The Guns of Ivrea Page 6

  Strykar took two steps closer to Acquel. “You swear the Magister ordered everyone killed? You saw this?”

  “I swear it. On everything that is holy.”

  Poule pointed at Acquel, his jack sloshing drink on the ground. “No wonder they wanted his skin so badly.”

  Strykar squinted. “The Lawgiver was mer? There was no mistake?”

  Acquel nodded.

  Strykar looked down. “Well, that is enough to blow the roof off the Temple or it’s a full wagonload of horseshit.” He looked to Timandra. “And I don’t have a lick of proof to say either way.”

  “You can see what he’s been through,” she replied.

  “Aye. And that could have a hundred explanations.”

  “And it doesn’t explain our holy man’s sleight of hand trick,” added Poule.

  Strykar nodded. “He’s right, brother monk. You haven’t given answer to that yet. Pretty trinket, worth keeping isn’t it….” He turned to the table, only to find the amulet gone. Strykar looked down to see if it had fallen onto the floor and then over to Poule. “Did you pick that thing up?”

  Poule shook his head.

  Acquel knew even before he felt for it in his robes. “Captain Strykar, it is in my pocket.” His voice was calm as he looked straight into the soldier’s eyes. “May I?”

  No one said a word as Acquel reached in and withdrew it, dangling from its golden chain. He held it out for Strykar. “I swear to you, sir. I am not doing this.”

  Strykar said nothing but reached out and took the amulet. He held it away from him as if it would bite. “Timandra, close the flap.”

  The Widow hesitated, still frozen by the surprise of what she had seen—or not seen, to be exact.

  “Timandra, we don’t want any unwanted eyes on this, so close the bloody tent.”

  With the flap closed, the light diminished. The sole lantern now illuminated the field tent. Timandra Pandarus was now staring not at the amulet but at Acquel, staring as if she had perhaps misjudged or misunderstood the monk.

  Strykar rubbed at his beard a second and then let the amulet and chain coil itself in his outstretched palm. “Brother monk, I want you to place your hands on top your mangy scalp until I say so.”Acquel did as he was bade. “Poule, I want you to watch this trinket like a hawk. Don’t even blink. Do you understand? You too, cousin.”

  Strykar moved so that he was between the table and Acquel. He cautiously reached out and placed the amulet on the wooden plank, full in the glow of the lantern, and then withdrew his hand. There were no words exchanged. Acquel became aware of the noises of the camp around them: the cries, the laughter, the sounds of crockery clattering as the men gathered around the cook wagons. Strykar stared until his eyes began to narrow with the effort. Poule looked like a cat staring down a rat, rigid and intent. And when it finally happened, not a single one of them saw it. Strykar hadn’t even blinked, but the amulet was gone.

  “Aloysius and all the Saints!” Strykar took a step back. Poule muttered an oath, his jaw dropping, and Timandra could not move her eyes from the table.

  Acquel swallowed hard as Strykar walked in front of him, his face hard as stone. Without asking, he reached into Acquel’s pocket and Acquel watched as the captain’s eyes widened. He pulled out the amulet and held it out towards Timandra. “Tell me you know how this is happening, cousin.”

  Timandra blessed herself, forehead and breast. “It’s a miracle from God,” she said softly.

  Strykar pushed Acquel’s arms down. “I’ve not seen any miracles in my time,” he growled. “So is it the Lord’s will or is it something else?”

  “Sorcery,” said Poule, the word almost catching in his throat.

  Acquel looked straight at Strykar. “I have been a greyrobe these past two years and have devoted my life to the Faith. I did not ask for this to happen to me.”

  Strykar nodded thoughtfully and pursed his lips. “Or… is it the ghost of the saint himself?”

  Timandra swore and stepped between monk and soldier. “It is a sign and you will give it back to him now!”

  Strykar said nothing but slowly stretched out his hand to Acquel. “Looks like it might be best if you hold onto the Saint’s trinket.” As Acquel reluctantly took it, it felt as if it were a lump of lead in his hand.

  Strykar turned to the Widow and to the lieutenant. “Not a word,” he said. “Not a word to a soul or they’ll burn the monk—and us too, more than likely.”

