CHAPTER EIGHT
As dawn gilded chimneys under a buttermilk sky, Toby strode out to the stable yard, relieved that the party was over and he was free to go. The air was cool and sweet, and even the potent tang of horses was welcome after the cloying palace scents. The buzz in his head came only from lack of sleep, for he had drunk much less than most of the guests. He was carrying the unconscious and partially clad don slung over his shoulder.
The waiting men-at-arms of the escort jeered like seagulls at this evidence of an aristocrat's inability to stay the course, although they expected a man to whore and drink himself senseless on every possible opportunity, because that was what they did themselves whenever they could afford to. Then they began taunting Toby for being able to leave on his own feet, as if this evidenced lack of manhood. He laughed aloud, enjoying their vulgar banter far more than the cynical backstabbing of the gentry he had just left.
The men of the Don Ramon Company were a diverse lot, whose roots spanned the Continent from Portugal to Poland. Some had been born in marble halls and others, like him, in the ditches of poverty. They all shared courage, pride in their own endurance, and a fierce independence that would tolerate neither weaklings in their ranks nor incompetent officers. Among the rights they claimed was that of electing the don's honor guard, and thus to serve in it was a mark of approval greatly prized. There, in the morning chill, illiterate pike-wielding thugs stood elbow to elbow with knights who led entourages of their own. Toby belonged with the thugs, of course.
He heaved the unconscious don aboard the coach as he had once heaved sacks of meal for the miller back in Tyndrum, then glanced around. A man must not arrive at a ball covered in mud and reeking of horse, but that did not mean he had to go home in the same dreadful engine of torture in which he had arrived. He thumped a handy shoulder.
"Facino, I grant you the privilege of holding the condottiere's hand on the journey. Make sure he doesn't choke. I'll see your horse gets back safely."
As a staunch Italian republican, Facino was unimpressed by the Spaniard's impeccable pedigree, and he erupted in lurid protestations that being bounced around in a box with an unconscious drunk was above and beyond the call of duty. His comrades barked more cannonades of laughter.
"I'll give you a medal!" Toby hoisted him bodily into the coach, although he was no lightweight, then closed the door on him. The onlookers laughed louder still, and now even the knights among them were joining in.
Facino's head came out of the window. "A gold one!"
"He didn't tell you where he's going to hang it, Facino!"
"It's the horse that deserves the medal!"
And so on. Chuckling, Toby turned to adjust the stirrup leathers on Facino's mount. He was forestalled—
"Allow me this honor, comandante!" The big man with the buttery smile was Baldassare Barrafranca, former lord of Rimini. His career as a condottiere was a catalogue of dismal mediocrity, but he was a capable enough fighter when aimed in the right direction and told when to start. He led his own post of five lances. He was not a man Toby Longdirk would turn his back on in a dark alley.
At which thought, Toby glanced around and caught the eye of the Chevalier D'Anjou. For a fleeting moment he saw slavering jaws, yellow fangs, and slitted wolfish eyes, as if some demonic nightmare was about to leap on him. He blinked, and the illusion had gone — lack of sleep could play strange tricks on a man. The veteran knight was scarred and weatherbeaten, with a gray-streaked beard and head habitually canted to favor his right eye, but he was no demon. On the other hand, he could not be described as likable. Toby could not recall ever seeing the crabby old blackguard smile before.
"That is as long as they will go, comandante," Barrafranca said, oozing back with a half bow.
"Thank you." Toby put a boot in the stirrup and swung up onto the mare. He nodded to the Chevalier. "Lead the men out, if you please, squadriere."
There was a perceptible pause before the yellow teeth showed again. "It is my honor, comandante. Guard, mount up!"
The seigneur disliked taking orders from the Scottish bastard. Toby watched the old scoundrel scramble onto his great destrier with help from his squire. Camp tales described him as the last survivor of the French royal house, rightful monarch of several countries. Unlike Barrafranca, he had no cause to blame his misfortunes on Toby — which did not mean he couldn't or wouldn't. He might have been dangerous if he had not knocked all his brains out years ago.
The procession clattered off along the Via Larga in proper order — six men in pairs, the coach, and a dozen more men behind. Toby was absurdly conspicuous in his party silks, but the others all wore leathers, helmets, and breastplates emblazoned with the don's arms of three papillons argent upon gules.
Conversation was impossible in the cramped streets, with carts and pedestrians to be avoided and the clatter of hooves echoing between drab stone walls. He was leaving Florence with what he had come for — three florins a man, twenty thousand men, six months minimum. Three hundred and sixty thousand ducats! What would the good folk back in Strath Fillan say to wee Toby Strangerson earning that kind of money? He would get to keep none of it and the lowly men expected to die for it would see little more. Florence paid a portion in food and fodder, and withheld taxes on all of it. One fifth went to Josep Brusi in Barcelona as return on his investment, another fifth to the don, although he must pay for the artillery out of that. Each man had to provide his own weapons and mounts, or have his pay docked to cover their cost. Toby's share was officially one twentieth, but he always took the last twentieth, which was rarely there to take, because cities were notoriously lax about paying their mercenaries. And there were always unforeseen costs.
His chances of living to enjoy a soldo of it were remote anyway. If he had any sense at all, he would catch a ship to Africa and never come back. Longdirk versus the Fiend — why pursue a feud so hopeless? He often wondered about that. He seemed to be too stupid to do anything except fight on.
The company rattled through the Porta Pinti and set off along the Fiesole road, through countryside wakening to spring and a fine day. Escaping thoughts of all the work waiting for him in camp, he spurred forward to join Leonello and Agostino, and listen to their discussion of the relative merits of fat women and thin women, a subject about which he knew absolutely nothing and could never hope to.
CHAPTER NINE
D'Anjou rode at the head of the line on Oriflamme, who was still his favorite, although the old warhorse was long past his days of glory. So was his master, for that matter. A night dozing on a bale of straw in an overcrowded stable had turned his backbone into a red-hot iron bar. He ought to ask the company hexer to straighten out the kinks for him. The present one was impressively expert and did not demand outrageous fees, but it was a point of honor for an old campaigner not to make such a request until the fighting season opened. He would suffer longer in the name of honor.
Uninvited, another horse settled into place alongside Oriflamme. The Chevalier scowled unwelcome at its rider.
"There were interesting rumors going around last night," the newcomer remarked in heavily accented French. He was Baldassare Barrafranca — a stupid, boorish man of nondescript lineage. He had left the stable for a while during the bodyguard's nightlong vigil and gone off to worm his way into the palace kitchens — making a play for some of the female domestics, no doubt.