The fugitives sword, p.7
The Fugitive's Sword, page 7
part #1 of Lord's Learning Series
Such a man would not stint at taking the life of an arrogant youth and Matt doubted he would have much problem doing so. For all of Schiavono’s fine words about his ability as a swordsman, he had probably never taken a life and was not going to match up to the experience and ferocity of a ruthless killer.
It was easy to see where the fight had been set up beside the tavern.
A broad circle of the company marked out the duelling ground and Matt could see soldiers from other regiments had joined them. In the ranks of Spain where every soldier no matter his origins thought himself a hidalgo with high honour to defend, such fights were not uncommon, although always condemned as they undermined the military discipline of the army. In his own company with men from many nations, sudden brawls with fists and knives might erupt, but not this.
From the advantage of horseback, he could see the two were already fighting. Vasilescu was easy to recognise as he held himself with his usual confidence. For some reason, Schiavono was not wearing his regular clothes but was clad as a tradesman. The two were of a height, but Vasilescu was broader, his body filled out with muscle and hard training. He was using his greater strength to good purpose, battering the defence put up by Schiavono, and forcing him into retreat.
Matt pushed the horse into the circle of men, who parted as they realised who he was. But before he reached the front of the small crowd, he saw Schiavono stumble. The deadly blade sliced down inexorably.
“Put up!” Matt shouted, knowing even as he did so it was too late. The boy’s face was white and taut. Nothing could stop what would happen, nothing—
The blade rose from nowhere, its angle flat, catching the descending strike and deflecting it against the quillons of the hilt where it was caught for but a moment—but a moment in which Schiavono twisted his wrist, pulling up and out. Vasilescu’s sword flew from his grip and landed on the earth. Matt was as stunned as the rest.
Before God, where did he learn to do that?
The answer came with the question. Schiavono had not lied after all when he spoke of being trained by men of the calibre of Swetnam and de Zorzi.
But Vasilescu was a survivor of many battles. Even taken by surprise and disarmed, he barely missed a heartbeat. He kicked out, in a way that should have put the boy on the ground. Schiavono, who had been on one knee, was already moving and the kick failed to find its mark. It only served to put Vasilescu off balance. As he recovered, Schiavono’s sword point moved to his chest, forcing him to freeze in an awkward stance, arms spread, one knee too far bent and the other leg on a turned foot.
There was a deathly silence and then Schiavono’s voice rang out in clear and mocking tones, pressing home the point of the blade to punctuate each line or when Vasilescu made to move. Playing with him.
“And as in fury of a dreadful fight,
Their fellows being slain or put to flight,
Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead-strooken,
So at her presence all surpris’d and tooken,
Wait the sentence of her scornful eyes;
He whom she favours lives;” His sword point swept up a little higher to Vasilescu’s heart. “The other dies…”
The thrust would have been fatal had Matt not been fast enough, moving as Schiavono was talking, dropping from the horse, drawing his sword as he did so, and deflecting the lethal blade just in time. It drove instead into the flesh of Vasilescu’s shoulder.
“I said put up,” Matt shouted, his own body now a barrier between the two. He thought from the cold anger reflected in Schiavono’s face that he was in a place beyond hearing, but something must have reached him because he stepped back sharply and lowered his sword, the blood from his foe gleaming on its tip. Then, as if it cost him an effort of will, he pushed it back beside his thigh, his ungloved hand still locked in the complex weave of the basket hilt as if its flesh and the sword were one.
Matt gripped his arm and pulled him around so he could face the two combatants together. Vasilescu clutched his shoulder, the blood oozing between his fingers, his face drawn into a scowl to mask the pain he must be suffering. He snarled at Schiavono.
“This traitorous little rat was—”
Matt held up a hand and silenced him. Whatever had occurred, airing it in front of the entire company and men from other regiments was not going to help matters.
