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

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 do come back, I will lend you both sword and boots until we get to Paris.’ He smiled. It was the first real smile Swan had received from the mercenary. ‘Do we understand each other?’

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 up off a side-table in the abbey, he leaned against a pillar in the stable, eating another apple. The two notaries came out of the scriptorum.

‘Do you know how long it takes to write a formal letter between two Princes of the Church?’ Cesare said, disgustedly.

‘About an hour?’ Swan said. ‘Here, have an apple, messires.’

Accudi caught his in the air, got a leg over his horse, and stretched. ‘I have a sword of my own, Messire Swan,’ he said.

Swan shrugged. ‘Now I do, too,’ he said. The two notaries laughed.

They left the abbey easily enough, trotting through the outskirts of the town, which was just filling with French soldiers pouring in from the south. Swan wasn’t particularly worried about being lynched on the spot, but he rode more freely once he was in the countryside to the north and east of the town and out from under the walls.

At noon they stopped at a roadside shrine with the L’Isle river flowing at their feet and ate good sausage and bread with local soft cheese. Swan had a good leather bottle now, thanks to Tilda, and he shared it freely.

‘Your lady-friend provided the wine, eh?’ Cesare said.

Swan smiled and didn’t answer. He was watching the hills. They weren’t steep, but they rose well above the valley.

‘You look . . . concerned,’ Giovanni said.

Swan raised an eyebrow. ‘Something shiny and of steel was on that hillside,’ he said.