"I am aware—"
"His tactics, I say, were total madness, against all the rules, suicidal. He not only dismounted the cavalry — a mistake becoming distressingly popular these days — but he left the horses and baggage unguarded so he could throw every man into an assault. Cooks, grooms, teamsters, farriers, and similar trash, he armed them all! He had led this untrained, inexperienced rabble on a long march in pitch-darkness, can you believe? It made us weep, we who knew how it should be done. Had the enemy even suspected, there would have been a most terrible massacre, and that would have been the end of the upstart right then. But no. He has demons' own luck. He pounced on the Tyrolean camp in the middle of a moonless night, with no warning. Shameful! It was sheer butchery, hundreds of men murdered in their sleep. Thousands more fled or surrendered, leaving all their arms to the victors. By the terms of the condotta, the loot was his, of course."
"Of course," Barrafranca growled. He had been one of the prisoners.
"Oh, it worked," D'Anjou admitted. "Tyrol changed sides, and Verona was ecstatic. The Veronese paid up without complaint, although the condotta had lasted less than a month. They wanted to renew it indefinitely, but no, the arrogant barbarian went off in search of richer employers. But it was on the field of Garda that the don knighted him. I saw it. Sir Tobias! Sir Turd!
"It is not easy for men of honor to serve under such a man," he added waspishly. How could Barrafranca endure it? The rout at Lake Garda that had made Longdirk's name had blackened his forever. Rather than ransom him, his city had deposed him. "The foreigner upset all the rules by which your condottieri had been operating for so long. I expect one day someone will seek retribution — stick a knife in his ribs, perchance."
"Revenge, messer, is a dish best tasted cold."
"Even a cold dish must lose its flavor if it sits around too long." D'Anjou wondered if the men were listening, but very few of them understood French. They were almost at the camp now. He would shed this obnoxious Italian upstart and take a little rest to ease his back. "What was it you wished to discuss, messer?"
"Mm?" The Italian drank and belched again. "Apparently the podestà has received a letter from Naples. An emissary of the Khan has landed there."
The Chevalier straightened suddenly in his saddle and suppressed a gasp of pain. "You jest!"
"No, messer." Barrafranca sounded amused by his companion's shocked reaction. "After so many years, our esteemed overlord has at last noticed that something is amiss in his realm!"
"Did he send an army? I mean, is he sending one?" Tartars were horsemen. If the Golden Horde was going to oppose Nevil and try to recover the lands he had stolen, then it would have to come from the east, by land. But perhaps this was a sign that it was coming! "What good can one emissary do?"
"Spirits know, Chevalier. They said he brings special powers."
"A darughachi?" It had been many years since D'Anjou had even thought about the Khanate, that rotted relic of an empire whose claim to rule Europe the Fiend had exposed as utter pigswill. "He has perhaps authority to appoint another suzerain?"
Barrafranca snorted. "Very useful! The Fiend has slaughtered the last four, so—"
"Last five." Three of those five had been relatives of D'Anjou's. Two of them Nevil had taken alive, poor devils. "It will have to be an Italian, because there is no one else left, and a suzerain has always been a red rag to the Fiend. Nothing will make his invasion of Italy more certain."
"His invasion is already certain, yes? And if this daru… emissary… does appoint a suzerain, whom will he appoint? In the past the Khan always chose a powerful ruler, yes? But they are all dead now."
Ah! Interesting problem! In Italy — and there was very little else of Europe that Nevil had not conquered — the great powers were the five cities, but Rome was a hierocracy, while Venice and Florence were plutocracies claiming to be democracies. Fredrico of Naples was unthinkable. "The Duke of Milan? This is a choice not to be thought of!"
The Italian laughed. "He can do better than that, Chevalier. A man who knows war as it should be fought, a man who has fought against the Fiend as long as any, a man whose ancestors ruled France when the Khan's were herding goats?"
Again a jerk of surprise sent a stab of pain up D'Anjou's spine, but he barely noticed it. Indeed! Was he not the logical choice? "What are you suggesting?"
"That the emissary ought to be advised of the possibility. A good horseman should be able to reach Naples in a few days, sì?"
"I shall consider your advice, messer. I thank you for it." He could almost regret mocking the man, for the proposal had possibilities.
"My pleasure, Chevalier. And when it happens you will give me Longdirk's head in a basket, sì?"
D'Anjou chuckled. "I will give it to someone. You may have to wait in line."
"I will settle for his tripes," Barrafranca growled.
CHAPTER TEN
The camp in the Fiesole highlands was a minor city of leather and linen spilled down a now-muddy slope, a galaxy of many-colored tents, shaped like cones or sheds or loaves. Many of these were very grand pavilions, striped and gleaming in the morning sun, proof of the success the Don Ramon Company had garnered in the two seasons of its existence, but in among their dazzle crouched others more humble — dingy, patched, and decrepit, even some crude shelters of straw to house men who had gambled away their wealth. This bizarre settlement had been home all winter to three thousand men and boys, plus an unknown multitude of women. The treasurer kept sharp tally of the horses, the mules, the oxen, the wagons, the guns, the beans in the commissary, but for some reason no one ever counted the women.
Toby often marveled that he could have started this, but it had all sprung from a single evening's brainstorming in a monastery in northern Spain. As a penniless outlaw he had sown dragons' teeth and then ridden the dragon to fame and honor. It ruled him now. It owned him. Florence depended on messer Longdirk to defend her from the Fiend, but these men trusted him not to squander their lives in the attempt. One slip on his part, and few of them would see the harvest. They were cynical, tough as anvils, and many of them brutal, but they were Longdirk's men and proud of it. As he rode through the camp, he was hailed by lancers, pikemen, arquebusiers, and cannoneers. They were not cheering old Chevalier D'Anjou at his side, the rightful King of France; they were cheering Toby Longdirk, and that was worth far more than all of Pietro Marradi's gilt-edged invitations.
Don Ramon emerged from the coach unaided but unsteady. Framed by auburn tangles, his face had a greenish hue, and the copper mustache that normally twisted up in arrogant horns hung over his mouth like an apron. In only shirt and tights, he seemed almost frail, a slender boy. His unfocused, red-rimmed eyes peered uncertainly at Toby.
"Stand aside!" he muttered.
"You have a duty to perform, senor."
He clutched the coach for support and groaned. "Duty?"