The fugitives sword, p.2
The Fugitive's Sword, page 2
part #1 of Lord's Learning Series
That was too much for Schiavono, who spun around to face the five men, his sword suddenly in his hand. The speed, control and instinct of the movement were impressive for one so young. He even side-stepped to keep Matt at the edge of his vision. For the first time since the boy had got off his horse, Matt had a genuine spark of interest in him which went beyond thoughts of profit. It wasn’t just his appearance that was distinctive.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Matt said, rising to his feet and meeting the eyes of each of the soldiers briefly so they knew he had their measure. The smirks faded. “Corporal O’Byrne, you may take your men within and buy them each a drink for their work today.” As he spoke, he reached deep into his pocket and found a few coins which he put on the table and pushed over to O’Byrne. “And Mister Schiavono put up your sword and sit down so we may talk.”
There was one of those tense hushes. A moment where all Matt had done in the past to enforce his authority on his men danced in the air like motes of dust and it was touch and go whether that would have any influence in the present. O’Byrne wanted the horse and the men could see nothing but a purse on legs in the boy. A minute before, Matt might have even agreed with them although his way of extracting the gold from that purse would have undoubtedly been kinder than any they would have come up with.
“But captain, that horse. I’m thinking—”
“That was an order, Corporal O’Byrne.”
“Well yes, sir, but—”
As he spoke Matt reached up a hand as if to scratch his neck. Instead, he turned fast and hard to plough a fist into O’Byrne’s guts, folding him over like a ragdoll. The corporal choked and looked up at Matt venomously, presenting his jaw for the knee Matt put into it, before rolling into the mud.
Now the silence was of another quality. The men looked sheepish and uneasy. O’Byrne got to his feet, still clutching his gut, and scooped up his hat from where it had landed beside him. He muttered an apology through the blood in his mouth and swept the coins from the table before staggering away towards the door of the tavern. Matt looked back at Schiavono, who still stood ready to fight.
“I said put up your sword. If you can’t obey a simple command, you have no place in my company nor any army.”
This time the boy pushed his sword back by his thigh.
“Good. Now sit.” Matt gestured to the bench opposite himself, and Schiavono, his anger still vivid, sat on it looking uncomfortable.
“So,” Matt went on, picking his pipe up from where he had dropped it, pleased and surprised to see it had not broken from such treatment, “who taught you to use that sword?” His hands full as he was sorting his pipe again, he nodded towards the hilt visible above the top of the crudely built table.
“A few people,” Schiavono said. “George Silver, Joseph Swetnam, Venturo di Zorzi.” Then he shrugged as if that was nothing considerable at all.
Matt lit his pipe studying the boy through the first puffs of smoke and decided that the words ‘stripling’ and ‘callow’ both fitted him well. Matt wondered if ‘naive’ did too.
“Those are fine masters, for sure. Few better to be taught by, but…” He switched his language from Spanish to his native tongue. “But the last I heard they all taught—or are teaching—in England.” The boy’s eyes widened as Matt went on, keeping to English. “Now, I don’t mind who you are or what you are doing here, and I may even find you a place in my company if you want one—anyone trained by such worthies as you named would be welcome—however,” he let his tone take on a hard edge, “if you lie to me again you will be turned off and left to fend for yourself. I promise you that were you as good as all those swordmasters put together, without my protection in this camp you would lose your horse, your sword and the clothes off your back within the day—and likely get your throat cut in the process.” He gestured to the inn. “O’Byrne and those men will already be dicing to see who gets each of your silver points.”
“I can take care of—”
Matt raised a hand.
“Even the best of us have to sleep sometimes,” he said and was pleased to see the realisation sink in, past the anger and arrogance. So Schiavono was not a fool at least.
“I will not serve as a mochilero,” he said after a few moments. “I will be a soldier at the least.”
“Then you will need to reassure me that I’ll not have your father coming to the Marquess and demanding the return of his son, his horse and his fine sword.”
Filippo looked at Matt for a moment as if the words made no sense, then he laughed, though there was no humour in the sound.
“I had no father, I am like no father;
I have no brother, I am like no brother;
And this word, ‘love’, which greybeards call divine,
Be resident in men like one another
And not in me—I am myself alone. You need not,” he concluded bitterly, “fear that ever happening.”
He sounded too jaded for one so young. Perhaps he had parted on bad terms with his parent, but this was a boy who had patently been well-reared, with strong clean limbs and intelligence, nourished both in body and mind. Someone had cared for him enough to furnish him with an education, as the casual use of poetry showed, and his clothes, sword and the mount he rode suggested that care had ended most recently.
There was likely a tale behind it worth hearing, but Matt knew it would be folly to try and get to that now. Better to wait and let it rise to the surface in time.
He pushed himself to his feet wondering if the company could accommodate another mouth to feed.
“You have the coin to pay for your keep and that of your horse?”
Schiavono nodded and reached into his doublet to bring out a bulging leather pouch. He opened it and pulled out a coin, the gold catching the thin autumn sun, glinting like a winking eye as he set it on the table.
