Swan looked around. He wasn’t comfortable discussing it.
‘Well – there’s a charge for straw and another for wash water. I thought as—’ The Fleming raised an eyebrow.
‘Tell me,’ said Swan.
‘I won’t say as we’re rich. But if you kill one bandit a day and take his purse, we’ll be able to keep eating.’ Peter shrugged.
Swan winced. He reached into his shirt and came up with the silver ecu.
Peter took it and bit it. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘You have some useful skills, for a gentleman.’ Peter said ‘ooseful skils’. Otherwise, his English was near perfect.
Swan dismounted and curried the horse with Peter. While they were working, Giannis came out and got to work on his own horse.
‘Giannis, this is my man, Peter,’ Swan said.
Giannis grinned. ‘Sure,’ he said.
When the horses were curried and fed, Giannis unrolled his cloak. ‘I want to keep the crossbow,’ he said. He handed Swan a dark red leather belt with a red leather purse. It had nice buckles and a pair of cast decorations to weight the rain cover. It wasn’t fine like a nobleman’s purse, but it was good work. It also had a good, heavy knife – German work – with an eating knife and a pricker in the scabbard.
‘There’s his belt,’ Giannis said. ‘That’s a fine knife – I throw in the purse, as’ – he smiled his gap-toothed smile – ‘as you don’t seem to have a purse.’
Swan looked at Peter. Peter walked over and lifted the crossbow.
‘That’s a nice piece,’ he said. The goat’s-foot lever was built into the stock. He ratcheted it back with an effort and a grunt of pain. ‘That cost—’ He looked at Swan. ‘Who was this man? That’s a fine knife. The crossbow and the knife are both Low German. I know the maker’s mark on that knife. He sells in Antwerp. It’s not the gear a brigand would have.’
‘He might if he just killed someone for it,’ Swan said.
‘You haf never been a brigand, haf you?’ Peter said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Swan translated into Italian for Giannis.
Giannis nodded. ‘He’s no fool, this man of yours,’ he said.
‘He owes you on this deal, even with the knife,’ Peter said.
Swan turned on Giannis. ‘My man says you’re trying to cheat me,’ he said.
Giannis shrugged. ‘Cheat is a harsh word,’ he said, smiling. ‘You are a rich boy. I am a poor man-at-arms. What will you do with the crossbow – hunt killer sparrows?’ He shrugged. ‘Listen – you did the work. I admit it. But I can’t afford even half this machine. I just want it.’
Swan looked at Peter. ‘He wants it. He admits it’s worth more.’
‘Get him to buy our wine tonight and call it a deal,’ Peter said.
‘Listen,’ Swan said to Giannis. ‘I’m as poor as a slave right now. Buy our wine tonight at dinner, and I’ll take the dagger and purse and we’re even.’
Giannis offered his hand and they shook.
In the common room of the tavern, Swan sat on a trestle with his back against Peter’s and worked on the belt. The lawyers came in and waved, and he waved back, but they were forced by the flow of patrons to sit near the fire.
He had to ask around to get a needle, heavy thread, some resin and some wax – but as he expected, a tavern was the place to buy all these small necessities, and for the first time in his life, he had cash, and a purse in which to put it. He tried not to keep drawing the heavy hunting knife and fondling it, but in truth, it was the finest thing he’d ever owned.
Killing people and taking their goods was looking better and better.
Alessandro came and stood over him while he cut off part of the belt, stripped its tip of some white metal and used the anvil in the barn to reset the rivets. Then he resewed the edge of the belt. Alessandro spent most of the time talking to Giannis, but when Swan returned from the barn a second time, he turned.
‘You seem to know your way around a needle,’ he said.
Swan shrugged. ‘My master-at-arms said a gentleman who couldn’t sew was going to be very unhappy on campaign. When I was a royal page—’
Alessandro shook his head. ‘Don’t claim you were a royal page.’
Swan looked up. ‘Why not?’
‘Easy to prove or disprove in Paris. If true – you are worth more, yes? If false—’ He shook his head.
‘Ah,’ Swan said. He bit his thread. ‘Peter says he knows this knife maker,’ he said, and drew the knife and handed it to the Italian soldier, who took it by the hilt and tossed it in his hand.
‘From the assassin, yes?’ he asked.
Swan nodded.
‘Hmm,’ Alessandro grunted. He hefted it. It was as long as a man’s forearm, elbow to the tips of his fingers, with a thumb-rest that doubled as a guard. Alessandro took out the bye knife—the small eating knife that rested in the scabbard. He nodded. ‘Nice work.’
‘Not as nice as the crossbow,’ Peter said.
Alessandro smiled out of the corner of his mouth.
The room was loud and growing louder, as the town’s four prostitutes had just come in, wearing red dresses and with flowers in their hair. They were particularly unappetising to Swan, but the rest of the men clapped and hooted.
Swan leaned closer to Alessandro. ‘I would like to propound a theory,’ he said.
The Venetian bit his lip, glanced around the room, and nodded. ‘Outside, I think.’
They didn’t exactly slip outside, as several men growled when they pushed by, but they made it into the stable yard. The merchant’s carts were lining the south wall, and the count’s carts lined the west wall.
‘Propound away, my young scapegrace,’ Alessandro said.
Swan glanced around. ‘You went to university, sir?’
Alessandro nodded. ‘Yes. Padova. With Messire Accudi, in fact.’
‘So you know that the very best kind of theory is that which can be tested?’ Swan asked.
Alessandro nodded. ‘Get on with it. You weary me with all this talk of school.’
Swan nodded. ‘The count is a fraud. He’s a brigand – a good actor, and possibly a genuine knight. He’s not after us – he’s after Merechault. We’ve become a nuisance by appearing with a dozen men-at-arms.’ They walked slowly along, arm in arm like two old friends.
‘Fascinating,’ Alessandro said. ‘And your proof?’
Swan stopped in front of one of the count’s wagons. Now that he knew the liveries, he knew that the count’s wagons were the three that were not marked. ‘If I take my knife and slit the tarpaulin, you’ll find nothing inside of any value,’ he said. ‘But here’s a lesser proof.’ He pointed at the merchant’s wagons. Two of the wagoners sat on the boxes, watching. ‘The count’s wagons are never guarded. Because all his men know there’s nothing in them.’
Alessandro grunted. He turned both of them back towards the inn. ‘It would help to explain something which has vexed me,’ he said.
Swan paused. ‘Yes?’
Alessandro shrugged. ‘I understand that there was a great deal of theft at the abbey. A priest lost his shirts. Other things went missing – Cesare said someone stole a rich monk’s riding gloves. The abbot tried to blame us, as foreigners. It made the cardinal angry.’
Swan set his face like stone.
‘I do not care – very much – what you might be. But if you are a thief – leave my boots and my sword and ride off into the night,’ said the Italian.
Swan took another step. ‘I’m no thief,’ he said. ‘I’m a gentleman and a soldier.’
‘Of course,’ Alessandro said. ‘Where did you get a pair of riding gloves?’
‘I found them in the road,’ Swan said. Their eyes met in the darkness and Swan didn’t flinch.
And in that moment, his plan crystallised.
After Alessandro went off, he had a brief conversation with the youngest of the prostitutes. He caught Alessandro watching him, and winked while he pressed money into the girl’s hand. ‘That much again when we’re done,’ he said.
After dinner, he played piquet with the lawyers for an hour. His luck was fair, and he ended the game a few silver sequins ahead of when he started. Most of the rest of the inn was in bed, and the men-at-arms had gone to the stables to sleep.