“Not here,” he snapped. “O’Byrne, take Lieutenant Vasilescu into the tavern and make sure the surgeon gets to look at his shoulder.” The Irishman emerged from the crowd with two of his men and scooped up Vasilescu’s sword, returning it to its owner.
Matt was still firmly holding Schiavono’s arm and put his other hand into the small of the boy’s spine, so he had to walk forward. The men stood aside so they could pass through, and Matt addressed them impatiently.
“Return to your duties. If you have none, then find something useful to do or I will find something for you.” It was a tone of voice his men knew was not to be ignored. Matt seldom employed it, but he had ensured that when he did, any who disobeyed knew they would pay dearly for doing so. The gathering began to disperse, and Matt waited until he was sure they were doing what he said before returning his full attention to the boy beside him, one hand gripping his shoulder. “Did you take any hurt?”
Schiavono shook his head, expression defiant. “My pride. But I just remedied that.”
That was too much. Matt brought his other hand round fast and hard, hitting the boy across the face, throwing his head back with the force of the blow. Before he could recover, Matt turned his hand into a fist, delivering a second blow. Then he opened his palm and slapped hard over the exposed cheek.
“You never speak to me like that again,” Matt told him as the boy reeled and brought his free hand up to try and protect his face. “If you do, it will be the last thing you will ever say to me because I will turn you off in that same moment with nothing more than the clothes you are wearing.”
Schiavono held the back of his hand against his broken lip, his eyes flaring with ice fire. Matt stared him down, still gripping his arm. The boy looked away first and Matt felt the fight leave his body. After a moment he released his arm and stepped back. Schiavono looked up but this time he had a very different demeanour.
“I regret the words,” he said stiffly. “It was not appropriate for me to speak to you in such a way. It will not happen again.” Then when Matt said nothing, keeping his expression expectant, the boy looked down. “It will not happen again, sir.”
Does he not even know the word ‘apology’? Matt was sure he did, just that he did not understand how to apply it himself. Shaking his head, Matt pushed Schiavono in the direction of the house. “Go back to your room. Get changed and stay there until I send for you.”
Schiavono nodded, then must have remembered himself because he made a brief bow. He strode off, perhaps unaware of the bruise that Matt could see already staining the fair skin of his face.
Matt spared a moment to wonder if the boy would follow orders, but then decided it hardly mattered if he didn’t. They would simply be done then and that would make his life a whole lot easier. He trudged back into the tavern where O’Byrne had taken Vasilescu. The sooner he got to the bottom of what had happened the sooner he could return to the work that really mattered.
He found Vasilescu in a back room. The surgeon was already working on cleaning up the neat wound. Matt waited, leaning against the wall, arms crossed as the surgeon put some kind of dressing on Vasilescu’s shoulder and strapped it around with strips of linen. Then he picked up his bag and with a brief bow to Matt, left the room.
“You can go now too, O’Byrne,” Matt told the Irishman. O’Byrne looked as if he might protest but when Matt lifted his chin a little, he changed his mind and followed the surgeon, leaving Matt alone with his lieutenant. But a moment later there was a tap on the door and one of the women came in with a bottle and two tall roemer glasses. She left the wine on the table and then hurried out again.
Matt waited until the door was closed and crossed to take a seat at the table opposite the other man. He picked up the bottle to pour wine into each roemer, then picked one up and held it out. “You might as well enjoy this, Gavril. The wine is nearly gone, and unless I can get us away from here, it might well be one of the last either of us ever has.”
Vasilescu took the roemer and downed the wine as if it were water. The simmering resentment was a look Matt knew well. Without a word, he reclaimed the roemer and refilled it, setting it on the table between them.
“Tell me what happened.”
“You’ve asked Schiavono?”
Matt sat back and left his wrists resting on the table. “No. Schiavono is not the man I put in command. You are. What happened?”
“I caught him trying to get into Breda. He had stolen the pack from a tobacco smuggler we’d come upon and killed earlier and was using it to get into the city.”
“And that led to you fighting?”