Matt drew a taut breath, unable to look away from the purse in the boy’s hand. Leaning forward he picked up the coin and saw it was an English angel. “And you have more of these?” he asked.
“I can pay my way,” Schiavono said stiffly.
Simple greed moved in Matt’s chest. If the purse was but a quarter full of golden angels there must be enough to make up the missing wages of half his men for the next month. And how long would the boy get to keep the purse anyway if he let any see it? The coin would go to the men regardless, causing fights in the process and likely costing young Schiavono his life as well.
Matt liked to think he was a good man. A good man who had to do bad things sometimes. That was what priests were for, so a man could be forgiven for those times. But this was something else, something in which he couldn’t see where wisdom lay, let alone right or wrong.
So, Matt decided to do what he always did when he had a problem he wasn’t sure he could see to the bottom of. He would take it to the one person he was pretty sure would. He tapped out his pipe and stood up.
“Put that purse away,” he said, pocketing the coin. “Keep it by your heart and come with me. Your horse will be safe enough here.” He nodded towards the tavern. “They won’t touch him without my saying so. Come. We’ll walk. It’s not far.”
The house he had taken over to be his quarters once belonged to one of the wealthier inhabitants of the village. Whoever it was, they had fled when the Marquess’s men had arrived in August. They took their plate and other valuables with them, but perforce had left most of their larger possessions—bedsteads, cabinets, cupboards and much of their contents, from linens to pewter cups, cooking pots to food supplies.
Matt liked that it was barely a two-minute walk from his house to the tavern. Near enough that he could keep an eye on events there at need, but far enough that except at its most rowdy, it did not disturb his sleep.
A short line of people, mostly women, some with children at their skirts or in their arms, stood by the house. As well as being Matt’s home for the duration, it was also the company’s commissary where essential stores were held. Leading the puzzled-looking Schiavono along the line towards the door, Matt exchanged nods with those there and paused to talk to one of the women who he knew had a sick child. Good news at least, the girl was on the mend.
Matt had learned long ago that the secret to holding the loyalty of his men was to ensure they were always adequately provided for. That meant even if their pay was in arrears, a matter that was often beyond his control, there would usually be food and basic supplies. Not just military provision either, so those who had families with them did not need to fear that their women and children would starve or freeze.
The front of the small queue was at the back entrance of the house and as Matt walked through it he nearly tripped over a small but determined figure sitting on the floor in skirts. She was pushing her way on her bottom towards the door with a shuffling motion, a stubborn expression on her face, her curling black hair uncovered and a grubby bonnet that she had been sucking on gripped in one tiny fist.
Matt stepped in the door and swept her into his arms, which prompted a sudden smile on her pleasingly chubby face.
“Dadjee!” she said beatifically.
He took a moment to do what he knew she enjoyed most, throwing her up into the air and catching her, so she started laughing and burbling with delight.
“Máire,” Matt called, “your daughter is making an escape again.” He turned to Schiavono who stood staring at the infant as if he had never seen such a thing before and had no idea what it might be. “Meet Brighid, she is my eldest and, as you can see, already on the move. My new son, Muiredach, is in his crib and with what this one gets up to, long may he remain there.”
Appearing from the depths of the house, Máire rescued Matt from Brighid’s fists which, as ever, were gripping onto his braided hair and reluctant to let him go. Once in her mother’s arms, Brighid was content to allow herself to be passed to one of the other women so Máire could give her full attention to Matt.
“This is Filippo Schiavono,” he explained. “He needs a place to stay, and I am taking him on our strength.” Máire looked at the boy and then back to Matt and in her blue eyes he read her thoughts and her silent challenge. This, she was thinking, is little more than a child, how can you take him on as a soldier? But she said nothing, just nodded. They both knew that Schiavono would be treated as a man by most armies, simply because he was so well grown for his age. There were even younger boys fighting for the less reputable companies. Most recruiters had a simple philosophy—if he was man enough to lift and carry a musket or a pike, he was man enough to join the army. Matt preferred to take on those with a proven record, veterans, and so seldom had to face that particular problem.
“The only quarters we have left is the one spare room upstairs,” she said, though Matt knew that for a lie. There was a house along the road that was home to a dozen of his single men and had space for more. “He can have one of those if he is willing to keep the house rules and he has some of his pay held back for his board.”
So Máire had decided she liked him. That was a good sign.
“I can pay for my keep,” Schiavono said, “I just gave the captain an angel for it.”
Matt saw his wife’s eyebrows rise.
“And a good thing that is too,” she said, arms akimbo, “but you’ll need to be giving me your promise that you can keep to my rules too. You keep your room clean and tidy yourself, and you are here promptly for mealtimes, or you go hungry. No brawling. No wenching. No gambling. You want any of that, take it to the tavern.”
She had to lift her chin to look up at the boy, but the fierceness of her expression still made him take a small step back.
“I would not behave in such ways,” he said, seemingly offended she might even think he would.
“No? Then you’ll be the first,” she told him. “Draga?” She turned to the woman who was holding Brighid. “Will you take this young man up to see the room?”
As they were left alone, Matt drew his wife into a brief embrace.
“Who is he?” Máire asked.
