Part 25 (2/2)

'Master Tewburn said he'd have some news for me about getting Gerald a wards.h.i.+p in London. Said he'd tell me that night when we met. But the justices over there, in the manors-'

'Guildable Manor.'

'Master Tewburn says they were giving him all kinds of grief just to find out how to transfer Gerald's wards.h.i.+p from Grimes's shop. And Gerald says the butchers are stirring up bigger trouble in Southwark. Got a priest riling them up, with Grimes taking the part of Wat Tyler, and the other butchers-'

'The butchers. My G.o.d.' It was as if the common serjeant had been struck with a seizure of the heart. The large man came to his feet with a surprising agility. He turned to the side, and with his body facing the chapel altar whispered a portion of verse.

'By bank of a bishop shall butchers abide, To nest, by G.o.d's name, with knives in hand, Then springen in service at spiritus sung.'

Edgar gasped. The last time he'd heard these lines they'd come from the mouth of Millicent Fonteyn, who'd read them from the very book Agnes took from the doomed girl in the Moorfields. Now here was Ralph Strode, common serjeant of London, speaking the same verse.

He had to press him. Strode was staring off toward the upper nave, a haunted slackness to his face. 'That verse, sir. You think it's Grimes and his men set to kill King Richard?'

He barked a laugh. 'It's not what we think that matters. It's what others can be made to think. The perfection of art is to conceal art, so Quintilian tells us.'

'Sir?'

'We have two sets of butchers before our eyes.' He stooped, hands on his broad thighs. 'Butchers in this prophetic verse, and the butchers of Southwark and one dead clerk. I am not a believer in coincidence, Edgar, not by a far sight. You say you talked with Tewburn about your brother, yes?'

'A few times, sir, he was very helpful, always-'

'Wait.' Strode grasped Edgar's shoulders, his eyes wide. 'What did you say?'

'That Master Tewburn was ever so helpf-'

'Before that. About the s.n.a.t.c.h of verse I recited.'

'Oh ... yes. If you thought Grimes and his men were to be the butchers to kill the king.'

Strode's stare was deep and cruel, as if a hand were reaching out from his eyes, down into Edgar's bowels. 'And how did you know?'

'Sir?'

Strode's grip tightened on his shoulders. 'How could you possibly have known those three lines referred to the slaying of King Richard?'

His jaw loosened. 'Well, I I suppose with the bishop, and the knives, and all that, it just seemed-'

'Don't lie to me, boy.' Strode shook him. 'You've heard someone else speak those lines, haven't you?'

'Please, Mast-'

'What do you know about these prophecies, about the book?'

His hands squeezed harder. Edgar flinched with the pain. Could he trust him, after all, this great man of London, so many spheres above his own?

Edgar left nothing out. The Moorfields, the murder, Millicent, the man with the hooked scar on Gropec.u.n.t Lane, the death of Agnes. He even told him about the couplings with Tewburn, and his life of swerving all of it. Strode breathed deeply when he was done, his lips sucking and blowing the stale air of St Lawrence. The common serjeant's face was calm now, his eyes agleam with a certainty Edgar wished he could share.

'Will the king die, Master Strode?' he asked, and looked into that confident gaze.

'It's not the king we need to worry about,' said Strode. 'No, Edgar or is it Eleanor?'

He shrugged. 'As you wish, sir.'

A smile, tentative but serene, played on Ralph Strode's generous lips. 'No, Eleanor, I'm afraid we have a smaller life to save.'

FORTY.

San Donato a Torre, near Florence Jacopo da Pietrasanta stood at the door, clutching the letter. Scarlett watched with some amus.e.m.e.nt as Hawkwood's chancellor worked up the nerve to speak. 'Sire,' he finally said.

'What is it?' said Hawkwood, focused on the game.

'An urgent message, Ser Giovanni. From your brother-in-law.'

'Lodo?'

'Carlo, sire,' said Pietrasanta.

Hawkwood took Scarlett's four. 'Read it.'

Scarlett looked at his lord. With the coming departure for England Hawkwood had grown increasingly impatient with his Italian functionaries, even Pietrasanta, and it was all he could do at times to control his sharpness when addressing them.

The chancellor cleared his throat. 'We send this to inform you that in Milan the hateful count Giangaleazzo Visconti has unrightfully seized our beloved and magnificent lord Bernab Visconti, as well as our beloved brother Lodovico. We are holding here at the fortress in Crema, and we have the castle at Porta Romana under our protection. We urge you to gather your garrisons and march to our comfort and defence in Milan. You will be amply rewarded for your effort. The time has come, Giovanni Acuto, to prove your mettle.'

Hawkwood made him read it again, and when he had finished his lips curled up into a sneer. 'He's taunting me, the hammy little s.h.i.+t.'

Pietrasanta flinched at the epithet. Scarlett knew what the man was thinking. The Visconti are the most powerful and ruthless clan in Italy, more than a match for this northern roughneck. Who is he to hurl such insults at la famiglia lombarda princ.i.p.ali? 'How would you like to respond, Ser Giovanni?'

Hawkwood shrugged. 'We're in no position to respond, Jacopo.'

'Ser Giovanni?'

'I am in Florence. Our brigades are ma.s.sed in Bologna. Bologna still owes us, what, twenty thousand, thirty? What does Carlo expect, that I'll pull up stakes and hoof it up to Milan at his bidding? It could take weeks, months, even, to prepare for such a relief effort.'

'What should we tell Ser Carlo in the meantime, Ser Giovanni?' Pietrasanta was working hard to keep his voice measured, Scarlett could tell.

'Write nothing for now.'

'Ser-' Pietrasanta began.

<script>