“It did—yes. It led to it…” Vasilescu looked uncomfortable and reached for the wine.
For the first time since O’Byrne had told him of the fight, Matt had a genuine sense of unease. He had never known Vasilescu to be evasive.
“You should tell me,” he advised. “If you had evidence Schiavono was disloyal you should have brought it to me, and I would have dealt with him. Now, you know I will have the truth one way or another and I would rather it came from you than from him.”
“The smuggler had a ciphered note on him. I could make nothing of it, but Schiavono said it was some information regarding where and when the next new ditches would be started in our lines. If they had that in Breda the heretics would know to strike at a point where our men have the least defence. I told him he should take it to you and dismissed him to do so. Then I found he had instead taken the pack and was trying to get into the city. He had the message with him. He is not from Milan, he is English—we all know that—and the English are heretics just as they all are in Breda. He was sent here as a spy.”
Matt drew a slow breath, wondering where the false note was in this melody that was setting his teeth on edge.
“Not all Englishmen are heretics,” he said gently, and Vasilescu looked away.
“Maybe not, but that one is. Why else would he be taking the message his fellow spy had failed to deliver?”
Matt waved a hand, dismissing the details for a moment. “Was anyone witness to this?”
“I don’t recall. It didn’t seem important to notice at the time. Maybe. I could ask my men.”
“How did that come to a duel between you?”
Now Vasilescu said nothing. He stared at the roemer in his hands as if seeking some inspiration in the wine it contained.
Matt grew impatient. “Well?”
“I named him a traitor. He called me a liar and challenged me.”
“You should have brought him to me,” Matt repeated.
Vasilescu bristled like a fighting cock. Generations of noble pride fuelling his indignation.
“He challenged me. I would not—I could not let that pass.”
And that was undoubtedly the truth.
“Did you keep the message Schiavono was carrying?”
Vasilescu nodded and reached into a pocket to pull out a paper which had been badly crumpled. Matt flattened it out on the table and studied the neat lettering, then he folded the sheet and pushed it into his pocket. There was a mystery here and he was sure now that for some reason Vasilescu was not telling him the whole truth.
“And the tobacco?” he asked.
“It fell in the water when I caught up with Schiavono and was lost.”
Matt met and held his lieutenant’s gaze. “Well, that is a shame. It could have been worth a lot of money. Money the company could do with right now, with the price of food rising by the hour.”
“I would have saved it if I could,” Vasilescu assured him.
Matt had heard enough, and he pushed himself to his feet. “I am sure you would, Gavril. Now look to your wound and don’t let it fester. I want you to stay here whilst I sort things out.” He pushed the bottle across the table. “Some consolation for you. But that is all you’ll get. You will do nothing more regarding Schiavono. The matter is in my hands now. Do you understand?”
There was a brief flash of some dark emotion in Vasilescu’s expression. He tightened his lips and gave a brief nod. “Yes, captain. I understand very well.”
Matt was at the door when Vasilescu spoke again.
“He will lie to you. He will lie to save his skin and try to make me look bad.”
Not even bothering to turn, Matt let a breath escape in a hiss between his teeth. “I hope not. I really do hope not. It will go ill for anyone who lies to me in this.”
O’Byrne was waiting outside. Matt jerked his head towards the room.
“Keep him close. He is not to leave the tavern. If he tries to bribe you, let me know.”
The Irishman gave him an odd look then straightened sharply. “Yes, sir.”
Matt made his way back to his house, acutely aware he was going to have to condemn one of his own today and not at all relishing the idea—whichever of the two it might turn out to be. He resisted the urge to seek out Máire. There was nothing she could say that could change things and much as he wanted her absolution, he preferred not to burden her with the weight of it. That was, after all, the price of command. It was his responsibility and his alone.
He sent for Schiavono as soon as he got to the house and had barely unlocked his cabinet before the boy was beside him. Schiavono had changed from the odd outfit he had been wearing into a decent and more sober dress than he usually favoured. A mark of contrition perhaps? Matt gestured to him to enter the room. Despite himself, a prickling tension remained between his shoulder blades as he turned his back to light the candle. But when that was done Schiavono was standing looking warily at him.