“Not who he claims to be. He’s English, though he says he’s Italian and speaks that tongue fairly. I think, though, for all his fine clothes and that sword he wears, he’s in some kind of trouble.”
That made Máire narrow her eyes. “We don’t need trouble from the kind of men such as he belongs to,” she said.
“I know, but if I let him go, for all that he knows well how to use that sword, he’ll wind up with his throat cut in one of the ditches or floating face down in a waterway and that’ll be on my conscience. Besides,” Matt slipped the angel from his pocket and held it up, “he has a purse full of these.”
Her eyes now grew round. “A purse full, you say? I see why you would take him on. What will you do with him?”
“I’m not sure,” Matt admitted. “He is young and proud.”
Máire studied his face for a moment then gave a small nod. “You’re intending to tell him he can be a cornet—we could manage one more. But only if he is willing to pay a good sum for the privilege of buying the post.”
Matt thought for a moment then smiled at his clever wife and realised all over again why he had married her and why it was she he trusted to run his company’s commissary rather than any quartermaster.
“That’s exactly what I was intending,” he agreed and rewarded her with a kiss.
When Schiavono came back downstairs he looked sober, as if the reality of what his life was going to be like from now on had hit like a boot to the gut. Matt knew the room he would have been shown. One they had chosen not to use themselves because it had no hearth and was barely big enough for the bed that was in it and the small oak kast that used up the rest of the space. He doubted it was the kind of accommodation Schiavono was used to, but it was dry and would be kept warm enough from the rooms below when the weather got really bad in the winter.
“You have changed your mind?” he asked, leaving Máire to her work and taking the boy into the room he kept aside in this house for matters of business.
Schiavono shook his head and his jaw tightened. “No,” he said, “I have not changed my mind. It will suffice.”
Matt drew a breath sharply and wondered if he had made a mistake after all.
“It’ll suffice, sir,” he said pointedly.
“You have not yet employed me.”
“My wife wouldn’t have offered you a room in our house if I’d not employed you. The question is do you want to be one that the men will treat as a mochilero even if I take you on as a common cavalryman, or do you wish to buy the rank of cornet?” He felt sure that Schiavono was not used to having his will thwarted. Well then, it would be telling if he had the strength and wisdom to bend before a more powerful wind or not. Matt was willing to give him a chance, but that was all. The only certainty was that the boy would not leave with his purse. One way or another Matt would have that from him.
“I will be a cornet,” Schiavono said with no hesitation. The purse came out again and Matt found it impossible not to stare at it. “How much do you require?”
He could simply point at the purse and demand it all. Or he could guess at the sum it might contain and hope he guessed high enough. Or…
“How much is it worth to you?” he asked. “Remember, it’s as much an apprenticeship as a post.”
Schiavono looked up at him sharply. “An apprenticeship? You would teach me to be a condottiere? To recruit, to manage and to supply a company of soldiers? To find them work and negotiate contracts?”
Matt nearly protested. That was not at all what he’d intended to offer. He’d simply thought to teach the boy the skills of an officer in his company, which was a completely different matter. He had his mouth open to say as much, then closed it again. Instead, he shook his head and let out a breath. “Why not? If you have the wit and the will to learn.”
“I have both,” Schiavono said. Then he opened the purse, took out two angels and held them in his hand.
Surely not? He is surely not so arrogant as that? Matt twisted his mouth in disgust.
Schiavono reached into the purse again and removed some small silver coins, which he gripped against the gold angels with his thumb as he pulled the purse strings tight. Then he balanced the purse on his open palm, holding it out towards Matt.
“Is this sufficient?” He drew a quick breath. “Is this sufficient, sir?”
Matt found himself smiling as he lifted the purse into his own hand, the telling weight and the chink of gold on gold a sound as sweet as any lute.
“It is, Cornet Schiavono.” Then a thought occurred, belatedly. There was a reason why Matt as an Englishman was a rarity amongst the troops in the Marquess’s army. “You are English,” he said. “You come to me, to join the army of the Marquess. Yet most Englishmen seek service with the Dutch. Why is that?”
Schiavono frowned. “You are asking, I think, whether my conscience is bound to Canterbury, Rome or Geneva?”
Matt nodded.
“Does it matter? Isn’t this a mercenary company selling swords to the highest bidder?”
“It’s seldom that black and white,” Matt said tightly. Could the boy really be that innocent in the ways of the world? “Yes, we have to support ourselves, but most men are moved by their conscience as much as by their profit. Besides, if you start talking of Luther or Calvin hereabouts, you’re likely to be run through or strung up as a heretic.”
Schiavono was frowning now. “I can say the Paternoster and Ave Maria, I understand transubstantiation and the immaculate conception, I know veneration of the saints and I am familiar with the idea of grace flowing from the sacraments. I will attend mass if that is required of me.”
It was a strange way to speak, more as a theologian might than a person of faith and yet it was said with none of the judgemental venom one brought up to despise the Church would have.
“Then there should be no problem here for you,” Matt said, knowing even as he said it that was unlikely to be true. He could see there being many problems ahead for Filippo Schiavono, whoever he might be. Problems that Matt knew would come to his own door.
