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

Swan met his eye in the dark. ‘I took their purses. You know I have no money. It is within the laws of war.’

Alessandro laughed. ‘Laws of war. Messire Swan, for the first time I think perhaps you are a young gentleman.’ He looked into the darkness. ‘It was one of my men on that wagon. And he is dead.’

Swan nodded. ‘But – he wore the blue and red. I saw him – Cesare says it is the Paris livery.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry.’

Alessandro frowned. ‘You notice a great deal, Englishman. Yes – I dressed him as a Parisian. I hoped to . . . learn something .’

Swan scratched under his beard. ‘You distrust the count?’ he said.

‘Yes. Well. We’ll see. I do not suspect you. I merely wish you had seen more.’ He paused, fingering his dagger. ‘Why do you ask if I distrust the count?’

Swan looked around carefully. ‘He pretends poverty.’

Alessandro’s eyes narrowed. ‘He lost his patrimony in the king’s wars, or so he says.’

‘His sword is worth five hundred florins. His shoes are as good as the shoes the King of England wears.’ Swan shrugged.

Alessandro nodded. ‘You see a great deal. I missed the sword. But yes – I’ll give you this much. There is something not quite right about Messire the Count.’ He waved. They had arrived at Peter’s fire. ‘Go to sleep.’

Swan would have thought about it more, but the moment he had his blanket on his shoulders, he was asleep.

The next morning he fed Peter gruel from a copper pot. The Fleming laughed when he was done.

‘I think perhaps it is you who are my servant,’ he said.

Swan shrugged.

‘Where are you from?’ Peter asked.

‘London,’ Swan said.

Peter nodded. ‘I thought so. You are schooled?’

Swan smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Bishop’s School, Inns of Court. I never went to Oxenford.’ He leaned closer. ‘You?’

‘I am an archer. Once I was a cloth fuller, but the trade fell off. My wife died.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s money in war.’

‘I have no money, but when I have a chance to go through the purses—’ He paused.

Peter nodded. ‘I heard about your heroic deed of arms, young sir.’ He met Swan’s eye. ‘If you make this a habit, fighting four men, you will soon be dead.’

Swan flashed on the pool of blood. ‘I’m . . . it just sort of happened.’

Peter nodded.

‘Can you ride again today? Alessandro acts like a prick, but I suspect he’d put you on a wagon if I asked nicely.’ Swan shook his leather bottle. It was empty.

‘I can ride. You know I’m on a better horse than you are.’ He looked at Swan, who blushed.

‘Damn. Another of Alessandro’s little tests.’ He made a sign to avert evil. ‘Keep it. You need to ride easy. My plug will keep me going.’

Swan had never undressed. He pulled his boots on, laced them to his doublet, and played with the hang of his sword until he liked it. He tied the leather sack behind his saddle and mounted. No sooner was he up than Alessandro rode over to him.

‘A good day to you, messire. I wonder if I might ask a favour, in the cardinal’s name.’ He bowed, and Swan returned the bow. ‘I am a man short. Would you be an outrider?’

‘I’d like a better horse. My servant needs the courser.’

Alessandro nodded. ‘You have my spare boots and my spare sword. Why not my spare mount? Listen, messire, at this rate you’ll marry my sister.’

Alessandro’s spare mount was an average riding horse – nothing to look at, but well enough trained and sturdy. Swan spent three hours prowling the high ground to the west of the convoy with another of the cardinal’s guards, a Greek named Giannis who couldn’t initially understand a word of Swan’s Greek but was happy to converse in Italian.

At the mid-morning halt, the two of them reined in several hundred feet above the convoy. Giannis dismounted and, with consummate professionalism, produced a stolen cooked chicken.

‘Do we take turns on watch?’ Swan asked.

‘Like Christ and his angels watching over sinful man,’ Giannis said with a gap-toothed smile. ‘But I’ll share. The boss says you gutted the bastards who killed our Dmitrios.’

Swan was queasy at the praise. ‘They tried to kill me. They weren’t very good.’

Giannis shrugged. ‘Bandits seldom are. The real killers go to the mercenary companies.’ He shrugged. ‘But there are some villains among them. Here’s to Dmitrios. He’ll be singed in hell before he goes anywhere near heavan, but he was a good comrade, for a fucking schismatic, I beg your pardon.’

Swan laughed. Then he pretended to stretch. ‘Don’t move too fast, but there’s a man with a crossbow. He’s not aiming. Now he . . . fall flat!’

Giannis fell flat, and by the time the bolt was rattling among the rocks, he was already on his horse. Swan was riding flat out for the crossbowman. His ugly horse skimmed the rocks like a goat.

The man on foot had no chance.

Swan cut him off. Giannis rode him down. Swan slipped from his horse, and slammed his sword-hilt into the back of the man’s head while he tried to ward off the Greek.

‘Like the Turks,’ Giannis said. ‘Except there’d be ten of them, they’d have horn bows, and they’d be set to cover each other.’ He shook his head. ‘If you keep charging men like that, you won’t live long.’

Swan immediately looked around. They were on top of the ridge that ran parallel to the road, and the man had been in the cover of a large rock. He felt foolish. The Greek was right – if the man had had a partner, he’d have been dead.

He took the man’s purse. It held two French ecus in silver – a decent sum. Swan showed them to his partner and tossed him one. The Greek caught it and grinned.

‘Glad I shared my chicken with you,’ he said. He ran his hands over the man. Pinned to the inside of the man’s coat was a lead badge, such as pilgrims wore. He took that. He also took the man’s crossbow and his bolts.

They rode down to the column carefully, Swan with the crossbowman across his saddle. The count rode out to meet them.

‘Who . . . what do you have there?’ He looked angry. ‘Another of the lice?’

Alessandro was riding towards them, his galloping horse throwing up dust. Swan wondered why he was in such a hurry.

Two of the count’s archers had the unconscious man.

Giannis bowed. ‘My lord, he shot at us with his weapon, and my young friend here was too foolish to let him get away.’

The count glanced at Swan, and Swan didn’t like his look.

Alessandro arrived. ‘Is that a prisoner?’ he asked.

Giannis nodded. ‘Yes, boss.’

The count shrugged. ‘I’ll hang him. I have the right.’

‘Let me question him first,’ Alessandro said. ‘My lord count?’

‘Why?’ asked the count. ‘Scum like this will say anything. Best rid the world of him and send him to hell.’ He made a motion with his hand, and one of the archers drew a knife.

‘I would very much like to question him, my lord—’ Alessandro said, but the man was beyond questioning.

Alessandro glared at the French knight. ‘I thought you intended to hang him?’

Swan gave his horse a little knee and turned in between the knight and the Italian man-at-arms. ‘Messires, I feel I should be back at my duty. Do you have any further orders?’

The count shook his head.

Swan rode away, all but towing Alessandro. The Italian was angry.

‘He did that on purpose,’ he said.

Swan shrugged. When they were out of sight of the count, he handed over the pilgrim badge.