from being shorter by a head.’ He shrugged. ‘You are clever, Englishman. I give you this for free.’
Swan nodded. ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘Not yesterday, by God.’
An hour later, he was on a bad horse, wearing a bad doublet and a foul shirt and a pair of braes that had shit stains and hose with holes in them – soled hose and no shoes.
Thomas Swan had spent his life being the poorest boy among rich boys. He knew what good clothes were like. He just never seemed to have them. The kit in which he’d been sent to France was the very limit of what his mother could afford, and it was gone – every stitch, down to his eating knife and his belt purse.
The Fleming was head down over a mule, wearing a shirt and braes and nothing else.
They sat mounted in the courtyard. There were raised voices in the portico.
The cardinal was insisting that the English prisoners were not to be murdered.
The Italian picked at his beard. ‘They’ll all be dead before we’re at Amiens,’ he said.
Swan took a couple of shallow breaths.
The Italian spat. ‘Dogs,’ he said.
Swan looked around. ‘Might I have a sword?’ he said. ‘As I’m a gentleman on ransom?’
The Italian looked at him.
‘A dagger?’ Swan asked. He wished he had something with which to bargain.
The Italian drew his dagger and started to clean his nails. He looked up. Their eyes met. ‘Why?’ he asked.
Swan shrugged. ‘Oh, as to that . . .’ he said.
The Italian laughed. ‘Tell me your name, English devil.’
Swan bowed in the saddle. ‘Thomas Swan, Esquire. Of London. And yours?’
The man smiled. ‘Alessandro di Brachio,’ he said. ‘Courtier.’ He smiled. ‘Formerly of Venice, and now of the world.’ It was a very unpleasant smile. He reached behind him into the leather roll behind his saddle and rooted about.
His hand emerged with a long, slim dagger. He held it out.
Swan reached for it.
The Italian whipped it away and tapped him on the head with the hilt. Swan reached for it and missed again. He almost fell out of his saddle.
Alessandro laughed. ‘We’ll see,’ he said, and put the long dagger back in his bedroll.
‘Bastard,’ Swan spat.
Alessandro nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. When he grinned, his gold tooth caught the sun. ‘And you?’
It was such a good answer that Swan had to laugh. The Italian laughed back. ‘You are almost as fast as a Venetian,’ he said. ‘But not quite.’
The cardinal came out from under the portico. The abbott bowed, and all of the nuns came and kissed his ring, along with some of the monks.
It seemed incongruous that, under his robes, the man wore boots. With spurs. But he did, and he mounted his big warhorse easily.
‘Come,’ he said, and Alessandro prodded the convoy into motion – four wagons, a dozen soldiers, and an entourage of priests and servants.
Swan found himself riding with a pair of notaries, who conversed in Latin and ignored him. All they spoke of was church politics – and what a waste of time the attempt to negotiate with the English had been.
‘We thought we’d win,’ Swan said, as much to indicate that he knew what they were talking about as because he really wanted to contribute.
The nearer man all but fell off his pony. ‘You speak Latin?’ he asked.
‘Oh!’ Swan said. ‘I thought we were speaking English.’
The notary on his right rolled his eyes. ‘You are pleased to make light of us,’ he said.
Swan nodded. ‘Passes the time,’ he said.
‘Why are the English such barbarians, then?’ asked the first notary. ‘War, war and war. You kill your own kings and then come to France to kill theirs.’
‘Our king is the king of France,’ Swan said automatically.
‘An untenable position,’ said the right-hand notary. He held out his hand. ‘Giovanni Accudi.’ He grinned. ‘My grandfather was English,’ he said.
Swan took the offered hand.
The man on the other side of him relented. ‘Cesare di Brescia,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I had a grandfather,’ he mocked the other, and spat. ‘Who the devil knows who he was? The English probably killed him.’
Swan raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry to see how unpopular the English are,’ he said. He didn’t sound contrite.
‘Violent people. A sword in every hand. Killers, every one of them.’ Giovanni nodded. ‘Like Florentines and Brescians.’
‘Like fucking Milanese,’ Cesare shot back.
‘Wine?’ Giovanni asked, and held out a glass flask.
Swan drank some. He tried not to be greedy. ‘Messire Accudi, I must tell you that yesterday I thought I was about to die without ever tasting wine again.’
Accudi nodded. ‘Welcome to life,’ he said. ‘Have another drink, but leave some for Cesare. He’s far more dangerous than I am.’
‘Fuck your mother,’ Di Brescia said, but he smiled. ‘Listen – Giovanni’s a
‘Then why don’t you know more?’ Accudi asked. ‘Give me the flask if you are going to talk. Damn you to hell – it’s empty, you sodomite.’
‘Are you two sure you’re not soldiers?’ Swan said.
‘Oh, no,’ Cesare choked out. He was laughing so hard he was having trouble staying on his horse. ‘We’re lawyers. Can’t you tell?’
The sun was past high in the sky and it was brutally hot. The horses were flagging. The notaries had run out of wine and were debating the role of the Trinity in a manner so blasphemous that Swan, who thought himself worldly and jaded, had to ride a little behind them in a vague superstitious belief that lightning from the sky would kill them all.
But when they’d stopped cursing God, he rode back up to them.
‘Why don’t we . . . stop at an inn?’ Swan asked.
‘An inn? Here? In France?’ Accudi laughed. ‘You English have burned them all.’
‘Fat lot you know,’ Swan said. ‘This is the Dordogne. This is English. Frenchmen burned all this.’
The Italians laughed. ‘It’s hard to tell you apart, it’s true.’
After a while longer, some of their soldiers left the convoy and rode ahead. When they crested the next ridge, he saw a town in the distance, fully walled. Closer, he saw the convoy’s horseman talking to a farmer by the road. He came and spoke to the cardinal, hat in hand, and kissed his ring. The gate to his walled farm opened, and they rode in.
Men came with water, and the horses drank noisily. Swan drank water, too.
He went over to the Fleming, and lifted his head.
The man looked at him, eyes open, and Swan felt the man’s body tense.
‘I’m a friend,’ he said. ‘My name is Thomas Swan. I claimed that you’re my servant.’ He spoke low and fast.
The Fleming moaned.
Alessandro appeared at his elbow. ‘He is awake, your servant?’ he asked. ‘Give him some water. Here. I put a little wine in it.’
Swan took the cup and put it to the Fleming’s lips. He drank greedily. And moaned again.
‘He is your master, this Englishman?’ the Italian asked the Fleming.
‘Uhh. Uhhh.’ The Fleming moaned. There was blood coming out of his side.
The Fleming met Swan’s eye, and just for a moment . . .
