A Burnable Book. Bruce Holsinger

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СКАЧАТЬ you know how I like my apples, Paolo?’

      The assassin was still.

      ‘Green, Paolo. I like my apples green.’

      Taricani pressed against the ropes, then the pleas started. No, Ser Giovanni, you wouldn’t, Ser Giovanni, she is only a girl, Ser Giovanni, oh mercy, Ser Giovanni, mercy mercy mercy! Scarlett listened for a while, then looked off into the hills until the begging faded into the familiar moans of a newly broken man.

      Hawkwood stood, all business. ‘The fate of your daughter’s virtue is entirely up to you. If you refuse us we’ll have her in hand this evening, and your whore as well. I’ll make you watch, Paolo Taricani. I’ll taste your little apple first, then hand her to my man Scarlett here, then we’ll bring the garrison up from the river. I’ll cut off your eyelids if I have to, but you’ll watch every man take her, one by one, and in every way imaginable. You know I’ll do it, too. You’ve seen me do worse. By God, you’ve helped me do worse, Paolo. And if you fail in your mission, if I get word you’ve bungled the thing, or fled, why – why then I will take your Piccolamela to Venice and sell her to the Turks. Little apples fetch a handsome price in the doge’s slave markets.’

      He bent over the puddled friar. ‘On the other hand, Paolo, if you do this, know that I will take care of your daughter, and your woman too. They won’t be short of florins, and no one will lay a hand on them. And if you don’t come back I will still protect them. Your daughter, though the illegitimate spawn of a half-lapsed friar, will marry well.’

      Scarlett could see the resignation on Taricani’s face, the defeated angle to his shoulders. But only for a moment. Taricani was a professional, after all, and this was a job like any other. Just a job. Scarlett watched him take a deep breath, nod at the ground, and look up at Hawkwood, his eyes lit with the cold flame of a born killer. ‘At your service, Ser Giovanni.’

      Hawkwood clapped the man on the shoulder. ‘Very well, then.’ He started to untie the knots, freeing Taricani from his chair. ‘The rendezvous is set for Bologna. You’ll have four spears of ours, in addition to any accompanying the delegation. From Bologna up to the Aosta pass and over to Geneva, then on the Rhine from Basel to Cologne. Next a hard ride to Hamburg, where you’ll sail to Dover. The French are likely massing in Flanders, so there’s no getting through by land to Calais.’ Even as Hawkwood rattled off the sites along the itinerary Scarlett could hear the mix of wistfulness and anticipation in his lord’s voice, thick with longing to make this journey his own.

      ‘You will arrive in London the third week of May or thereabouts, and the thing is set for – well, Scarlett here will fill you in on the details. Should be a beautiful spring day.’

      Hawkwood walked inside. Scarlett spoke to Taricani for a while longer, then hailed several of the men who had brought the man up from Florence. ‘See him back to Orsanmichele. And, Paolo, this is for your woman, and for Piccolamela.’ He tossed a purse on the dirt. Taricani rubbed his wrists, reached for it, and peered inside. He looked up at Scarlett. A grim nod. The job would be done, and done well, despite the cost. With that Paolo Taricani was taken back to Florence, for a final farewell to his family.

      Inside the villa Hawkwood was staring up at the arms of his father, Gilbert Hawkwood, now his brother’s: a lion rampant above a bend, the tendrils curling up the sides and the centre. The Inheritor, Hawkwood liked to call his brother. The condottiero’s own arms, much more prominently displayed on the east wall, consisted of a lone falcon poised above a tangled forest of vines.

      ‘My father was a strange man, Adam,’ Hawkwood said into the gloom. ‘Imagine having three sons, and naming them all John. The eldest son, heir to the name, and all that comes with it. The youngest, also John Hawkwood, has the luck to die young. And the middle son? That’s right: John Hawkwood.’

      He sniffed. ‘Middle John, my mother called me. “Does Middle John want his cider now?” “Time for Master Middle John to get him to his lessons!” And it all stacks on, doesn’t it? Thornbury and the others, fled back to suck on Lancaster’s teat with scarcely a word of thanks. My son-in-law takes my daughter away and now sits in Parliament, one of the highest men in Essex. Then all this business with Chaucer …’

      ‘You’ve bought up half of Essex, John,’ Scarlett said. ‘Sible Hedingham, the lands around Gosfield.’ He put a hand on Hawkwood’s shoulder, a gesture to frame the familiar use of the condottiero’s first name. Hawkwood permitted it when they were alone, though Scarlett rarely took advantage. ‘You own more of England than your brother ever could, let alone Coggeshale.’ The son-in-law. ‘Are you absolutely sure this is the wisest course? This is what you want for yourself, to reclaim your legacy under such circumstances?’ He had been trying for weeks to turn the condottiero from his dark purpose; one last try, however weak, could not hurt.

      Hawkwood reached up and patted Scarlett’s hand, clasping it tightly as he nodded at his family’s arms. ‘It is not about me any more, Adam. It is about my son.’

      ‘Your – your son, sire?’

      ‘He’s in Donnina’s belly. I can smell him in there, baking away.’

      This was news to Scarlett – and, he suspected, a bit of wishful thinking.

      ‘The next Sir John Hawkwood will be a baron, Adam. Perhaps even an earl, belted by the king himself. And I won’t curse the poor fellow with a brother, either. Perhaps I’ll name him George.’ He smiled, looked at his friend. ‘Or Adam.’

      Scarlett felt it, more deeply this time. The warm glow of inevitability and fate. Sir John Hawkwood was a hard man, the hardest he had ever known, but this plan of his, despite its ruthlessness, was melting the great mercenary into a soup of sentiment. ‘His given name hardly matters, John. It’s his surname that will bear his nobility.’

      ‘Well spoken, Scarlett.’ Hawkwood turned back to his family’s arms, his eyes verdant with the ambition of a much younger man. ‘England, Adam,’ the condottiero said. ‘It is time to go home.’

       SEVEN

       Temple Hall

      Dozens of struggling lamps cast a hellish glow on the huddled apprentices, all stomping their feet against the raw air, their eager faces greyed by the smoke lowering down from those few chimneys rebuilt in this precinct since the Rising. I slowed in the middle of the courtyard and just watched them: their pent-up energy, their fear of rejection, their tentative pride at this rite of passage, all readable in the nervous poses struck as they waited. Forty young men, no more than half to be utter barristers by the evening’s end.

      Fifteen years had passed since my own, less formal initiation at the Temple, yet the occasion could still raise the hairs. As I stepped beneath the row of arches along the cloister a familiar voice stopped me. ‘Is that you, John Gower?’ I turned to see Thomas Pinchbeak hobbling along from Temple Church, with Chaucer holding an arm. ‘Wait there.’ He wiped his high forehead, exposed by the tight-fitting coif worn by his order. A capped stick bore part of his fragile weight.

      ‘Good evening, Thomas. Geoffrey.’ I took his stick and his other arm, my hand brushing the silk rope belted around his banded robes. Pinchbeak was a man who had grown into his name, with a long, sharp nose that jutted forward above lips pursed against some unnamed offence. Behind the СКАЧАТЬ