“Give me your sword,” Matt demanded.
Schiavono hesitated but only for a moment, before sliding it free and offering it hilt first. Taking it, Matt knew a tug of covetousness—a beautiful weapon. Schiavono had cleaned it, removing the trace of Vasilescu’s blood from its tip. Matt laid it carefully across the desk as he asked his first question.
“Tell me, have you ever killed a man?”
It was clearly not what Schiavono had expected, and it made him blink.
“I am not sure, sir.”
And that was a strange answer. Matt recalled the taunting blade that had pinned Vasilescu and wondered if he was being toyed with in the same way. “How can you not be sure?”
“Because this last week I have pistolled and cut men in the skirmishes we have with the troops that foray from Breda, but I have seen none dead at my feet that I knew for certain I had slain.”
“But you would have killed Lieutenant Vasilescu?”
Schiavono’s shoulders stiffened and there was a slight curl to his lip as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Yes, sir. If you had not prevented it, I would have killed him.”
Matt reached into his pocket and found the crumpled paper. He unfolded it and held it so the candle flame could illuminate the letters on it. “This is your writing.”
Matt had seen enough of the elegant hand when looking over what his cornet-apprentice had done for Máire. Schiavono did not even attempt a denial, he nodded acknowledgement.
“It is.”
“You were taking it into Breda disguised as a tobacco seller.”
Another nod.
“If I were to set this cypher into plain, what would it say?”
“It is a description of three locations around the edges of the siege works.”
Of course. Telling the garrison of Breda where to direct their sallies. Having defended against such and seen the havoc they wrought Matt knew a moment of anger. “And you were taking this into the city to pass on to the Dutch?”
Another nod.
Matt wondered if this was the first betrayal. “Had you been in the city before?”
“Two days ago.”
It was as if the boy was set only upon answering what he was asked and no more. Matt suppressed his irritation and tried to broaden the questions. “Why did you go into Breda two days ago?”
“Because Lieutenant Vasilescu captured and killed a tobacco smuggler. He tortured the man to discover his route and then ordered me to take the pack, sell the tobacco and bring him whatever money I made.”
He will lie to you. He will lie to save his skin and try to make me look bad. Matt’s jaw tightened. “And you did that?”
Another nod. “I sold it for two hundred guilders and that was not the best price, just the best I could get without taking more time.”
Two hundred guilders! That was half a year’s earnings for a skilled craftsman. Matt had to work hard to keep his voice level. “And what did you do with the money?”
“I gave it to Lieutenant Vasilescu.”
“You do recall the rules I have about plunder gained?”
Another nod.
Matt reached for his pipe. He took his time filling it and tamping it down, his mind piecing together the pattern and finding it ugly. Only once he had drawn on the smoke, did he return his full attention to the boy. “Why didn’t you bring the money to me?”
Schiavono’s lips twisted. “I believed that was what the lieutenant was going to do.”
“Who else knew of this?”
“Until today, only Lieutenant Vasilescu and myself, sir.”
“Ah yes, today. What happened that led to you dressing up again to go back into Breda and carrying this?” He tapped the ciphered note.
“The lieutenant told me he had some more tobacco and he wanted me to take it into Breda again to, as he put it, ‘turn it into gold like an alchemist’. I spent some time yesterday solving the cypher, which was not hard. So, I decided to use the opportunity to make our work defending the siege lines easier and hopefully send the Dutch to places where we might better deal with them. The soldiers in Breda are free with their speech, thinking I am English and so an ally. As I told the lieutenant, I already learned where they had planned to send their raiding force tomorrow—where the Spanish have just begun extending the lines. He said he would tell you. But I hoped my stratagem might make the Dutch commanders rethink and persuade them into a place where we could effect an ambush more easily.”
