‘I took her husband at Brignais,’ I said. They say that no man can hide three things — love, sorrow, and sudden increase in fortune — but I’ll add a fourth: no man can hide jealousy.
Fra Peter’s eyes cut into mine. I knew he was not buying my evasion, that he had read me. He spat as if he’d tasted bile. ‘Listen to me, lad. You be cautious with our legate’s good name, here and in Genoa. The Venetians are all smiles, but they’d like to cancel the Passagium as much as the Genoese would. Do you understand?’
Again, I had a sort of false outraged innocence. ‘I have done nothing of which I need to feel ashamed,’ I said.
Fra Peter raised an eyebrow. And waved me away in dismissal.
We were both wearing our splendid surcoats, as was Fiore, now a knight of the empire, and Nerio, when we escorted the legate. As donats of knightly status, we had scarlet coats, our own arms emblazoned in the upper canton, otherwise marked by white crosses. We wore gold belts and gold spurs, and we looked superb! Red is the most martial colour.
We took boats to Mestre and then rode across the Venetian plain to Padua, where we were well enough received, although there was still plague in spots, poor souls. From Padua we rode to Vicenza, and from Vicenza to Verona and thence via Brescia to Milan.
I was very conscious of our danger and of our dignity. The legate cared little for outward show, which was very holy of him, to be sure, but his very lack of show made him a target where he needn’t have been one. In some ways, the outward display of the richest churchmen was a protection from thieves and brigands. It could awe the populace in a town, too.
Our legate in his brown Carmelite robe was far from an awesome figure. Further, other churchmen resented him. He had almost absolute powers in Italy; in any town in which he stopped, he had the power to take money from crusading funds, even to dictate the manner of collection of those funds. He could use revenues brought in by pilgrimage and donation — in cathedrals, for example. These were, in fact, funds that were intended for the crusades, going back two hundred years, but the bishops of these places looked on those revenues as their own money, and their resentment was dangerous.
I think that perhaps they would have found Father Pierre easier to deal with had he been one of them, had he travelled with pomp, and a hundred men-at-arms. Instead, he wore an old brown cloak over his robes and had an escort of ten. In Brescia, we had an incident that was only averted by Nerio’s connections. In Milan, we owed our protection to Nicolas Sabraham, who appeared at dinner in the Episcopal residence and ordered me to change our lodgings, which I did, despite the cursing of all of our pages and squires. We carried every trunk halfway across the city, and moved the animals.
Sabraham was not mistaken. That night there was an attack on our former beds. A dozen men, masked and hooded and carrying crossbows, killed two Episcopal men-at-arms and stormed our rooms — and found them empty.
That was my introduction to Milan. We hadn’t been invited to the palace, yet. If Vicenza and Verona had tyrants, the Visconti of Milan were the greatest tyrants of all. We’d made war on Bernabo Visconti just two years before, and we were aware — at least, Sabraham and I were aware — that he was allied to the King of France, he was the most powerful man in northern Italy, and he was the inveterate foe of the Pope.
I see you smile; yes, because there were not just two sides in Italy, or anywhere else. The Pope was the ally of the King of France, and so were the Visconti. But the Visconti and the Pope were enemies, and this fracture went deep — the Green Count of Savoy was friend to both the Pope and the Visconti — and the King of France. A remarkable balancing act. States like Florence tried to balance the Pope and the Visconti and cared nothing for the King of France.
Our legate had an audience with the tyrant at the palace. I went with him, and stood at his shoulder while Bernabo, Lord of Milan, openly fondled a magnificent courtesan and promised thirty knights for the crusade. He meant to insult Father Pierre, but failed. On the way out of the palace, one of the more sinister buildings I’ve ever known, and perhaps I’ll describe it more fully in due time, the legate smiled his rare impish smile at me.
‘I am not here as a man, but as the legate of crusade,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Thirty knights? I may be sorry for his sin, but I needn’t bridle at it.’
Milan was full of men-at-arms, almost an armed camp, and I suspected, as did Sabraham, that our attackers had been Bernabo’s men. I wondered if he would send us the very men he’d asked to assassinate the legate, but Sabraham laughed.
‘You don’t understand Italy as well as you think, my young apprentice,’ he said.
I rather liked that he called me his apprentice. ‘Why?’ I asked.
Sabraham laughed his thin-lipped, grim laugh. ‘It would humiliate the Visconti if the legate had been killed in Milan, in the centre of Visconti power.’ He looked at me and winked. ‘Visconti has just discovered that his arrangements are penetrated and one of his men has sold himself to France. He’s in a rage — against the French.’
I watched the houses like a hawk — and then it hit me. ‘You!’
Sabraham smiled. ‘Never,’ he said.
I didn’t breathe until we were in the countryside, riding west.
Sabraham joined us with a pair of soldiers and it is difficult to describe them. They were not, strictly speaking, archers, although in England I think they might have been. They were both very professional, their kit clean and neat and well-cared for, weapons well-oiled. They rode good horses and had no badges. We called them George and Maurice. They accepted these names with a good nature.
I had been around. I was getting an idea what Sabraham did, and I was delighted to have him with us. At an inn west of Milan, with half my friends on watch and all the precautions I could manage, I told Sabraham of my fears — Robert of Geneva, the Bourc, d’Herblay, the papacy, and the legate.
He nodded and agreed. Finally he rubbed his beard. ‘You have done well to puzzle this for yourself,’ he said — warm praise from a master. But his next words chilled me.
‘The legate shouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘The Bishop of Geneva means him humiliated or dead.’ He gave me a rueful smile. ‘The safest place for him is on crusade.’
‘Does the legate know what you did?’ I asked, looking around. ‘In Milan?’
Sabraham frowned. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ he said. ‘And neither does the legate.’
The next morning, over watered wine and stale bread, I put some of this to the legate, who smiled his saintly smile.
‘You are going to tell me that God will provide,’ I said.
Father Pierre nodded.
My faith, much abused, sinned against, and manipulated, was as strong as it had ever been. Despite which, I suspected that God’s will would function best — as it did on crusade — if we were worthy, took precautions, and avoided ambush.
Two days west of Milan, I sat in a chilly arbour — no grapes left — and read an old itinerary that the inn kept, a list of destinations and distances. I called Sabraham who had already scouted the road with his two professionals. I wasn’t sure which of us was in command: he was without a doubt the more experienced, but I was a knight. He was retiring, almost mild. He never stayed to drink wine in the evenings, and he was all but invisible in a group.
I showed him the itinerary. ‘What if we approached Genoa from the south?’ I asked. ‘Two days extra travel …’
Sabraham nodded, really pleased. ‘This is well considered. What a valuable little book.’
Sister Marie overheard us. She nodded to Sabraham and stood with a false demure hesitation. ‘I could copy it,’ she said, riffling the scroll. ‘Two hours.’
The little scroll covered Northern Italy as far south as Florence. It looked to me like a mighty resource, and Sabraham agreed. Sister Marie sat and copied. To speed us on the road, Sabraham and I both joined her, and before we were done, Ser Nerio sat down and stained his hands with ink. We paid the innkeeper to make that copy and I have it yet. Listen, knowing the fastest way from one place to another is all very well, but for a soldier — or a spy — it is useful to know all the other ways, too. And whenever I learn one, I add it to the scroll.