Swan went back to the laundry. It was dark, except for a pair of rush lights going in the corner by the hearth.
‘Strip,’ said Tilda.
‘I have an extra shirt to wash,’ Swan said.
Tilda shrugged. ‘A woman’s work is never done,’ she said.
The whole laundry area was hung with linens – many of them religious. There were chasubles and surplices and altar clothes; shifts for nuns, long and coarse, and men’s shirts and braes.
‘Wouldn’t it dry faster outside?’ Swan asked. He’d stepped between the rows to strip.
‘Thieves,’ she said. ‘We hardly ever get thieves here. It does happen, mind,’ she said. She emerged in front of him, and pulled a shirt off the line and held it up to him. It was a fine lawn shirt with embroidered cuffs.
‘He’s a right bastard,’ she said. ‘And a bad priest. Pity thieves took both his shirts and his braes.’ She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.
He’d expected – or rather hoped – for something of the sort, but the moment of contact was . . . lovely. Very exciting.
She vanished amidst the laundry.
He followed her.
‘Unlace me? There’s a dear,’ she said. ‘The water in the smaller copper is clean, which is more than I can say of you. Wash. Jesus and the saints. Is that blood?’
Swan poured warm water into a shallow bowl and used a coarse cloth – a dry, clean coarse cloth – to wash. His left arm had an enormous bruise and a long cut – even in the flickering rushlight, it looked bad.
She got out of her kirtle and helped him wash the arm. ‘So you
He shrugged. ‘My first battle was very nearly my last.’
She kissed him. It went along nicely, and then she broke off and gave him some wine. Then, without shame, she pulled her shift over her head. ‘Might as well do my own while I’m about it,’ she said, and put all the linens in a larger copper.
Swan was wakened by the first cock-crow. He was in no hurry to leave, nor was she in a hurry to be rid of him, but eventually he was dressed – clean, by God – and out the door, with a clean and ironed shirt over his arm. He walked back down the line of merchants’ wagons and again was not challenged. This time the courtyard was empty and his investigations were a little more thorough.
He found Cesare asleep and snoring.
Peter, too, seemed to be sleeping. The pewter cup was empty.
He hung the shirt on a peg for horse harness over Cesare’s head, and went back out to the courtyard to look at the wagons.
There were heavy tarpaulins treated with beeswax over every wagon. The wagons themselves were taller than a man, their sides heavily sloped outwards like fortress walls, their wheels as tall as a big man’s shoulders. Two were clearly living spaces – they had tall covers and doors.
Swan had an apple from the kitchen, and he ate it while he looked them over.
Then he went back into the stable, took his two new and very pretty shirts, and rolled them tightly. He put a piece of coarse sacking around them, tied the bundle tight, and put it into one of the cardinal’s carts.
And went back to his apple.
He had to eye the carts with a certain regret as they prepared to ride away. He was much cleaner, but rest, food and a bath only sharpened his annoyance at his poor clothes and ill-fitting soiled hose. He was lucky the notaries even treated him like one of them.
On a lighter note, Peter was riding sitting up. He ate porridge at breakfast and smiled at everyone like a man with a new lease on life.
Swan caught sight of Tilda in the yard. She came up boldly.
‘Not disowning me by light of day, messire?’ she asked.
For an answer he leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. Giovanni whistled and Cesare clapped his hands. Swan frowned. ‘That’s how we say goodbye to friends in England,’ he said.
Cesare rubbed his beard. ‘For the first time I want to visit England, then,’ he said. ‘Are you the lady to whom I owe this beautifully clean and ironed shirt which smells a little of lavender?’
Tilda cast her eyes down and swayed back and forth like a girl. ‘You are too kind, sir,’ she said in French.
The cardinal came out. He looked angry. He wasn’t wearing a red hat or a cassock – he looked like an athletic man of sixty in boots and a tight jacket. He spoke – at length – to the French knight. He didn’t like what he heard, and finally shook his head.
When he was mounted, he rode down the convoy to where the notaries were.
‘I need a letter,’ he said. ‘In Latin. We’re going to be late to Paris and I have work to do.’
Cesare bowed in the saddle, so Swan felt he should do the same.
Giovanni reached into his wallet and took out a beautiful pair of wax tablets set in rosewood and a gold stylus. ‘At your service, Eminence.’
‘Polite opening. Addressed to the Bishop of Paris. English army defeated, countryside full of brigands, forced to travel slowly with armed escort, please send news from outside world. I’ll bring some wine. Two weeks at best. Flowery signature. Bessarion.’
Giovanni nodded. Suddenly Swan saw that Cesare had also copied down the cardinal’s words.
They looked at each other. ‘An hour at least, Eminence,’ said Cesare.
Alessandro rode up to the cardinal’s shoulder. ‘Delay, Eminence?’
‘The count insists we travel with his convoy,’ he said. ‘The valleys ahead are full of brigands, or so he claims.’
Swan thought it was worth trying his luck. ‘The convoy won’t be quick,’ he said. ‘I’m a passable sword. Leave me a weapon and I’ll escort these gentlemen when they’ve done your letter.’
The cardinal looked at him, and for a moment Swan thought the Greek could read his mind. He had the oddest look – the slightest lift of one corner of his mouth. The cardinal looked at his own man-at-arms, who in turn looked at Swan.
The cardinal smiled. ‘It is very kind of you, my prisoner. I accept. Alessandro, find him a sword. And a pair of boots. Brigands might not be afraid of a barefoot man on a spavined horse.’
Alessandro trotted down the column to the last wagon, dismounted, and rooted under the cover. He was back in no time, while the two scribes convinced a monk to lend them a desk and the cardinal rode to his place at the front of the column.
The boots were very good – thigh high, goatskin, waxed to a deep black. ‘My spares, and my second-best sword,’ the Italian said. ‘I don’t trust you, but I think I might have to like you. So let me be honest. If you don’t come back, I love these boots, which means I will find you and kill you for wasting my time. If you
Swan reached out and took the boots and the sword – a damned good sword, he was pleased to see. Then he held out his hand. ‘I understand you – perfectly,’ he said.
Alessandro nodded. ‘I thought you might,’ he said, and rode away.
Tilda watched him go. ‘What was that about?’ she asked.
Swan gave her a lop-sided smile. ‘He thinks I may be a rogue,’ he said.
Tilda smiled. ‘He’s sharp.’ She swayed back and forth again. ‘I can make an hour – if you don’t have any other appointments.’
Swan stretched. ‘I’m so tired, mistress. I feel as if I was up all night.’
‘Perhaps a nap would do you good,’ she said. ‘Will you come back and visit me?’
He grinned. ‘Do you have a dozen of us, out there on the roads? Coming in rotation?’
She shrugged. ‘And if I do?’
He laughed. ‘It must be honesty day. Let’s play at napping.’ He took her hand. ‘Of course I’ll come back.’
She rolled her eyes.
An hour later, booted and wearing a sword and carrying a dirty but presentable pair of gloves that he’d picked
