But I knelt.
Edward appeared from the crowd and began to fumble with my aventail. ‘Oh my God!’ he said. ‘My God, sir!’
He got it over my head. There was a lot of blood in it from my mouth wound.
Baumgarten turned to Sir John. ‘Do you wish to do this?’ he said.
Sir John shook his head. ‘If you do it here, in bowshot of the walls, no one will ever be able to question the making.’
Sir Hannekin Baumgarten drew his sword. ‘William Gold — birth enobles, but nothing enobles like a life of arms. A deed such as I just witnessed-’
‘Guildsmen coming. Winding their crossbows,’ muttered a squire.
Sam Bibbo, I’m told, loosed a shaft then and there. I didn’t see it, but men who did say it flew 300 paces and frightened the wits out of a trio of Florentine guildsmen. Or killed all three, if you believe some.
The sword smacked down on my right shoulder, a little too damned hard. ‘I dub thee knight,’ Baumgarten said.
‘By St Nicholas! What was it all for?’ cursed my lady Janet as we rode south.
The days after my knighting were not pleasant. I had a fever from my mouth wound, and it wouldn’t heal. I got it stitched twice.
If I were telling you a set of stories, monsieur, I’d tell you some pleasant fiction: that Florence sent out emissaries to Sir John, and he drove a hard bargain and settled an honourable peace.
That sounds well, does it not?
But what Florence actually did while I lay in my tent and moaned, was to pay a number of men, including the Imperial Knight who’s buffet had just enobled me in front of 20,000 onlookers. Florence paid them enormous bribes, and our army, victorious in the field, vanished like alpine mist under a Tuscan sun. The Germans left first, but the money went far — even into the White Company.
In a week, those of us who didn’t sell out were retreating across the Florentine contada. Hawkwood was sanguine. I still don’t know if he received money, or not. You must know he has a sovereign price — a fine reputation — but he loved money.
Any road, we retreated on Pisa. And Pisa, who had nearly bankrupted themselves to buy us, was none too happy. Neither were we happy. The men who’d been bought had ridden south — Andrew Belmont, who was angry over my elevation; Sterz himself, probably smarting that Pisa had chosen Hawkwood instead of him, and a dozen other officers. Belmont’s little company actually changed sides to serve Florence.
Just north of Pisa, we made a camp — a walled camp covered by the Arno River. Hawkwood stayed in command, and began to buy a new army.
Across the river, Florentine agents competed with ours to buy every available lance. And Sir Walter Leslie, from France, no less, arrived to compete as well. He was bidding for the pope, or so I understood. For a crusade.
On our second night in the new camp, we threw a party. We had horse races and a military dance — a hundred of us danced in armour, in full sight of our adversaries. To show we were still the White Company. To thumb our noses at the men who had taken money to change sides.
I came back from the dancing tired, but feeling better than I had in a week, to find Fra Peter was having a cup of wine with my lady. She smiled at me — truly smiled. She was alight with happiness.
Fra Peter was wearing his scarlet surcoat, the uniform of his order. He stood up as I approached.
‘William?’ he said.
I grinned. ‘Sir William, to you,’ I said.
He threw his arms around me and crushed me. I thought he might collapse my breastplate. Then he held me at arms length. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘It sounds like a marvellous feat of arms.’ He looked at me. ‘You don’t seem surprised to see me.’
I shrugged and grinned like a fool. Praise from Fra Peter was praise indeed. ‘Leslie’s recruiting for a crusade,’ I said. ‘Or so I hear. So I expected you.’
Fra Peter nodded. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Come and walk with me.’
‘Are we going to pray?’ I asked. I meant it as a jest.
‘We might, at that,’ he allowed. We walked a ways, stepping carefully over tent ropes and horse dung. I was still in armour and I had that bone-wrenching fatigue you can only experience from wearing iron on your body.
‘That was. . a woman. In arming clothes, at your fire,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I agreed, instantly on my guard. ‘She’s a fine lance. She’s won her place here.’
Fra Peter nodded again. ‘Women can be trouble in war,’ he said. ‘But that’s Sir John Hawkwood’s business and none of mine.’ We’d come a long way, by then, right to the bank of the river. It was a soft summer night in Tuscany, and we sat under a chestnut tree as doves cried their haunting cries.
‘She is not my lover,’ I said, with all the righteousness a young man can project.
There were campfires across the river — so close, in fact, that the conversations of the men at those fires carried. A loud voice proclaimed that someone was a ‘fucking sodomite’ and a ‘son of a whore’ in Thames-side English.
Fra Peter’s craggy face — he had a big nose — was outlined against the firelight of the enemy camp, and he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking across the river.
Finally, he spoke. ‘Will you come on crusade?’ he asked. ‘The King of France has taken the cross. Father Thomas has even convinced the Green Count to take the cross.’
I thought that through. ‘Because the pope got John Hawkwood to leave his lands?’
Fra Peter’s head made an odd motion. ‘Perhaps. I prefer to think that it was Pierre Thomas and his preaching.’ He shrugged. ‘You served with Hawkwood. What do you think of war in Italy?’
‘I think it is much like being a routier. Except we behave a little better and we are paid a great deal more.’ It was my turn to shrug.
‘You are a corporal now. You have rank — men follow you.’ Fra Peter turned, and his eyes were dark. ‘Aye, tis possible that you have all you want here.’ He continued to look at me, then he looked away. ‘I am wasting time, I think. I want you to come with me on crusade, but before I ask you, I have to give you something. This thing. .’ His dark eyes were on mine like the heavy blade of an adversary. ‘This thing came into my hands without my seeking it. I think it may be wrong for me to give it to you. Father Thomas says no. He says that you must have your free will.’
He reached into the breast of his red coat with the white cross and handed me a small envelope. It was of coarse brown cloth, covered in oil, and inside was another envelope of heavy parchment.
I took an eating knife from my purse. ‘Is it. .’ I think my voice was full of hope. ‘Is it from Richard?’ I asked. ‘Richard Musard?’
Fra Peter blinked. ‘No, lad. Hah!’ His laugh sounded grim. ‘I’ll have to call you Sir William soon. No, but it is from Turin. When I took Father Thomas back to Turin, I was at the Green Count’s court for some days.’
I got my eating knife and carefully slit the old cloth to get at the parchment. There was a small seal.
Even in the dark, as soon as my thumb touched the seal, I suspected.
My heart beat as fast as it would have in combat. ‘She sent me a letter before she died!’ I said.
And Fra Peter shook his head. ‘No, William. She is still alive.’ He paused. ‘I have seen her — and spoken to her.’
I ran. Wearing my armour, I ran to the nearest campfire, leaving the older man sitting with his back to a chestnut tree. I came up to a fire where a dozen servants sat — not men I knew. They scattered in real fear — fear of an armed man running at them for the darkness.
I knelt by the light of their fire and used my eating knife to break her seal. The parchment unfolded, slim and short, and there was a tiny enclosure, shaped like a sacred heart.
Dear William.
I have learned that you think I am dead. I am not. I have so much to tell you.
My husband, it would appear, used this story of my death to hurt you. I had a long recovery from my second child — I might have died — but — I smile to write this — I did not. In the last few days, at the court of the Green Count, I have learned many things, about you and about the Count d’Herblay and the part he has played. I have had opportunity to talk with Sir Richard Mussard.