Christian Cameron: Castillon: Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part One

‘Or so says the night guard,’ Swan said. ‘Perhaps he was bribed.’

Bessarion nodded. ‘What I cannot fathom,’ he said quietly, ‘is why the supposed count would be fool enough to put the goods in his own wagons under Merechault’s nose.’

Swan writhed.

Alessandro came to his rescue. ‘ Par dieu , Eminence. He’s arrogant enough to haul empty wagons across four fords, as if we would never notice them. He thought he might get away with it. That’s all.’

It occurred to Swan at that point that he was going to get away with it, and a feeling of joy flooded him, unmixed with any reserve whatsoever. No school prank, no petty thievery in Cheapside, would ever have the satisfaction of this – pulled off under the very eyes of the enemy.

Bessarion nodded.

Swan found that he liked these strange, foreign men, and he looked back and forth at them. After a few more paces, he said, ‘I must confess a thought I have had.’

The cardinal bowed slightly. ‘I can provide absolution,’ he said.

Swan tried to see a way to tell the truth without owning to his part in it. ‘If – someone – had – hmm. Put the count in this unenviable position,’ he said. ‘Ahem. If the count imagined that he had been slighted—’

‘Get on with it,’ muttered Alessandro.

‘What is to keep the count from revenge?’ he asked. ‘He must suspect – er – us.’

Alessandro raised an eyebrow.

Swan went on – he’d had all morning to think it through. ‘At some point, Merechault will call for the . . . I don’t know what they are called in France, but in London we’d call him the sheriff. And the count will find himself in a difficulty.’ He was speaking too fast.

‘He will, too,’ Alessandro said.

‘So he kills Merechault and sets fire to the inn and rides away to kill us,’ Swan finished. ‘As he has more men-at-arms than we do ourselves.’

‘Why kill us?’ the cardinal asked.

Alessandro looked at the young Englishman. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t believe his own men were fools enough to place the bales of cloth in his wagons.’

‘Perhaps he can’t afford any witnesses,’ Swan said.

‘Perhaps he is so well born that he can weather any legal action,’ Alessandro said slowly.

Bessarion raised a hand, looked Alessandro in the eye and said, ‘See to it.’

Alessandro nodded, put a hand on Swan’s bridle and turned them out of the column. As he rode down the column, he gathered men – half his soldiers; Giannis, another Greek called Stefanos, a third called Giorgos, and two Italians, Ramone and Marcus.

He turned to Swan. ‘You’re coming with me. You made this mess, you can help clean up.’ But despite his acerbic tone, he smiled and put an hand on Swan’s arm. ‘You did well enough.’ He shrugged. ‘I think you are too cautious. I think the so-called count will simply ride away.’

Swan shook his head. ‘That was my mistake,’ he said.

Alessandro made a face. ‘What mistake?’

They were just passing a low bluff on their right, covered in big trees – oaks, and some beech. Alessandro was looking at it.

‘The first night I was with you at dinner, I saw him sitting with the merchant’s men, at a middle table. He was as angry as a mad dog.’ Swan was looking at the horizon.

Alessandro shrugged. ‘So?’ He shaded his eyes with his hand to look at the trees.

‘He was angry he hadn’t been given a place at the high table,’ Swan said. ‘He really is a count.’

Alessandro’s face went still, just for a moment. Then his eyelids came down a little. He turned away from the high woods.

‘Then we must, in fact, clean this up very carefully,’ he said quietly. ‘Is your servant an archer?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you even know?’

‘He’s a very good archer,’ Swan said, hoping it was true.

‘Good. I have a couple of English bows I bought at Castillon from the victors.’ He turned and beckoned to Peter, who rode out of the column.

‘We need to hurry,’ Swan said.

He pointed at a column of smoke rising from the town on the next ridge, just three leagues away. ‘That’s the inn.’

Alessandro nodded. ‘Right here will do,’ he said. He opened his purse and dumped it in the road – twenty silver ecus and some gold, glinting in the summer sun.

The two wagons and twenty retainers rolled on sedately, unthreatened by the rising smoke behind them. At their head rode the cardinal, his red hat prominently displayed. The little convoy raised dust that could be seen from ridge to ridge, for several leagues.

The count’s party moved quickly, raising a column of dust that could be seen from the convoy. The cardinal turned in his saddle from time to time to watch the count’s progress. His force of men-at-arms rode down into the valley, splashed across the ford, and started up the long ridge, now just a league away, closing the distance.

The cardinal gave an order, and the convoy began to move faster. He turned to watch as the count’s cavalcade drew abreast of the oak woods on the bluff above the road.

‘We must kill them all,’ Alessandro said. His voice was as hard as steel. The Greek and Italian men-at-arms all nodded.

Marcus and Stefanos, the best-armoured men after Alessandro himself, rode away, moving slowly so as not to raise dust.

The rest of them dismounted in the trees, where they were bedevilled by insects for an uncomfortable hour. Peter took the two bows from the capitano , and strung them with Swan’s help. He drew first one, and then the other, and winced on both draws. He made a face.

‘Good bows. I’ll take this one.’ He put the bow by him and unstrung the other, and Swan handed it to the capitano . Alessandro looked at him.

‘Do you shoot?’ he asked.

Peter rested his back against the bole of a giant oak and prepared to go to sleep. But he raised his face to Swan.

‘ Toe nou! I’d be surprised if he didn’t shoot,’ Peter said.

Swan shrugged. ‘I can use a bow,’ he admitted.

Peter nodded, as if a mystery were solved, or perhaps as if Swan could now be taken seriously. ‘I’ve never met an Englishman who could not shoot,’ he said, and went to sleep.

Giannis spanned his crossbow, put an arrow into the trough, and lay down.

Giorgos and Ramone stayed with the horses. They had no armour, and no bows.

‘Always be sure of your retreat,’ Alessandro said. ‘Even when the odds are heavily in your favour.’

The insects droned. Peter snored.

There were hoof-beats near the ford, and the sound of harness and armour, and suddenly Peter was awake, bow in hand, standing behind the bole of his tree.

Swan’s heart beat too hard. He was tired – he wanted to sleep, but he was too afraid, too full of something that made his nerves tingle, his stomach flip over, his bowels twitch.

Alessandro just chewed on a grass stem and watched the road.

The count’s men – led by the unmistakable figure of the count – came on at a fast trot. The count passed the silver in the road, but the next man reined in, and suddenly they were all stopped, and men were dismounting.

Alessandro smiled, much as the fox might smile when the hen comes to find its missing egg. He snapped his fingers. Peter tensed, and Swan took a war arrow from the bundle at his feet, placed it to the string, and drew to his ear, cocking his head slightly to engage the muscles in his back.

Giannis loosed. His crossbow made a flat snap . One of the men in the scrum over the coins flipped off his horse.

Before his demise was noticed, Peter drew his great bow to his ear and loosed. His arrow hit the count’s charger and sank all the way to the fletchings in the horse’s side, and the great horse screamed and fell.