupted in lurid protestations that being bounced around in a box with an unconscious drunk was above and beyond the call of duty. His comrades barked more cannonades of laughter.

'I'll give you a medal!' Toby hoisted him bodily into the coach, although he was no lightweight, then closed the door on him. The onlookers laughed louder still, and now even the knights among them were joining in.

Facino's head came out of the window. 'A gold one!'

'He didn't tell you where he's going to hang it, Facino!'

'It's the horse that deserves the medal!'

And so on. Chuckling, Toby turned to adjust the stirrup leathers on Facino's mount. He was forestalled—

'Allow me this honor, comandante!' The big man with the buttery smile was Baldassare Barrafranca, former lord of Rimini. His career as a condottiere was a catalogue of dismal mediocrity, but he was a capable enough fighter when aimed in the right direction and told when to start. He led his own post of five lances. He was not a man Toby Longdirk would turn his back on in a dark alley.

At which thought, Toby glanced around and caught the eye of the Chevalier D'Anjou. For a fleeting moment he saw slavering jaws, yellow fangs, and slitted wolfish eyes, as if some demonic nightmare was about to leap on him. He blinked, and the illusion had gone — lack of sleep could play strange tricks on a man. The veteran knight was scarred and weatherbeaten, with a gray-streaked beard and head habitually canted to favor his right eye, but he was no demon. On the other hand, he could not be described as likable. Toby could not recall ever seeing the crabby old blackguard smile before.

'That is as long as they will go, comandante,' Barrafranca said, oozing back with a half bow.

'Thank you.' Toby put a boot in the stirrup and swung up onto the mare. He nodded to the Chevalier. 'Lead the men out, if you please, squadriere.'

There was a perceptible pause before the yellow teeth showed again. 'It is my honor, comandante. Guard, mount up!'

The seigneur disliked taking orders from the Scottish bastard. Toby watched the old scoundrel scramble onto his great destrier with help from his squire. Camp tales described him as the last survivor of the French royal house, rightful monarch of several countries. Unlike Barrafranca, he had no cause to blame his misfortunes on Toby — which did not mean he couldn't or wouldn't. He might have been dangerous if he had not knocked all his brains out years ago.

* * *

The procession clattered off along the Via Larga in proper order — six men in pairs, the coach, and a dozen more men behind. Toby was absurdly conspicuous in his party silks, but the others all wore leathers, helmets, and breastplates emblazoned with the don's arms of three papillons argent upon gules.

Conversation was impossible in the cramped streets, with carts and pedestrians to be avoided and the clatter of hooves echoing between drab stone walls. He was leaving Florence with what he had come for — three florins a man, twenty thousand men, six months minimum. Three hundred and sixty thousand ducats! What would the good folk back in Strath Fillan say to wee Toby Strangerson earning that kind of money? He would get to keep none of it and the lowly men expected to die for it would see little more. Florence paid a portion in food and fodder, and withheld taxes on all of it. One fifth went to Josep Brusi in Barcelona as return on his investment, another fifth to the don, although he must pay for the artillery out of that. Each man had to provide his own weapons and mounts, or have his pay docked to cover their cost. Toby's share was officially one twentieth, but he always took the last twentieth, which was rarely there to take, because cities were notoriously lax about paying their mercenaries. And there were always unforeseen costs.

His chances of living to enjoy a soldo of it were remote anyway. If he had any sense at all, he would catch a ship to Africa and never come back. Longdirk versus the Fiend — why pursue a feud so hopeless? He often wondered about that. He seemed to be too stupid to do anything except fight on.

The company rattled through the Porta Pinti and set off along the Fiesole road, through countryside wakening to spring and a fine day. Escaping thoughts of all the work waiting for him in camp, he spurred forward to join Leonello and Agostino, and listen to their discussion of the relative merits of fat women and thin women, a subject about which he knew absolutely nothing and could never hope to.

CHAPTER NINE

D'Anjou rode at the head of the line on Oriflamme, who was still his favorite, although the old warhorse was long past his days of glory. So was his master, for that matter. A night dozing on a bale of straw in an overcrowded stable had turned his backbone into a red-hot iron bar. He ought to ask the company hexer to straighten out the kinks for him. The present one was impressively expert and did not demand outrageous fees, but it was a point of honor for an old campaigner not to make such a request until the fighting season opened. He would suffer longer in the name of honor.

Uninvited, another horse settled into place alongside Oriflamme. The Chevalier scowled unwelcome at its rider.

'There were interesting rumors going around last night,' the newcomer remarked in heavily accented French. He was Baldassare Barrafranca — a stupid, boorish man of nondescript lineage. He had left the stable for a while during the bodyguard's nightlong vigil and gone off to worm his way into the palace kitchens — making a play for some of the female domestics, no doubt.

'There are always rumors,' D'Anjou snapped. 'If they reported that the noble High Constable Longdirk shits nothing but nuggets of pure gold, then I must inform you that this is absolute holy truth. He also pisses pure vintage Bordeaux.'

Barrafranca chuckled coarsely. 'I have better vintage here. Finest Chianti — Monseigneur?' He offered a wineskin.

'You will withdraw that word.' D'Anjou did not raise his voice, but his tone conveyed mortal threat. He had shed blood often enough over matters of honor. In his present station titles were mockery, and he steadfastly refused to acknowledge any hereditary rank. Knighthood he had earned, so he would remain merely 'Chevalier' until the Fiend was overthrown and he could return to claim his birthright.

'Of course, messer!' the Italian said hurriedly. 'I have no wish to offend.'

'Then I accept your apology and also your wine.' The rotten stuff would rinse the early-morning sourness from his mouth. D'Anjou reached for the wineskin, but the move twisted his back, making him bite back a gasp of agony. He was not an old man by tally of years, but the human frame was never meant to be packed into a steel shell, lifted seven or so feet off the ground, accelerated to full gallop, and then struck off again by a wooden beam moving equally fast in the opposite direction. Two or three such impacts could be forgotten, but the effects were cumulative. There had also been crossbow bolts and arquebus balls. Now he had to cock his head sideways to see clearly, and his hand would no longer grip a lance as it should be gripped. To stop and give up, though, was unthinkable.

He drank and wiped his mouth. Italian horse piss! He thought longingly of the wines of his youth, the subtle, delicate progeny of vineyards his father had lovingly planted at various chateaux. Gone, alas! But what would his father have said to a son of his serving as common bodyguard to mercenary rabble, spending the night in a stinking stable while the trash he was forced to serve hobnobbed in the luxury of a palace? That he was not worthy of decent wines?

'Tell me the rumors then,' he said.

'Well, first, our noble condottiere is to be Captain-General of Florence.'