  Poule nodded. “But we still have to deal with him. If what he says is true… I mean, what we’ve just seen. The Temple guard will hunt him down and they know we have him. We should hand him over in the morning.”

  “Then they will kill him,” hissed Timandra. “Another innocent slain for the High Priest.”

  Strykar put his hands on Acquel’s shoulders. “Boy, look at me. Did you will this in any way?”

  Acquel raised his chin slightly. “I did not, sir.”

  Strykar turned to Poule. “I believe him. I don’t know why but I believe him.”

  Poule shook his head. “Captain…”

  Strykar glanced down at the amulet grasped in Acquel’s hand. “This is beyond my cunning but I know it is grave. And it will not go away of its own accord. The Count will know what to do and if he doesn’t the Duke of Maresto will.”

  “So what do we do with him?” replied Poule.

  “Brother Acquel comes with us to Palestro first. Then we return to Maresto by the south road to give Livorna a wide berth. Timandra, put him into a proper shirt and hose and burn these rags he’s in. And he’s in your charge so put him to work.”

  Timandra nodded, fearful of what the young monk’s presence meant for the company of the Black Rose. And fearful of the true nature of the force that had chosen him.

  THE SUN WAS blood red and shimmering upon the horizon as it burned its last rays of the day. Acquel sat cross-legged on the grass near Timandra’s wagon, distinctly uncomfortable to be wearing woollen hose again for the first time in three years. And his green shoes looked, well, just plain odd after years of being sandal-shod. Around them, the occasional guffaw or burst of laughter sounded, but for the most part, the company was settling down for the night, ragged after a day’s march. He shovelled his evening meal of thick grey stew into his mouth and followed this with a hunk of black bread. After the ordeal he had been through, and what seemed the longest day of his life, it was a banquet.

  Timandra sat nearby, watching. The warm evening breeze blew a few loose strands of her hair across her face which she absently brushed away. He was not a handsome man, she thought, but neither was he ill-favoured. Scruffy to be sure, and no doubt because of what had happened to him, but he would undoubtedly look better with more hair on his head. And he was young. She had not really thought about monks being young. Yet, why this monk? Why had he been singled out for the touch of the divine spirit?

  “Is Acquel your true name or is that a monk-given name?” she asked.

  Acquel took the spoon from his mouth and swallowed. “It’s mine. The Temple let me keep it. They said it was probably short for Acquelonius, some great cleric who lived a few hundred years ago. It didn’t much matter to me at the time. My family name is Galenus.”

  She smiled. “You don’t sound all that dedicated to your calling. After today, I suppose I can’t blame you for that.”

  Acquel set his empty bowl into his lap. “I told you I was a thief before I became a monk. And I only became a monk because I had to. I was older, the gangs were getting rougher. I knew I would end up caught and hanged or else knifed in an alley.”

  She reached for his bowl. “You needed that, I think.”

  Acquel nodded. “At least in the dormitory you get regular meals just for singing and praying, tending the gardens and binding books. Don’t have to worry about a knife in…” He suddenly trailed off, his head falling as he looked away from her.

  “You’re with the Black Rose now,” she said, trying half-heartedly to reassure him.
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  “Captain Strykar doesn’t like me or believe me. Doesn’t seem to like anybody as far as I can see. Has he always been so... grim?”

  “There’s more to it—more to him—than you know. Give it time.”

  “Is your cousin going to hand me back or is he going to give me over to his masters in Maresto as some pawn to be traded?”

  “I won’t let him do that.”

  “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Mistress Pandarus.”

  She knew that too. But she could not resist asking the one question that burned in her mind.

  “Acquel, why you?”

  He knew exactly what she meant. “It shouldn’t be me. I don’t even want the thing… anymore.”

  “But, it… it is like a miracle of old.”

  “I’m not a good monk. Haven’t even taken my final vows as a blackrobe. So why has this happened to me? To teach me a lesson about stealing?”

  “Maybe because the Lord sees something in you that you do not.”

  He smiled—but it was a smile borne of scorn. “It isn’t from God, Timandra. It’s from Elded. His ghost is following me. And I can’t outrun it.”

  And he believed it.

  Timandra didn’t reply. She arose, brushed her kirtle and gathered up the bowls. She was growing fearful again of the amulet—and of Acquel. And she realized that he was no longer the frightened barefoot monk she had first met and shod like some deserving beggar. He was angry.

