the spearman was no better trained than the falchion man, and he thrust ineptly, a tentative attack, which Swan beat remorselessly aside with all the energy of doubt and fear. He stepped through, got a hand on the shaft, and killed the man with a simple cut to the neck – and then cut him twice more as his body fell.
He stood, breathing like a bellows.
He could hear hooves, and the sounds of shouting.
He was kneeling beside the last man. He wanted to vomit, wanted to take some action. Wanted to pray.
It was all more
He watched his hands cut the man’s belt and take his purse and dagger. Then he went to the falchion man and did the same. He tottered to his horse and tried to get a foot over the old thing’s back. He was shaking too badly to mount.
But the hoof-beats were still distant. Across the ford, he could see dust, and more steel moving on the hillside beyond the ford. He had a little time.
He went to the first man he’d cut down. There was a stunning amount of blood around the man – a pool like a small lake, of a red opaqueness like magic wine. He’d never seen so much blood.
He threw up into the pool of blood.
His horse and saddle saved him, and he stood there, one hand in his stirrup leather, for as long as a man would say a benison. Without the horse, he’d have fallen in the blood.
Then he unbuckled the man’s belt and took his purse and dagger. He had to touch the blood. But he did. Then he put all three purses in the leather sack the first man had been carrying.
Even in the shocked reaction to his first real killing, he eyed the wagon. The canvas was split, and he could see the cargo. On the wagon box, where the drover sat, was a chest with iron reinforcement. It had a lock. They’d been trying to force the lock when he came up.
But he didn’t need trouble, and the distant hoof-beats were getting closer.
It seemed a waste, though.
He got mounted, and convinced his antique horse to trot.
He was no sooner moving than a dozen mounted men appeared in front of him, three of them fully armoured, with lances. They rode at him hard.
It was not a fight he could win, so he was very pleased when he recognised the French man-at-arms from the abbey, and behind him he could see the two notaries. He saluted.
The French knight rode up, raising first his lance and then his visor. ‘Messire,’ he said. ‘You are one of the cardinal’s men?’
‘Yes,’ said Swan.
‘Have you been attacked?’ said another of the men-at-arms in blue and red. He sounded hopeful.
Swan pointed at the road behind him. ‘Brigands attacked one of your wagons. I’m afraid they killed the wagoner. We happened on them.’ He shrugged.
Cesare was waving from farther up the road.
‘You burst through them?’ asked the man-at-arms.
‘No,’ said Swan. ‘There’s more of them coming. We outran them.’
At this, the party whooped, and set out for the wagon. Swan left them to it.
He rode until he caught up with Cesare and Giovanni. The two notaries were clearly pleased to see him. It steadied him.
‘What happened?’ Cesare asked.
‘I left them,’ Swan said. He shrugged. His hands were shaking. ‘We should keep going.’
By nightfall, they caught the convoy, well north of the valley of the L’Isle. The wagons and carts were drawn in a circle, and the three of them were challenged on approach.
Cardinal Bessarion sent for them as soon as their presence was known. Alessandro came to fetch them. He gave Swan a civil nod. ‘You came back,’ he said.
‘I have your boots,’ Swan said.
‘You managed to get a sword-cut on them,’ Alessandro said.
Swan looked down and was disconcerted to find that the tan top of his right boot had a cut right through the leather. ‘Uh – sorry.’ He shook his head.
‘He stayed and fought them. He killed at least one brigand,’ Giovanni said proudly.
‘Did you?’ Alessandro said. He looked at Swan with renewed interest.
Bessarion was sitting on three camp stools – reclining, with a book. He didn’t sit up, but merely waved his book at them, and a servant fetched wine. Swan was grateful for wine, and he drank his too fast while the notaries read their letter aloud.
Bessarion nodded sharply. ‘Well done,’ he said in Italian. ‘You had trouble with brigands?’
Giovanni bowed. ‘Messire Swan dealt with them, Eminence.’
Bessarion extended his hand to Swan. He knelt and kissed the cardinal’s ring. It was, apparently, what foreigners did with cardinals. The cardinal’s hand clasped his lightly. ‘That was well done, Messire Swan. I won’t insult you with payment, but—’
Swan winced. In his persona as a great man’s son, he couldn’t accept payment, it was true.
‘It is a pleasure to serve’ he said.
Bessarion’s eyes seemed to twinkle. It was probably a trick of the firelight, but Swan had the feeling that he amused the cardinal. The Prince of the Church held out the book he’d been reading, carefully marking his place with a ribbon. ‘Do you know it?’ he asked.
Swan almost dropped it when he opened it. It was a small volume bound in whitened parchment, and between the covers it was very ancient. It wasn’t a copy, or at least not a recent copy.
The lettering was alien, the hand almost square. But the first page clearly said that it was about the stars. Swan flipped it open – turned a page. And shook his head.
‘It’s not Aristotle’s Greek. It’s about mathematics.’ He felt foolish. ‘I can’t even find a title page.’
Bessarion smiled. ‘That’s because it isn’t a modern copy, young Englishman. This is at least five hundred years old. Monks made it – perhaps when Alexandria, in Egypt, was still Christian.’
Swan sucked in a difficult breath. ‘Oh!’ He grinned. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Oh, indeed. I see you have the heart of a true connoisseur.’ He extended his hand and Swan put the book reverentially in it. ‘It’s by Ptolemy.’
Swan felt he was being tested. ‘King Ptolemy?’ he asked.
‘One of them,’ Bessarion said. ‘I have trouble reading it, too. It’s about mathematics – the mathematics of measurement. Angles as relations to other distances.’ He shrugged. ‘There are men in Italy who understand this sort of thing.’ He nodded to Swan, who took that for a dismissal. He retreated from the cardinal’s tent area, and went to find Peter.
Peter was awake and better. Swan changed his bandage and got them both supper from the cardinal’s cooks. He sat on the ground to eat, and felt his eyelids closing.
‘Unroll your blankets, you fool, or you’ll freeze at midnight,’ Peter hissed. His oddly sibilant Dutch-English and his slightly too careful pronunciation made him sound as if he was giving orders.
Swan went and fetched his blanket roll and the sack he’d filled with purses. He used it as a pillow, but before he could get to sleep, he heard horses, and then he was summoned by Alessandro.
The Italian dusted the leaf mould off his back. ‘You killed four of them?’ he asked quietly.
Swan met his eye. ‘Yes.’
Alessandro whistled. ‘You weren’t going to mention it?’ he asked.
Swan shrugged.
‘And you robbed them?’ Alessandro asked.
Swan realised he hadn’t thought this through. ‘They were dead.’
Alessandro nodded. ‘I don’t mind. But the French think that someone else killed them and took their money. How do you want to play this?’
Swan looked at the Italian. Even through a haze of sleep, he could tell that he was worried, and further, was not telling him something.
‘Let them think that,’ Swan said.
