Her mother’s protest had turned to a yawn. Feeling her at head and heart, she knew that what the patient needed was sleep to gather her strength. A good long sleep would require a little help so she pulled a flask from her bag and raising Beck’s head, let some trickle down her throat.
‘Hmm! It’s good. What is it?’
‘Cordial. Different herbs. It will aid you to rest.’
Another yawn, eyes flickering. Then there was a little surge of energy and Beck’s dark eyes were wide.
‘Tell me, child, are the others safe. Haakon? Erik? The Fugger?’
Maria spoke up. ‘Father’s wounds are healing, thanks to Anne.’
‘Good. And the fight? How goes it?’
It was not the time for such news. ‘All will be well, Mother. Rest now.’
The eyes flickered shut, then opened again. Anne anticipated the question. ‘Father is well, too.’
A shadow came into the eyes. ‘Oh yes. Jean Rombaud is always well.’
Then the eyes closed and she began to breathe easier.
‘Can I take some of that cordial to my father, Anne? He could do with some sleep too.’
Maria’s eyes shone from that open face and it was hard to deny her. But Anne needed what little opium she had left for her own causes. Besides, she knew what the Fugger really needed.
‘He wants food, as do we all. Maybe the Florentines will bring some with them when they march in.’
Maria leapt up. ‘Food! Of course. They are trading at the Porta Romana already. If you have something left, they will give you bread, cheese, meat. Imagine!’ Her eyes lit up and she reached into her dress. ‘See! I have saved this locket my mother gave me. It is gold. That should buy me some Florentine food to make my father well.’
And with that she was gone, running for the southern gate.
Anne wanted to call her back, to warn her. The city had not finally surrendered and there were still many hard and angry men around. But it was too late and Anne still had problems of her own. One lay sleeping heavily now beside her, not yet passed her crisis. The other stood at the door outside. There was something between the two of them, these two people she loved most in the world. Something none of her potions could heal. She knew Beck believed it was Jean who had driven her son away. Nothing Anne could say had ever changed that opinion.
‘Oh, Gianni. Gianni,’ she murmured. Sighing, she set about redressing Beck’s wound.
Jean, dozing in the sun, had slipped down in the doorway, but the clatter of horses, their metal shoes ringing off the cobbled street, woke him suddenly, blinking, shielding his eyes to behold the men who had stopped before him.
‘Rombaud! Giscard said he’d seen you here. Dammit, man, I’ve had men looking all over the city for you.’
‘My lord.’
Jean moved down the stairs, bowed as Blaise de Monluc descended from his horse.
‘Yes, yes, enough of that. We must have words, sir. Serious words.’
He pulled Jean into the shadow of the hospital’s wall. ‘God’s Breath, man. This place stinks. Why do you loiter here?’
‘My wife, my lord.’
De Monluc’s concern was immediate and real. ‘How fares she? I sent my surgeon, D’Ambois. Did he effect a cure?’
Jean restrained a smile. Anne had told him of the Frenchman’s suggestions and her own actions.
‘He did, my lord. She has just awakened and the danger seems passed.’
‘Good, good.’ De Monluc waved one of his lieutenants away. ‘A brave woman. A warrior. We will need all such in the fight ahead.’ He fixed that one blazing eye on Jean. ‘I know you are not under my command, Rombaud, that you volunteered for Siena.’
‘I lived on the edge of its territory, my lord. My farm, the inn I’d inherited, they were among the first to fall. I had little choice.’
‘Indeed. Indeed.’ De Monluc gestured impatiently. ‘But you are a Frenchman, sir, and a leader of soldiery. The fight goes on, at Montalcino, where we are bound now, and all through the free Republic. Will you join me in that fight?’
The thought filled Jean with a revulsion he was careful not to let appear on his face. ‘My lord, I am still weak from my wound. More than that, my wife lies gravely ill. She cannot be moved.’
‘She will have to be, man!’ Anger rose in the General’s voice, then he lowered it, spoke evenly. ‘You know what it is like when a siege ends and the conquerors enter a town. Despite the “honourable terms”, this is still a surrender. Cosimo of Florence, with the Emperor’s help, will look to crush this city once and for all, to break it so it never troubles him again. You know how it goes. Squads are waiting at the gates as we speak, armed with lists. We march out, they march in, and the leaders that remain will be snatched up in the first day.’
