The bishop smiled. It transformed his long, narrow face, pleasant enough to be considered handsome, to a devil’s. If he had had fangs, I couldn’t have been more shocked. ‘And for my part, Sir William, I am so glad you could come, as my last invitation …’ he glanced at Camus, ‘went awry.’
Camus glared at me.
‘I hope your shoulder is better,’ I said sweetly. ‘Fiore can be hasty.’
Camus’s mouth worked. But no sound emerged.
‘The Bourc has been forbidden to speak,’ the bishop said. ‘Because between his hatred and your adolescent posturing, I would be moved to haste. Please confine yourself to speaking to me.’
I bowed my head. ‘My lord, that is too great a privilege. I will take my squire and go, leaving you with my thanks and saving you-’
‘Shut up.’ The bishop snapped his fingers at me. ‘Do not speak until I ask you to.’ He waved at the two men by him. ‘Take the boy to the solar until we are done.’
I share with Marc-Antonio a certain willingness to spit at my superiors, but as they had him and I didn’t, I thought I’d be meek. I bowed my head. My sword was already loose in my sheath and they hadn’t taken it from me. Marc-Antonio threw me a glance as they escorted him down the hall and into a small room that opened off the great fireplace.
‘The last time I summoned you, you chose not to come. This time you have come, and this is the wiser course. Agree?’ His voice snapped like a silk flag in the wind.
‘Yes, my lord,’ I said.
‘You suffer from weaknesses of the flesh. Many do. If I eradicate them, you will be a better man, will you not? Agree?’
‘I agree that I suffer from weakness, my lord, I am a sinful-’ I tried to sound contrite — and stupid.
‘Save your false piety, Gold. You are a dog of a killer like the mongrel at my elbow. I know your kind. You have more loyalty than most, although I am not surprised that a man and not a woman brought you running. He’s quite pretty and Camus wants him. Don’t you?’
Camus spat something.
‘You are forbidden to speak, monsieur,’ the bishop said.
‘I am not a sodomite!’ Camus said.
The bishop laughed, and his ringed hand struck Camus — hard. The Bourc went a livid red-brown. Blood emerged from where the bishop’s amethyst ring had cut him. ‘Please do not speak,’ the bishop said.
Camus mastered himself.
The bishop went on, ‘I know your kind, as I was saying. I want you to understand that, and to understand that if you do what I tell you, you will be rich and well-contented, and if you do not, you will be dead and so will everyone you value. I am spending the time to speak to you in person because men like you and John Hawkwood are becoming very valuable. But not because you are valuable enough to me to make bargains. I give the commands, you obey. Clear?’
I met his eyes. Sadly, they were not mad. Not crazed. I had seen the poor creatures in London and Paris and Venice who are mad clear through, who believe they are Prester John. I saw one, caught in London, who had killed four women with a knife.
The Bishop of Geneva looked at me with the eyes of a banker, or a clever merchant. Or a bad priest. Or a great lord.
‘No, my lord,’ I said. ‘I will not obey you.’ I gathered courage and spoke. ‘My spiritual lord is Father Pierre Thomas-’
‘Spare me the recitation of your devotion to that penniless adventurer. He has no see and no hope of every commanding one. Patriarch of Constantinople — I wish he would go there and martyr himself with the schismatics!’ His spit flecked me. Mention of Father Pierre made him angry.
‘He is my lord,’ I said.
The bishop smiled and squirmed in his throne, resettling himself. ‘How much would it cost me to have you kill him?’ he asked. ‘Would a hundred ducats cover it?’
I made myself breathe. I was scared, but he had taken too long. My terror was past the point of incoherence. And I had my sword, given me by the Emperor. I stood. My knees hurt, and I had been kneeling in front of the bishop all through our interview. Camus stepped back — and drew.
I did not. Camus was too far from me to strike in one step. ‘You have spent too much time with the carrion crow you employ,’ I said. ‘You imagine things that are untrue, my lord. I ignored your first summons, as you call it, because I was not here at all-’
‘Please shut up,’ the bishop said.
‘I came this time to retrieve my squire, who I will now take, and if you, my lord, or the Bourc, your slave, crosses my path, I’ll kill you right here.’
I’ll give the bishop this much, he merely waved his hand at my threat, as if bored. ‘Take your Ganymede and take the consequences,’ he said. ‘I enjoy punishing sinners. You will be fully punished, I think, for not knowing your place. You are a cook, not a knight. And God hates adultery, cook’s boy.’
I still hadn’t drawn, and I allowed my left hand to caress my hilt. ‘The Emperor thought differently,’ I said. I was ten steps from the Bourc, and my hand went to the door. ‘Send for my horse, my lord,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘You are a bold rascal. You think you can just walk away?’
I looked about me carefully. ‘If you had a dozen men with arbalests wound, I would see the odds as long.’ I met his eyes. ‘But even if you had them, I promise you that the first man to die would be you.’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he said easily.
‘Keep telling yourself that. My lord.’ I pushed the solar door open. ‘Come, Marc-Antonio,’ I said, and turned and began to walk towards the bishop on his dais.
Camus, sword drawn, stepped between us.
Three steps from him, I flicked my eyes and saw Marc-Antonio emerge from the solar. I altered course, stepping to the right. Camus turned.
‘Ah, Bourc. He has you leashed and muzzled, like the dog you are!’ I said, and smiled. I licked my lips at him.
Marc-Antonio passed behind me, headed for the door of the great hall.
Camus’s face worked and muscles bulged. I stepped backwards towards the door.
‘You have no idea,’ whispered the Bourc.
In a way, that was more frightening than any other part of the interview.
I backed out the door with my sword still in the scabbard. Because I knew that if I drew, I would kill, and I was old enough to know the consequences.
I heard the bishop laugh. ‘Tell Madame d’Herblay to say her prayers,’ he called. ‘False as Jezebel, doomed to hell. Eternity in hell — for fucking a cook’s boy!’
Camus slammed the oak door in my face.
I went to the stables and got my riding horse, still saddled, thanks to Saint George and Saint John and all the saints. My hands were shaking. In fact, I’ll admit I could scarcely stand, and to this day I’m proud of the badinage I made with that devil, the Bishop. I got Marc-Antonio up behind me, and we rode at a gallop through the streets as if the Legion of Hell was behind us.
As soon as we were through the gate of the Hospital, di Heredia sent for us. He embraced me and sent me to my cell and took Marc-Antonio.
He interrogated my squire for more than two hours. I heard all about it over the next few weeks. He was not kind: he treated Marc-Antonio as if the boy was hostile, an enemy.
Then, without allowing me to see my squire, he sent for me.
‘He bought you?’ di Heredia asked, his voice heavy with contempt.
I shot to my feet. ‘Crap! Merde. Nothing of the kind.’
He spent thirty minutes on me. He told me that Marc-Antonio had turned on me; he told me that I’d promised to kill Father Pierre.
At one point, I wept. It was so unfair and I went from rage to humiliation to anger to sorrow. I was wretched.
In half an hour.
The bells rang for Vespers, and di Heredia put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Come, come, my son. Let us go sing the divine offices.’
I looked up at him.
He frowned. ‘I had to be sure.,’ he said.