Jamais spat. Again. ‘Fucking peace. We’ll all be vagabonds. A hundred.’
That sounded fine to me. I’m poor at bargaining — I didn’t have a hundred, or even ten, but a hundred sounded like a bargain, as the knight who purchased my golden stallion had given me a hundred florins for him.
Richard shrugged. ‘Seventy-five.’
‘Fuck your mother!’ Jamais swore. ‘Kill me and take them, whore-master!’
We all laughed. Richard looked away. ‘Eighty.’
Jamais stared off into the heavens. ‘Next, you’ll be asking for credit,’ he said. As Richard began to comment, he held up a hand. ‘And you’ll ride off into France and die, and I’m out all my money. So yes, eighty. In gold.’
We spat in our hands and shook, and then Richard and I hoisted our bags and went off to the Italians.
The Riccardi were Lucchese bankers, and they had an office in Poitiers. But they’d been mostly ruined by the war, so we banked — if our constant pawning of armour and looted jewels could be called banking — with the Genoese house of Bardi. So we went there. We thumped our bags of French and English silver on the counters, and boys — banking apprentices — started counting the coins.
‘An armourer’s boy came for your armours, messires,’ said the master of the house, Raimondo. He bowed, as if we were really knights. I suspect we were all exactly the same to him. Whores and bankers — everyone is the same to them. And doctors, I suppose.
I nodded.
‘I thank you for such prompt repayment of your pledges,’ he said.
Richard glared at me.
Right, by taking our coin to the Genoese, we put ourselves in their hands. Now they’d take their cut first. And they’d handed all the gear over covered in rust, and mice had chewed our straps.
Christ, I hate bankers.
I noted they took all of our Italian coins, then all of our English coins, to cover the pawn of the armour. But that left a gleaming pile, and now they had six apprentices counting. Twenty girls earn a great deal of coin. And we hadn’t hit the inn for the protection money owed.
Maestro Raimondo fondled his golden beard and watched as the pile grew smaller and the stacks of French coins, gold and silver, grew. He shook his head. ‘French coin is virtually worthless,’ he said. ‘The Council of Eighty and the Provost of Paris have declared that the Dauphin’s latest coining scheme is illegal, so just now, there is no legal coinage.’ He made a clucking noise, as if all this was beyond his control. ‘I can give you, hmm, sixty florins for the lot.’
Unlike Jamais, he wouldn’t budge.
The most annoying thing is that he was making a huge — usurious — profit, and he knew it, but he didn’t care whether we took his offer or not. What was worse, he would loan the French silver at par — at true value.
Sometime in the long process of counting, Master Chaucer appeared to negotiate a bill on London, and with him was a senior notary of the Prince’s household, a fox-faced man named Michael Hoo; sometimes a customer of Marie’s, and known to me. I introduced young Chaucer to Richard. Richard liked him immediately — there’s no accounting for these things — and they talked nineteen to the dozen. Chaucer had never met an African and was asking Richard about his childhood, and Richard was delighted to have an audience.
I’d never even asked, so I felt a fool. Chaucer’s special talent.
While we stood there at the counter of the Italian bank, I learned that Richard had been born a Christian, in the far-away Kingdom of Prester John; that his father was noble and his mother less so; that he’d been taken as a boy by the Sultan of Cairo, who was, apparently, perpetually at war with the King of Aethiopia. It was a stirring tale, and Master Chaucer drank it in — intrigue in the Aethiopian court, the great knights of the realm, the fights with the Sultan.
Musard could tell a tale, too. He was just to the point of holding forth about the style of soft armour in Aethiopia, and the qualities of horses, when Maestro Raimondo returned to the counter from his clerks. He beckoned to me. ‘Even after recounting, I’m afraid I can do nothing for you. I have no need for French coin. Master Hoo? I believe you are next?
Hoo smiled at me. ‘Sir John Chandos can probably change your money,’ he said.
I looked at him. ‘Really?’
Master Hoo shrugged. ‘I have reason to know, the Prince runs his household in Livre Tournois. I’m sure he’ll give you a better rate.’
Chaucer smiled at Richard. ‘My pater’s a wine merchant, so we follow money markets. The fluctuation in France is. . temporary. As soon as King John pays his ransom, the markets will recover.’
Raimondo looked at the young page. ‘You have the mind of a banker!’ he pronounced.
‘Perish the thought,’ Chaucer said. ‘I’m sure you meant that as a compliment, but. . Christ, how disgusting. Still. .’
Raimondo spread his hands. ‘Do you gentlemen know something about King John’s ransom?’ he asked.
Chaucer grinned. ‘Yes, Maestro, but nothing I can share. Master William, if you collect your coins and pay the counting fee, we can go to the Prince.’
Master Hoo, the notary, leaned over the counter and whispered a few words to the banker.
Maestro Raimondo smiled. ‘Ah, perhaps I am over-hasty. I think, given news of the ransom of the King of France, I might manage eighty florins.’
Richard nodded. ‘A blessing on you, sir.’
Chaucer looked at Master Hoo and the notary shook his head. Chaucer grinned. ‘You’re being fleeced like a sheep. Come, the Prince will give you a hundred and twenty. Do your whores keep you so rich you can burn forty florins?’
Up until then, our whores and the court had been well separated. Chaucer threatened that. Men like Hoo never talked, but Chaucer talked all the time.
Nevertheless, he was a boy, and I underestimated him.
Everyone did.
Maestro Raimondo bowed. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps I could manage a hundred florins and no counting fee as a favour to such fine military gentlemen.’
‘Baaaa!’ Chaucer intoned derisively. ‘Baaa! Baaa!’
But we took it.
Later that afternoon, my shirts were patched and ironed, my trousseau was packed, my armour was clean and rust free, and in some cases newly riveted, with clean leather straps. If I listened carefully, I could hear the sound of the master armourer — a friend from my earliest days — putting new links into my haubergeon. We had a small cart, riding horses, food, wine. .
Sam and I sat at a table.
‘Hadn’t planned to go out again so soon,’ he said.
I wasn’t born yesterday. Very well, I was seventeen — I had been born yesterday — but I knew this gambit. ‘Double pay as an archer,’ I said. ‘Twelve pence a day, and a regard of a florin in gold.’ I leaned forward. ‘Half that for the rest of them — and I pay it to you.’
Sam fingered his moustache. ‘I knew I liked you.’ His smile was false, but we didn’t know each other yet, and he was an ancient man — twice my age.
I put the florin in gold on the table, and slowly added the other four. My archer was called Sam Bibbo. His men — first the castle lawyer, the mouthy and rather foul Christopher Shippen; then the youngest and least experienced, a former valet named Rob of Boston; another proper archer (shows how observant I am, not) John Hughes, whose father was a yeoman from the Lakes in the north of England, and Peter of Bramford, a cordwainer’s son, who’d followed his trade with the army to Poitiers and fallen into bad company — or so he said.
Of the four, I reckoned Sam a deadly man and a good archer, and I was right enough. I marked Christopher as useless, and I was dead wrong. I marked John as a fool, and I was right, but he made a fine servant; and rated Peter as a useful man, and I was far from the target.
However, once bought, they stayed bought. It might all have gone very differently, from the first, but par dieu, it did not. I think on it now. My reputation and my career started with these men.