‘I am only a leader by default, my lord. I am not a Sienese, nor is my wife.’
De Monluc laughed though there was little humour in the sound. ‘Why, man, they have written ballads of you and they sing them both sides of the wall! You and your warrior wife. Not to mention those barbarian Vikings who are your shadows. You think the Florentines will care that you acted by “default”? They will care only to root out all threats. You and yours will be among the first they seek.’
It was true, and the realization filled Jean with such a weariness. He did not want to go anywhere. He could have stayed in that doorway, dozing in the spring sunshine, for a lifetime.
De Monluc’s lieutenant returned. ‘My lord! The hour!’
‘Yes, yes, yes.’ The General took a step toward his horses, turned back.
‘If you will not fight for me, Rombaud, let me at least offer you and your family and friends my protection. March with us to Montalcino. Decide there.’
Montalcino! It was not far from Montepulciano, from the Comet Inn, the farm, home. The vision brought energy back into Jean’s limbs, into his mind.
‘We will come with you, my lord. As far as Montalcino, at least.’
‘Good.’ The General took off one of his rings, handed it to Jean. ‘At the Porta Romana, show this to anyone who tries to stop you. You have two hours.’
He was two paces away when he halted, turned back.
‘I heard another tale of you, Rombaud, just the other day. Not a ballad, though worthy of one. Is it true you are an executioner?’
Jean kept his voice even. ‘Was, my lord. For a short while, a very long time ago.’
De Monluc’s features twisted with curiosity. ‘You killed with the sword, did you not? That takes a skilful man. Is it also true, then, the other part of the story? That you were the man who took the head of that English heretic-queen? Anne Boleyn?’
The name, all it conjured, was like a unexpected slap. Looking away, Jean forced himself to breathe. ‘No, my lord. It is not true. A few heads in the army, that’s all. Nothing worth the telling. The sword has long since rusted in its scabbard.’
The General studied him, disbelieving. ‘Some tales I would like to hear another day. You are an interesting fellow. Yes, yes, Giscard, let us away. Two hours, Rombaud.’
The hooves struck sparks from the cobblestones, as the entourage galloped off, leaving Jean thinking about another day of spring sunshine nineteen years before. He’d lied to De Monluc. There was a tale, beyond anything the General could ever believe. He had taken Anne Boleyn’s head. He had also taken her six-fingered hand. And the tortured path he’d trod then led here, directly to this further woe.
Once again, Jean Rombaud cursed the time he’d first heard the name of Anne Boleyn, felt weariness return to his limbs with its utterance. He didn’t have time for that weakness now. He had two hours. Two! Well, they had arrived with nothing and they would leave with less. If Beck could be moved.
The only one who could know that answer appeared, just as the echo of hooves died away.
‘You heard?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Can we move her?’ He saw the hesitation in his daughter’s eyes, those dark pools so like
the woman’s she was named for. Saw the sadness in them, too. He wanted more than anything to bring some light into them again.
‘Can we take her home?’ he said.
‘But Siena’s beaten. Did you not say we could only get our lands back with a victory?’
‘That may still be true. Yet war moves strangely, daughter. It may have burnt the Comet and then passed by. The farm may be in ashes. But even ashes can be built on.’
‘Then I think we must go to see, Father.’
‘Good. Prepare her. I will arrange a cart, some bedding. I just need to find Haakon.’
Anne smiled. ‘Well, you know he’s never far away.’
He knew. Like an irritant in the corner of his eye, the big Norwegian had skulked near him, shadow and protector still, keeping to the windward of Jean’s wrath. It had somewhat abated when Anne was hopeful of cure for her mother, when Haakon’s excuse of protecting his son, mumbled to Anne and passed on, was accepted. Erik had avoided Jean’s anger by keeping away, so Jean kept his glares for his old comrade.
Jean looked across to where the large figure lurked in a doorway. ‘Haakon! Come here.’
Like a disobedient dog, wary of chastisement, Haakon made his way across. ‘Jean. Anne. A sad day for Siena, eh?’