  Six

  DANAMIS STOOD FOURSQUARE on the sterncastle deck, hands on the railing as he watched the two great stone towers loom on either side of the harbour entrance. Royal Grace was easing forward under a light breeze, her lateen mizzen sheet unfurled and a small square sheet rigged up on her bowsprit. On the deck below where Danamis stood, he could hear Gregorvero barking commands to the helmsman as he gripped the long whipstaff pole. The mouth of the harbour was two hundred feet wide, not the smallest that he had ever sailed into but not especially large either. Not a worry on an incoming tide like now; most of the manoeuvring was done by some short sail with the helmsman correcting with a bit of heave on the whipstaff when needed. A well-judged heading to begin with, a good eye, and the tide flow did the rest.

  She glided past the squat two-storey rectangular tower that lay off to starboard with twenty feet to spare. The giant links of a great cast iron chain, the thickness of a sailor’s forearm, spilled down from the second level straight into the water. Like a monstrous black serpent, it wound its way upon the floor of the harbour mouth until it rose up at the opposite tower, disappearing into the capstan room there. It was Palestro’s great defence. Twenty men in each tower, straining on those capstans and bars, could raise the chain in a few minutes. And then, no ship was coming in or out.

  Horseshoe-shaped Palestro rose up in front of him: the city of his birth and where he had spent most of his life. Bounded at the sea’s mouth by the two towers, the twenty-five foot tall city walls extended from there, encompassing the town completely. On the north side of the city one massive gate stood, to the east and west two others, the only ways in or out other than by sea. The city itself was built upon a hill that rose steeply and suddenly from the quays of the harbourside. Narrow streets wound their way up, up to the summit where the great white stone merchant villas sat, nestled closely next to one another. The far side sloped down more gradually to the city walls and the plain beyond. Here lay another warren of alleyways and streets, the home of Palestro’s, tanners, bakers, butchers, and other tradesmen. In all, some 40,000 souls laboured, loved, feasted, played, and died in the place. Danamis’s heart lifted as he drank in the view from such a splendid vantage on his ship’s highest deck, the sun beating down strongly against a sky lapis blue, the gulls dipping, diving and screeching overhead.

  Already people were running along the quay: fisherfolk, lightermen, sailors, children too, yelling and screaming at the arrival. His personal standard waved gracefully from the top of the mainmast but most Palestrians knew the lines of the Royal Grace from a distance. They knew their High Steward had returned, the sole heir of Lord Valerian. Danamis turned to look behind them. Firedrake was just now entering between the towers of the chain. Beyond her, Salamander bobbed under full sail as she made a turn north to prepare for the run into the harbour mouth.

  “Douse sail!” bellowed Gregorvero as the ship cleared the mouth and entered the harbour. The mizzen and foresheets fell and crew on the fo’c’sle and bowsprit readied the cables as the Royal Grace rapidly slowed to a drift. Gregorvero had piloted the ship to within a throw of its berth, and those on the dock stood ready to receive the line as it was heaved. On the main deck, a second cable was readied while a grapnel anchor at the bow was unchained. The ship’s soldiers, shouldering their crossbows and clutching sword and axe, jostling each other as they crammed together on the main deck, eager to disembark.

  “Cast your lines!”

  The ropes were thrown and caught by the lightermen on the quay, and slowly the bulk of the vessel was hauled in, hand over hand. From his station high up in the sterncastle, Danamis reached into a canvas sack and palmed a handful of gold coins. As the assembled crowd cheered, he tossed the coins high, raining down treasure upon them and causing a mad scramble. He laughed and scooped another handful, flinging these after the first. It was what they were used to—and what they expected. It had been nearly three days since the disatrous trade with the mer. Three days of furtive glances from his soldiers and an unusual silence below decks.

  But look at the lads now,he thought.Pushing and shoving to get off first, laughing and roughhousing; the events at sea were passing into hazy memory. And for Danamis, somehow just entering Palestro again cleared his head like a cold blast of winter air.

  I’ve got time to make things right. Perhaps spread a little more of the treasure this time around. Smooth the feathers. Time to think of a way to regain the trust of the mer.

