It was only when I emerged into the central square that I realised where I was, and how desperate my cause had become. I was almost a mile from our gate and I had a good idea what capture would mean.
A dozen of the podesta’s men-at-arms burst from another street, fifty paces away. They weren’t chasing me, unless they could see in the dark like cats.
Off to my left, by the cathedral, I heard a war cry.
The podesta’s men reined in.
I had no idea what was going on, but I sat on my horse, letting poor Jacques draw a breath while I did the same. Under my very eyes, two groups of footmen rushed each other with clubs and swords. In less time than it takes to tell it, a man was down, another lost his hand, and the first group broke and ran for the cathedral, hotly pursued.
I had my bearings. I turned my horse, picked the archway that looked right in the shadows, and trotted poor Jacques up a narrow street that turned twice before running almost straight uphill. We went up and up, the houses growing narrower and more crowded, and twice I had a glimpse of the gate towers in the moonlight. I stopped in front of a fountain — really, no more than a spring in the naked rock — and let Jacques drink, but not for long. I couldn’t let him get a cramp in the middle of this.
I heard shouts, muffled by my helmet liner. I backed Jacques. It may sound foolish, but you can hide a warhorse and a knight around a corner, at least in the dark. Two men fled past me, on horseback. They could have been the Pope and Father Pierre for all I saw of them, and then they were gone, their hoof beats ringing like the sound of hammers on anvils.
I went the other way, up the hill and around one last corner-
There was an open square in front of the gate, no wider than a bowling green. Men were fighting.
None of them were mine.
Far below me in the dockyards was a red glow where the fire still burned.
It illuminated Genoa with the sort of flickering red that monks and nuns put into manuscript pictures of Hell, and made the armour of the men fighting in the little square seem as if made of liquid metal.
I consoled myself that in the dark they were all Genoese, and put Jacques at the gate. It was open — I could see the lower tips of the portcullis drawn up above us. Jacque’s hooves slammed into soft flesh and hard armour and we were through the square and out the gate, and I was uninjured.
I sat in the darkness and breathed, and so did Jacques.
I must have lost an hour on my party, but it was obvious they’d made it out the gate. There were a dozen little signs — the most obvious was a pack donkey I found half a league on in the moonlight, strayed from the convoy and placidly standing in the shadow under a palm tree that grew in a village square.
But riding into the mountains above Genoa in the darkness proved to be as daunting as carving my way out of the town. I was lost twice, and the donkey, which I was leading, was no help, braying in the darkness like a trumpet and standing stubbornly against a wall and refusing to budge.
In the end, I found myself back in the same town square where I’d found the donkey — showing I have no more sense than an ass — and I dismounted to give Jacques a rest. I got some water from the town’s spring, hung my helmet from my saddle bow, and sat down.
I awakened to find myself looking at a sword held at my eyes. Beyond the sword’s point was the Count d’Herblay.
I’ll pass over the beating. They took my armour and the Emperor’s sword and Jacques. They stripped me naked, and then they beat me.
Let’s just say that I had several humiliating hours.
On the other hand, d’Herblay wasn’t the Bourc. He ordered me beaten and went elsewhere. The men who beat me never really worked themselves up and, thanks be to the good God, they were hard men, but not evil. None of them particularly enjoyed the work.
They were thorough enough, though. I had broken ribs, broken fingers, and a broken nose quickly enough.
Eh bien. I won’t mention it again.
By mid-afternoon, the pain had become a sort of constant haze; time had lost its meaning.
At some point, d’Herblay came back out of wherever he was. They brought him a seat — my eyes were swollen almost shut.
‘Christ, you are ugly. If only Emile could see you now,’ he said. He laughed, nervously.
In fact, he wasn’t really tough enough to destroy me, even to accept the consequence of his own orders. He fidgeted.
And talked.
‘Really much more satisfying,’ he began, smiling, ‘catching you, instead of that pestilential priest. I’m not even sure these brigands I’ve hired would kill a priest.’ He nodded. ‘Tell me, where is my wife?’
I’d lost an eye tooth — this one — and I’d bitten my tongue because, despite my youth, I’m not as good at being beaten as I ought to have been. And my lips were so swollen I couldn’t speak well.
I didn’t even try to say anything, and to be fair, I suspect I just lay huddled, whimpering.
‘I gather that she is now spreading her favours around the court of King Peter. Perhaps she’s warming the king’s bed.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose there’s some consolation in knowing that one’s wife is not just unfaithful, but a whore. I suppose she suffers from some sickness.’ He leaned over me. ‘I married her for her lands. I knew she was soiled goods, so I suppose I got what I deserved.’ He shrugged. ‘How’d your people slip past my ambush, Gold?’
I suspect I whimpered. Let’s just take it as read throughout this reminiscence, eh?
‘As I say, perhaps for the best. But some people want your legate dead.’ He leaned over. ‘I really only want you dead, Gold. Although it brings me a certain joy to see you like this.’ His riding whip flashed. He struck my head, and I covered up, and his next blow went between my legs.
His heart wasn’t in it. He could have exploded my testicles. He could have torn the nose from my face with his whip. He didn’t.
This is the part that I remember. He didn’t laugh, or groan. He sighed. As if bored, or from simple revulsion.
I’d like to say I spat in his face.
I did not.
He spoke. I couldn’t see, but I could hear.
‘Just take him somewhere and cut his throat. Kill the horse and bury all his kit.’ I could hear him shift his weight.
I hated that they would kill Jacques.
‘Don’t be a fool — any of you. The sword looks good, but every knight in Italy will know whose it is, the same with the horse and any part of the harness. Off a cliff is best.’ I heard him walk away, and then I heard him mount his horse. And I heard every hoof beat as the horse walked right over me.
‘Goodbye, Cook. I find that I get very little in the way of pleasure from this, but I expect the knowledge that you are dead will cheer me up immensely.’ He cleared his throat. ‘By now, your legate will be as dead as you will shortly be. I’ll go and join my wife. Goodbye. Send my regards to hell.’
To hell.
I was unshriven.
I had most certainly sinned.
The brigands — let’s be fair, they were men just like me — tied my hands and feet to a spear and strung me, naked, between two horses. It was cold, although that was so little a part of my troubles that I don’t think I noticed until the swaying had stopped. My parts felt as if they had exploded and I couldn’t breathe.
Gradually, though, I grew cold.
Who knew that getting beaten keeps you warm?
A freezing rain began to fall and I wondered if a peasant would rescue me — some brave, resourceful lad who hoped to be a knight.
They carried me to the edge of a precipice. Far below, I could see Genoa sparkle beyond a rain shower. It was a long way down.
The men who had beaten me had no contrition in them. No one offered me water, even with vinegar in it; no one eased the ties on my hands.