The mournful expression seemed so out of place on that huge and open face that Jean could not help but laugh. It was the thing with Haakon. No matter how weary he got, how desperate the situation, the Norseman had always had a way of making Jean laugh.
‘We’re getting out, Hawk. With De Monluc.’
Haakon beamed. ‘To fight on, Jean?’
‘To go home. If there’s any home left to go to. To rebuild it if there’s not.’
Swiftly he told Haakon what they needed. Finishing a list that already had the Norwegian scratching his head, he said, ‘And keep an eye out for the Fugger. He wasn’t at his lodgings, he’d gone looking for his daughter. I left him a note but …’
Haakon smiled. ‘He will have done what I will do – seek out my son, for Erik is never far from her and that great lout of a boy is hard to miss.’
With that, he was gone about their business. Jean hugged his daughter, then set out himself. There were scant goods to gather, favours to call in.
Home! The thought pushed him on. Maybe, just maybe it was possible. To go back, to make it like it was, to see his vineyards flourish, to see the light come back once more into his wife’s eyes. To be reunited, all of them, once again in the courtyard of the Comet, telling the old stories!
The memory, the image, broke his stride. Some things were possible, some were not. For there would be a ghost at any feast they held, a space between them that could not be filled.
Gianni. Somewhere out in the world his son breathed, prayed, lived. Miles from these walls, no doubt, but often the distance between two people could not be measured in miles. And Gianni was as far from him as Jean Rombaud was from the sun.
FOUR
FLIGHT
It began with the bells. The first heard was in the belfry of the Torre del Mangia, the principal and largest bell in all Siena, a deep note, single and solemn which still rung across the Campo when the second note was struck. Yet the great square remained empty, no citizen roused to answer the call, to see what the Republic required of them. For all knew that this tolling was not to summon. This tolling was to say farewell.
The soldiers massing at the Porta Romana heard that first note. Somehow it broke through the cries of the sergeants and officers trying to dress their lines, silencing even these men for a moment. Then the other towers of Siena struck up and the whole world seemed to vibrate; the nearest one to them, at the Basilica dei Servi, was a riotous medley of high and deep. With the world thus filled again with noise, the marshalling could continue, halberds used to straighten the ranks, batons to push and cajole. Banners unfurled over each company, French, Sienese and mercenary. They would march out with full honours. Arms had not defeated them, only the cruellest, most effective of old enemies – hunger and disease.
Behind the ordered ranks of soldiery, in the pell-mell of prepared flight, that first metal cry from the Tower made every one of the Sienese patriots turn and face back into the city. Many had eyes closed, some fruitlessly trying to stem tears, others as if they could trap time, hold it in the bell’s note, stay for ever like this, enfolded in their city’s voice. But the rest of the city’s chimes, the discordancy of three hundred bells, brought them back to their present need, to the urgency of imminent exile. Those who were leaving, those to be left behind, wept, begged, prayed. Many just fought to maintain their position, their grip on their meagre possessions.
Haakon too had turned back when the bell struck, to desperately scan the surge for a shaggy blond head. Erik had gone in search of the Fuggers, father and daughter, and had not returned. Jean was looking relentlessly forward, focused on the gates ahead. When they opened, he was determined to keep his little party pressed as close as possible to the armoured French ranks, for there would be people beyond them who might not respect the truce. Sienese exiles, enemies of the republic, hated many of those who were about to leave and would seek revenge. In the end, all wars were civil wars. He had seen the aftermath of enough sieges to know that.
He looked across the little cart, across the sleeping form of Beck, to Anne. He tried to give her a smile, but it would not form, just as no moisture would relieve his mouth. She smiled at him though, then returned her attention to her mother. Whatever cordial she’d given Beck was working; she lay inert, untroubled by the tolling of bells.
‘She’ll need more water. There is a fountain in that side street.’
Anne was darting through the crowd before Jean could stop her. He had taken a step forward when a huge hand gripped his arm.
‘Jean! There he is!’
Jean looked back. He did not have the Norseman’s height, but even he could see Erik’s distinctive head ploughing through the mêlée.
‘Are they with him?’
‘I only see Erik. And my son looks concerned.’
