At any rate, we did not receive a hero’s welcome to Verona, and while we rode in through the white Roman Gate and trotted by the marvels of the amphitheatre, and the magnificence of Saint Anastasia, we were watched by a sullen crowd. Father Pierre dismounted in the courtyard of the Carmelite convent, and the Knights of the Order closed around him, wary of the people. The nuns watched from the upper cloisters like curious birds.
Fra Peter watched the crowd for as long as it took the clock to strike three, and then handed me an ivory tube with many of our travel documents. He shrugged. ‘This may be ugly. I need to be with the legate. Get to the castle and get our documents signed. Tell della Scala …’ He paused and looked at the ground. ‘Never mind. But if you can find out what this is about, I’d like to know.’
Well, we had by then a dozen donats, all fully armed and armoured. I turned to Miles Stapleton.
‘Will you play my squire?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘Your servant, my lord,’ he said.
Nerio Acciaioli caught my bridle. ‘It could be murder out there,’ he said, pointing to the gate.
It was my turn to shrug. ‘I have orders,’ I said. ‘And Fra Peter is worried. He never worries.’
Ser Nerio let go my bridle and nodded. ‘Do me the kindness of waiting on my father.’
I dismounted and bowed to Ser Niccolo, who listened while his son whispered in his ear.
‘Do it,’ he said. He smiled at me. ‘You need a servant,’ he said.
It seemed the oddest thing, at the time.
There were no women in the streets of Verona, that’s the first thing I noted. The second was that there were a great many men of fighting age, all with swords. In Bologna, I hadn’t seen a sword displayed in a week. University students who wanted to fight went outside the town.
We were watched in a heavy silence as we rode, and I suspect the sheer number and quality of the men-at-arms kept us safe — a dozen of the Order’s men-at-arms and another dozen of the Accaioulos, with their green and gold banner and the Pope’s, too.
The castle was the most modern, elegant, and imposing fortification I had ever seen. It is all red brick and white marble, with palatial facades and workaday walls; a magnificent design that is equally suited to holding the city against an invader or holding an escape route against a local insurrection. The della Scala were, after all, tyrants. Not really ill-natured tyrants, although there had been trouble.
We entered by the main gate and entered a courtyard, and my spine tingled: the walls around the courtyard were full of crossbowmen, and they were watching us, their bows spanned.
Fiore whistled softly.
Stapleton played his part perfectly, riding forward with my helmet and lance and calling for the captain of the fortress.
The man who emerged from the main tower was in full harness and had a poleaxe in his hand. I couldn’t even hear him when he spoke, because his visor was down.
I didn’t have a helmet on, and I was afraid. There were enough crossbows around us to kill us all in a matter of seconds, and I had led my friends into this. And I had led the life — I could tell how close to the edge all these men were.
I turned. ‘Dismount!’ I called. ‘Everyone show your hands to be empty. Smile!’
Behind me, Nerio said, ‘Smile?’
I looked at him and made myself smile. ‘It’s harder to kill a man in cold blood when he’s smiling,’ I said. I got an armoured leg over the cantle of my saddle and slid to the ground, then walked toward the armoured man with the poleaxe.
He backed away a step.
‘Messire, I don’t have a weapon in my hands, and I have no helmet on my head, and you have fifty crossbowman pointing at me this minute,’ I said in passable Italian. ‘I come in peace, with travel documents from the Pope, who is our spiritual father. I am sworn to the crusade, as is every man here, and if you harm us, you will be excommunicated. Please open your visor and let us talk like gentlemen.’
‘Put your papers on the ground and back away,’ he said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I represent the Cardinal Legate of the Pope.’
We stared at each other.
That is to say, I stared at his visor, and he stared at my naked face.
After some time had passed, I became angry. I took a step back, and turned slowly to face the walls. I held aloft my ivory tube and pointed at the papal banner. ‘We are servants of the Pope and we are sworn to crusade.’ I looked around. The impasse had lasted long enough that the crossbowmen — all mercenaries, and mostly Bretons — were tired of aiming their weapons.
‘Shut up,’ said the visored man.
‘If you harm us, you will be excommunicated,’ I said, and my voice rang off the stone. ‘Whatever you have been told-’
‘One more word and they shoot,’ growled the Visor.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Leave your papers and go,’ he said.
‘Why? This is an insult to the Pope.’ I put my hands on my hips. I fetched a glance at Juan and he nodded. We weren’t just young bucks with a message. We were soldiers of the papacy. I leaned toward the visor. ‘And frankly, messire, you have done nothing to indicate that I should trust you with all of our travel documents. Which …’ I raised my voice, ‘which are signed by the Pope, the King of France, the Emperor, and the council of Bologna.’
He stepped forward and placed the blade of his axe against my neck. ‘You!’ he began.
I grabbed the haft just below the head and pivoted on my back foot, gave the haft a sharp pull to throw him off balance and then slammed my unarmoured hand into the chainmail of his aventail at his neck, got my right leg behind his knee, and put him down with his own axe as the fulcrum. As fast as a crying woman draws a breath, I had his dagger under his aventail at his throat.
Everyone was very, very still.
‘I can help you up, and we can start this again,’ I said very softly. ‘Or you can die. I may also die, but please understand that you will be ahead of me at the gates.’
His eyes were not daunted. ‘You will not seize this castle while I’m its commander,’ he said.
‘I’m not here to seize your poxy castle!’ I spat. ‘I’m here to get the papal legate’s travel paper’s signed.’
All this while fifty Breton crossbowmen considered whether to kill me or not.
‘Do you know that man over there?’ I asked, pointing at Ser Nerio. ‘He’s an Accaioulo.’
‘Heraldry can be faked,’ he said. Then, ‘Very well, let me up.’
The change was too sharp. ‘Let you up? Why?’ I asked.
He raised his head and opened his own visor. ‘Stand down,’ he shouted. ‘Clearly been a misunderstanding. Stand down!’
The crossbowmen sighed all together, so that it sounded like a flock of birds landing on a pond, their wings all beating together. The knights in the courtyard watched the cup of death pass away from them, and they sighed too.
I probably sighed.
The man who opened his visor was Antoine della Scala. The lord of the city.
He poured wine with his own hand while a pair of boys in red and white livery disarmed him. ‘The cardinal of Geneva sent word that you would attempt to seize the citadel and take the city for Milan,’ he said. He passed this as if it was a pleasantry, a matter of little consequence.
I decided that he was quite mad. His eyes glittered, and his movements were curiously uncoordinated. He spilled a little wine almost every time he raised the cup to his lips and he had spittle at the corner of his mouth.
As I was now deep inside the castle, I was more scared than I had been in the courtyard. They had my sword and my dagger, and my armour was not going to keep me alive very long against a dozen trained adversaries. Men whose master was, as I say, a lunatic.
‘The Bishop of Geneva?’ I asked.
‘The Green Count and Bishop Robert have always been a friends of this city,’ della Scala said. ‘He sent me a letter from Avignon …’