‘By Saint Christopher, my boy – you are still alive! I must say I’m surprised.’
Swan opened the pilgrim’s scrip he’d carried through the whole walk and produced the suit of scarlet and the matching cloak. ‘Too small for me,’ he said ruefully.
The old man raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes – your shoulders are much bigger. And you are an inch taller. Well – I must say that you are the first customer to return this suit standing up,’ he said. ‘Look at this slash!’ he complained.
After some haggling and much poking through neatly piled clothes, Swan emerged with two good suits of brown wool; doublet, hose and gown all matching – almost clerical in their plainness, but the cloth was good and the stitching perfect.
‘A gentleman from the far north,’ the old man said, shaking his head. ‘Here one day, caught by footpads and killed. A pilgrim from Danemark.’
Swan also picked up a pair of silk hose, only slightly worn at the knees, and a not-quite-matching doublet in superb blue velvet with embroidery. It was the finest doublet he’d ever owned, and the knife-cut in the back went between the embroidered panels neatly and had been cunningly repaired. The bloodstain on the inside hadn’t reached the velvet.
‘I could have the lining unpicked and resewn if you’d rather,’ said the old man.
Giannis just rolled his eyes. He had a good leather jerkin, carefully tooled and sporting fine buttons like acorns, and he was uninterested in any colour beyond black.
The old man smiled. ‘Soldiers,’ he said. ‘Either they are popinjays, or they are not.’
The two young men dickered for what seemed an appropriate length of time and walked off, carrying their purchases. They retrieved their party from the Chapel of St Maurice. Then they walked down the perfumers’ street, and Swan gave way to impulse and purchased something exotic for Violetta, who smelled it and glowed at him. In the street of glovers he bought gloves – plain chamois, from Austria, for fighting, and another pair for her.
The three men spent money at a remarkable rate, in fact, and drew a small crowd of beggars and worse. In the street of swordsmiths, while Swan ordered Di Brachio’s war sword dismounted and a new blade added, the commotion around the Greeks became bad enough that four men in city colours came with truncheons and began beating the beggars away.
The smith’s apprentice shook his head. ‘Everyone knows the old Pope is dying,’ he said. ‘The nothings are getting ready to riot.’
Swan collected a pair of training swords – light arming swords with no edges – and emptied his purse on the counter.
They crossed the forum carefully. Because Swan was watching the beggars, he caught sight of the red and yellow of the Orsini well to the north, and Di Brescia led them south, down the ancient steps and across the palazzo.
‘Surely they are not after us,’ Giannis said.
Swan wrinkled his nose as if he’d smelled something bad – his most Italianate habit. ‘We spent too much money and made too much noise,’ he said.
South of the forum, they seemed to be alone. They approached a tavern owner – winter was off season for pilgrims – rented his courtyard and two tables, and sat comfortably, with jugs of hot wine, in the winter sun. The landlord served them hare and a spicy sausage dish.
Swan put two gold francs into the landlord’s hand. ‘I wish the courtyard to have no prying eyes. Yes?’
The innkeeper leered. ‘None at all!’ he said.
If he had a peephole, he was doomed to disappointment, unless he fancied watching three women and three men exchange the very rudiments of swordsmanship. If Swan had imagined that he would be the teacher, he quickly discovered that both Di Brescia and Giannis had as much – or more – to contribute. Giannis was soon the voice of instruction. He had experience training soldiers, and that experience was more valuable than Swan’s youthful passion or Di Brescia’s tempered training.
The whole might have been riotous, or salacious – perhaps both together – except that the three women were so very serious.
Irene was merely annoyed when a slap to her knuckles from Di Brescia’s sword drew blood. Violetta took a cut to her right calf that caused her to hobble in the cold air, and made her angry. Andromache avoided injury but was patently afraid of the weapons and yet as eager to learn.
They played in the courtyard until the light left the sky, by which time all three women could adequately hold a sword, slap an attack away, and respond – too slowly – with a counter. The men finished with some bouts, and except for one heart-stopping moment when Di Brescia’s new right leg lunge almost resulted in Swan taking a blade through his eye, the fighting was pretty and safe.
The women had all worn hose and heavy linen shirts under their kirtles and gowns. Now they made themselves respectable again, and the men gathered in a huddle and agreed that they should have dinner.
‘Can we dine with the ladies?’ Swan asked.
Di Brescia vanished and returned smiling. ‘With money, all things are possible,’ he said.
It was cold in the courtyard, and they moved into the tavern’s main room – low ceilinged, with rafters of ancient oak and hams and sausages everywhere, smelling of Eastern spices and male sweat. The ‘house’ had a pair of trulls, the lowest form of prostitutes except those who plied their trade against the churches – hard-faced young women from the country – and a pair of bruisers whose faces suggested they were from the same town. The only other people in the main room were some Florentines, a single French soldier and the fat innkeeper and his wife, both busy over-managing the handful of staff.
‘I’ve arranged dinner and some music,’ Di Brescia said.
The food was excellent, utterly belying the appearance of the place – and explaining the wealthy Florentine party’s presence. While they ate, one of the bruisers produced a lute and began to play. Di Brescia arranged things with the innkeeper, who waited on them in person, and Di Brescia introduced each dish – the cappelletti alla cortigiana, the panunto con provatura fresca, the fine sweet Barolo wine after four bottles of Tuscan sunshine. He took charge of dinner as effectively as Giannis had taken charge of the swordplay.
The bruiser played like Apollo come to earth, as the Greeks commented, and Violetta leaned against Swan. ‘It is like seeing gold appear from dung,’ she whispered.
The three women had their veils off to eat, and the French soldier was moved to cross to their table. But after an exchange with Giannis, he shrugged agreeably – perhaps convinced that the ladies had defenders – and went back to his wine.
After the table was cleared, the landlord brought them another pitcher of his heavy spiced wine, and Violetta clapped her hands together. ‘Let’s dance,’ she said.
Everyone in the tavern agreed to that. Even as Di Brescia had taken charge of the dinner, so Violetta was instantly the mistress of the dance, and she included the trulls, the innkeeper’s wife …
‘Let’s do a bassadura. Let’s do Damnes. It’s new!’ she said. And proceeded to teach them the latest dance at the court of Milan. The women – even the Greek women – knew the steps – ripresa, continenze, mezza volta and the rest of the international repertoire of dance steps. Now it was the men who were the students, and the women who taught, and it was obvious from their tone that the men had been pedantic and patronising about swordplay. Swan thought – and not for the first time – how similar dance was to swordsmanship, while Violetta bossed him unmercifully.