Christian Cameron: Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Two: Venice

Cesare laughed so hard he snorted wine. ‘I can remember when you could scarcely speak Italian, you rogue!’

Giannis smiled modestly.

A tall woman, older than the girls dancing but with the figure of a classical beauty, wearing a dark red gown of Venetian velvet and a fortune in pearls, paused by them. She didn’t bend over their table, but she performed what might have been called a courtesy. Swan rose from his seat, and bowed low. Giannis stood like a ramrod with his flat cap in both hands. Cesare didn’t get up – but he reached for her hand and caught it, and didn’t so much kiss it as breathe lightly on it.

‘Donna, you honour us too much,’ he said.

‘So much that you can’t get your arse off your chair, you fat peasant?’ the woman said. Her accent was charming – the educated Tuscan Italian that Swan was already learning was the sign of breeding. But her words were foul.

Cesare grinned. ‘Not so fat as it could cover yours, Donna.’

She threw back her head and laughed, and her laugh was as beautiful as her body.

Just for a moment, she reminded Swan of Tilda. They were of an age – thirty-five, he guessed – quite ancient. And yet – both of them laughed loud in a way that young women seemed scared to do.

She turned to Giannis. ‘Can you even afford to drink my wine, heretic?’

Giannis nodded, clearly nervous.

‘Was your mother a tyrant, you poor man,’ she said, running a finger under his chin. ‘Do women terrify you?’ She laughed. ‘Come, I have a new German girl from the other side of the Alps. The two of you can be scared together. Come.’ She turned to Cesare. ‘He’s a hardened killer, is he not?’

Cesare nodded, obviously filling his eyes with her. ‘Yes, Donna. A hard man. A soldier.’

‘And yet his hand is trembling even now.’ She turned her brilliant gaze – and her perfect teeth – on the Greek. She had his hand, held high, as if they were dancers in a pavane.

When she had led him away, Swan was a trifle disappointed. She’d looked at him a dozen times – assessed him from the shoes on his feet to the hair curling atop his head. But not a word.

Cesare read his mind. ‘Not for you, young man. She’d eat you. And take all your money.’ He laughed.

‘Who for, then?’

‘Rumour is she’s the darling of one of the Spanish cardinals and that he’s very jealous.’ Cesare shook his head. ‘Trust a Spaniard to love a whore and be jealous. A nation – no, a race – looking for a fight.’

Swan watched her walk back towards them. She favoured him with a brilliant smile. He rose again from his seat, feeling very young.

Cesare caught one of her hands. ‘I have something for you,’ he said.

‘Who is this boy? Surely he’s not old enough to have hair on his parts.’ She leaned so close to Swan he thought she was going to kiss him. Then she moved away smoothly, and laughed.

She looked at Cesare, who handed her a scroll.

She blushed. ‘For me?’ she asked. ‘Oh, my heart. Someone give me a knife.’

The redhead reached up – showing a wonderful length of leg – and drew a tiny knife from under her kirtle. She handed it to Donna with a bow, and Donna used it to open the seal on the parchment.

She read, her colour high.

Her chin rose – a hand twitched.

‘Cesare,’ she said. She snapped her fingers. ‘Come – I have something I need to show you.’

Cesare bowed over her hand. ‘Always at your service,’ he said, and followed her.

Swan watched him go, trying to be amused at her contempt for him – deeply resentful, really.

‘I’m called Maria,’ said the redhead. She made a nice courtesy. She raised an eyebrow. ‘He won’t be back.’

Swan felt like the boy he’d just been called. ‘He – I – she—’ He shrugged.

‘Do you know any dances?’ she asked. ‘I love to dance.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t really know a great many dances,’ he said, and then, after a pause, he settled on complete honesty. ‘I know the May dance, as we dance it in London. That’s all. In London, while girls dance, men learn to fight.’

She smiled. ‘Would you like to learn?’

He rose to his feet. ‘I would like it above all things,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Your Italian is very good, for a barbarian.’

Later, after they had made love, he rolled over to her. ‘I have never done that – in a bed,’ he said. ‘It’s so – comfortable.’

She laughed, and hit him with a pillow.

He tried to fight her off and found her astonishingly strong – and fast. And agile.

When he finally pinned her arms – after some tickling – he leaned over her. ‘You would make a superb swordsman. Woman.’ He kissed her.

She used the kiss to get a hand free and thrust a knee between his legs and rolled them both over. ‘Teach me,’ she breathed at him. Her hair was all around him, and her breasts trailed across the top of his chest.

‘Now?’ he asked, mockingly, and she giggled.

There was a knock at the door.

She bounced off the bed. ‘Are you married?’ she asked.

He reached for the knife in his clothes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘Open the door, messire. We need to have a chat,’ said a voice.

‘Violetta,’ said the young woman.

‘You said Maria,’ Swan said.

She shrugged. ‘We’re all Maria to new customers,’ she admitted.

‘I was busy dancing,’ he said. ‘I’m Thomas. The man at the door is my . . . capitano .’

‘Just so long as he isn’t your lover.’ She grinned. ‘I mean it about the sword. I would love to learn.’ She wriggled into her shift, and opened a closet door.

‘Do I—’ He was trying to get his shirt on. ‘Pay? You?’

She laughed. ‘Silly boy. The bed costs fifty ducats. My kisses are free.’ She gave him one, and vanished into the cupboard.

Alessandro opened the door. Swan had his braes on, and was trying to get his hose over them. The Italian laughed. ‘Listen – you are in a bordello. No one expects you to be dressed.’ But the capitano was fully dressed, and had his sword on his belt and another in his hand, scabbarded. He tossed it on the bed. ‘You left this at the palazzo.’

‘Thanks for bringing it,’ Swan said. ‘I . . . didn’t need it.’

‘You may yet make an Italian,’ Alessandro said. ‘But there are twenty men in Orsini colours in the street. They mean to kill you and Cesare and Giannis.’ He shrugged. ‘The cardinal sent me to see to it you came home without a fight .’ He looked around the room. ‘Can you pay for this?’

Thomas nodded.

‘Sold the ivories?’ the capitano said.

Thomas nodded and then caught himself.

‘I knew you had them. Listen, boy. You killed a man today – a bad man, I have no doubt. But the way I hear it, all you had to do was walk away, and instead you called him out and killed him.’

Swan was prepared to bridle, but he admired Alessandro, and something in the man’s tone held . . . not so much censure, as weariness. ‘So?’

‘That’s the wrong path,’ Alessandro said. ‘I know this – eh? You kill a man – and it hurts. Yes? Kill another, it’s not so bad. Kill a third, and you think – hey, I’m invincible, and I can do this for ever. I’ll be glorious, rich and famous.’ Alessandro met his eye. ‘Eh?’

‘He was mocking us!’

‘Was he? And did it hurt you?’ Alessandro shook his head. ‘If you do this – the next man, or the next, will kill you .’ He shook his head. ‘I will endeavour to teach you the rudiments of defence. You are fast – I’ve seen you. And you know a little—’

Swan drew himself up. It is hard to be proud and haughty without clothes, but he tried. ‘I’m the best blade in London,’ he said. He felt like a fool as soon as he said the words – which weren’t true anyway.