  In the centre of the harbour, the remainder of the fleet lay at moorings. The great carracks Fortuna, Hammerblow, Drum, and Bonadventura clustered one to another. A short distance away the lighter and faster caravels rode low and sleek: Swiftsure, Seafox, Seahawk and Unicorn. On the opposite side of the harbour half a dozen tubby single-masted cogs lay tied up to the docks. These were the Palestrian trade ships (more were out at sea) but these too could be armed and fought when times required.

  Danamis watched as Firedrake made stately passage into the harbour, dropping anchor somewhere between the other carracks and Royal Grace. Tetch must have arranged a tender before he had even left Palestro because the longboat was out from the quayside, sweeps pulling hard, even before the anchor hit the water. Poor old Salamander too had now entered the safety of Palestro and its master worked to guide the ship forward of Royal Grace to attempt a quayside dock.

  Danamis leaned over the rail and surveyed his men.

  “Well done, my lads! Well done for a hard run of it! Ship’s master will give out your shares from the quayside so give him way. You there—let him through! There’s a good fellow. Your woman will wait!”

  Danamis searched out Ramus, the captain of the sterncastle, and gave him a sign. He then picked up the sack of coins, dropped down the ladder and made for his cabin. Inside the cramped and musty space, lit only by two small leaded windows, there were two small chests of stout seasoned oak and a much larger iron strongbox. He lifted the lids of the oak chests to count the canvas sacks tied up with twine: the remainder of the treasure haul. The bulk of it now lay in the strongbox, reinforced and riveted and with a rare and complex mechanism forged with Ivrean skill for which he and Escalus, his castellan, alone held keys. And the reality came back to bite him again. This could be the last of it. The very last. When Ramus knocked, his escort in tow, he was still staring at the chests. The party of soldiers had been hand-picked. Danamis indicated the oak chests for Gregorvero and the castle captains to distribute to the crew, archers, and swordsmen. His eyes fell again to the great black strongbox, its i
ron bars locked firmly by the clever puzzle of ratchets and pawls inside. He then motioned for the soldiers to pick it up and carry it away.

  They manhandled the strongbox out of the narrow hatch of the stern cabin and out onto the main deck. Danamis put a hand on Ramus’s shoulder and leaned in to speak into his ear. “Keep to the main streets and don’t get distracted. If you beat me to the palazzo, Ramus, I’ll double the coin for you and the men.”

  Ramus nodded and smiled, his leathery face creasing. “Very good, my lord. We shall be up the hill in a trice. Never you worry.”

  Danamis followed behind them and as he emerged into the sunlight he saw Escalus leading his retainers down the quay, the stable boys guiding his grey palfrey past the multi-coloured awnings of the chandlers’ shops. It was time to go home and to his own bed. He drank in a chestful of sea air, tinged with fish, and let it out. The voyage had been intolerably long and fractious. And despite that he had brought treasure home, it had also been a failure, one that he had yet to fully come to grips with.

  GREGORVERO WAS BREATHING hard as he reached the walls and the outer gate of the Danamis palazzo, the sun low in the sky as evening approached. He swept off his red felt hat and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his doublet. Despite the meagre ship’s fare he never seemed to see his belly shrink out at sea, and if anything, he was larger than he had been before the voyage. If he hadn’t been so winded he would have sighed. He was about to pull the cord on the bell but two guards had seen him and came to swing open the huge oak and serpentine wrought iron gate. Inside the courtyard, he again drank in the sight of the manse. It wasn’t overly large as palazzos went: just two storeys high and made of rough-hewn yellow sandstone below and more elaborate brickwork above.

  Situated in a large courtyard, it sat long and rectangular, more than a dozen large mullioned windows arrayed along its upper storey. There were fewer windows on the ground floor, ornate ones of lozenge-shaped leaded-glass, but these were faced with black iron grates cast to resemble a climbing rose. A large studded oaken door sat framed in an arch, the decorative brickwork in alternating colours of red and yellow. The low and lean terracotta roof was failing in a few places, but the octagonal brick tower that rose up at the south end of the palazzo still looked sound. Gregorvero knew from past visits how good the view was from its vantage. And above the orange terracotta roof of the tower flew Nico’s personal standard: a dolphin and falchion, dark red upon white.