Erik’s story was spurted out in a moment. ‘We have searched everywhere. I think the whole of the Scorpion Contrada is in the streets looking for her. The Fugger leads them. I must join him.’
The boy turned back. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I found it, Father.’ Reaching into his scimitars’ sling, he produced a third weapon from it. It lay in its fraying scabbard, a square-tipped edge poking through at one end, the green leather of the grip peeling off, rust around the apple-sized pommel.
‘You nearly left it, Jean.’ Haakon beamed, offering the sword across. ‘How can you be an executioner without a sword?’
Jean looked down, looked quickly away, back to the gate.
‘Oh.’ His voice was flat. ‘Throw it in the cart.’
‘I go.’ Erik was wheeling away.
‘And I will go with you.’ Haakon started forward.
‘Haakon!’ Jean’s voice was sharp, commanding, and it halted the Norwegian. ‘The gates will open any moment. I cannot push the cart by myself, I wouldn’t make it halfway to Montalcino. And we cannot stay. De Monluc is right; our lives are in danger.’
He had managed somehow to keep the fear from his voice. Haakon paused, his son on one side, his old comrade on the other.
‘Father, you should go. The Fugger and I will look. We’ll find Maria and join you in Montalcino.’
Haakon’s reply, when it came after a long pause, was gruff. ‘See that you do, boy. And take no chances!’ He cuffed his son around his head.
‘Me?’ There was a swift smile, a touch of a scimitar in salute, and he was gone.
To Jean’s great relief, Anne was back in a moment, ladling some fresh water into her mother’s mouth. On hearing that Erik had gone to look for Maria she cried out, ‘But I know where she went. To the gate, to try to barter gold for food with the Florentines. This gate, the Porta Romana I think.’ Seeing the looks on their faces she said, ‘I should have told you before.’ br />
Haakon started back toward the city for Erik.
‘No, Haakon. We will look for her outside and we will send word. You will not find them now. And look. Look!’
Jean’s panicked words brought Haakon around and, far ahead down the Via Roma, now the Sienese Republic’s Via Dolorosa, he too saw the Porta Romana start to swing open. Everyone around began to lift weapons, stretchers, babies, packs, carts, anything that held their goods or their wounded, and pressed forward. Haakon, with one long last look back, bent to the handles of the cart. Beck moaned as it rose.
‘Hold tight, Anne. Do not let go of the cart,’ Jean ordered. He tried to breathe calmly. With a little luck, they would be out and clear soon. On their way to Montalcino and, beyond that city, maybe on their way home. His lips twisting in barely remembered prayers, he set his mind to the road ahead.
They had arrived at the gates near dawn after two day’s hard riding from Rome. There, just behind the Florentine siege lines, on a scrap of barren earth, the horses were hobbled and nose-bagged before twenty exhausted men fell upon the hard ground as if it were a feathered mattress. The grey-cloaked figure who had pushed his horse the hardest, impatient with any rest, now went off to reconnoitre, to gather news of the surrender. Gianni Rombaud felt he would never sleep again. Not, at least, until this mission that was his salvation was complete.
Not so the man in the black cloak. When his head finally reached the stiff comfort of his pack, Thomas felt that he might never wake again. His body ached, his mind numb of everything except a desperate desire for oblivion. When the words reached through the cloud of his head that the French and Sienese would not march out till two bells of the afternoon, eight hours away, it was as if he’d been granted a lease on paradise.
Yet his rest was not untainted. The mustering of the Florentine forces, the cries and orders in Spanish, German, Dutch, Italian disturbed him not at all; but sometime toward midday, when the first heaviness of sleep had passed, it began to fill with images, jumbled recollections of things present and things past – a whiff of the coffin, a snatch of a rhyme, a child’s hand pressed into his. This last led him on, until he was both holder and held, his father and himself, walking into the desecrated buildings of Wenlock Priory. Half the walls were down yet men still carted blocks away to the village beyond. The great rose window was a mere frame, bare of its stunning glass. On one of the few remaining leaded casements, a crow was perched, its beak upraised, cawing notes that Thomas could not hear, yet summoning fellows, until the window was filled with black feathers, and silent screams.