Lisa soon developed a strong dislike of this vagabond mercenary lord into whose power she was about to be delivered. "Yes, but—"
"The men worship him. He remembers their names, and their horses' names, looks after their comfort, shares out the loot fairly, never spares himself. They're Longdirk's men and proud of it. They swagger and strut like pigeons, and no one queries their right to do so. He's never lost once — siege, skirmish, or set-piece battle."
"But what sort of a person is he? Does he brag and swagger, too? Does he enjoy the killing?"
"Toby?" Hamish grinned. "Brag? He's the only man in Italy who still calls it the Don Ramon Company. He hides behind the don and tugs his forelock and runs circles around them all. He certainly doesn't enjoy killing. The only thing he hates more than war is the Fiend, who makes it necessary. He really tries not to shed blood. Take San Leo, for example. It was supposed to be impregnable. Ha! Two days after the condotta was signed, he went up a ladder in the middle of a rainy night with one companion and opened the gates for the Company. By the time the garrison woke up in the morning, the town was ours! That condotta only lasted a week."
"Who was the companion?"
"There's Carlo coming now. We can go on—"
"Who was the one companion?"
"It doesn't look like anyone's following you, I mean us. Why are you looking at me like that?"
"At San Leo? Who was the one companion?"
"Me," he admitted grumpily.
"Aha!"
He scowled. "I don't usually do such crazy things. I had to go with him because I'd seen a map of the town, that was all."
Master Campbell was being modest, which was a very odd trait in a man, but might be quite appealing once one got used to it. "Of course," she said. "And no one else ever had? I suppose during the Battle of Trent you sat in your tent the whole time reading a book?"
He shot her a worried look. "Lisa… don't!"
"Don't what?"
"Don't start getting ideas about… Oh, demons!" He stared straight ahead along the track and said nothing more.
"I was inquiring, Chancellor, what part you played in the Battle of Trent?"
He spoke to the fields. "A very small, very insignificant part. But I did ride in the Great Charge, when Toby led the cavalry against the guns and the demons were loosed. I saw little of it. I was much too busy trying to stay on my horse, and there was fire and smoke and thunder everywhere. Magazines blowing up… bodies flying through the air like starlings."
"Monsters?"
"Yes, there were monsters. My horse didn't much like running with dragons. But we had more monsters than they did. Then the Swiss pikemen came in on the right… That was awful. Nevil's troops were hexed, so they couldn't surrender."
"So Constable Longdirk does shed blood when he has to! Is it true that he's possessed by a demon?"
"Oh, look! Lambs! Isn't it amazing how early spring comes in Italy? Back in Scotland—"
"Did he really set the forest on fire at Trent?"
Hamish turned to look at her then. His face was grim. "Yes. He had our hexers do it, and that left us open to Schweitzer's demons, so we took heavy losses for a while, but nothing compared to what the fire did to the Fiend's troops later."
"You mean he'll roast an enemy army without a thought but won't dream of using a maiden in distress for political purposes?"
After a brief hesitation, Master Campbell said, "Yes."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Given that Italy was a morass of conspiracy and intrigue, it went without saying that there were spies everywhere, using the dark arts of gramarye or just the ears they were born with. Toby tried to make things as hard for them as he could, although he also assumed that anything he said or did would be promptly reported to his enemies or allies or both. He held important meetings in the courtyard, which was enclosed by walls of ancient Roman brick and shadowed by cypresses, fruit trees, and grapevine trellises. It could be entered by a gate from the orchard or a door from the villa itself, but only the hearing of a cat could eavesdrop on what was said there. Even so early in the year, when the vines were bare and the almond blossom had not yet exploded into spring glory, the air was often warm enough to do business out-of-doors. There he passed the day, struggling to recruit an army without actually spending money he did not yet possess.
Seven men defined the Don Ramon Company. The don had ridden off to do verbal battle with Benozzo and the rest of the dieci, and Hamish had not yet returned from Siena. Maestro Fischart was also absent, communing with demons in an effort to find the missing gold. The four who met around the mossy stone table that day were Antonio Diaz the marshal, Arnaud Villars the treasurer, Brother Bartolo the secretary — and High Constable Longdirk, whose duties were mysterious, even to him, although he knew the organization would fall apart without him.
"Twenty thousand men," he said. "At the moment we have…?"
"Three thousand and thirty-three," Arnaud growled. He was the one the other three thousand and thirty-two were threatening to hang if they were not paid soon.
Toby looked inquiringly to the marshal.
"Another four squadrons, no more," Diaz said — roughly six hundred men or about a hundred helmets. More men made the Company more difficult to manage efficiently, which was why Arnaud was nodding agreement, although he and Diaz rarely agreed on anything. To fulfill his condotta, the condottiere must subcontract other companies.
"Who else is good?" Toby asked, although he had a clear list in his head already, plus extensive notes Hamish had left him. Arnaud answered first.
"The Mad Dogs."
"Brucioli's too fond of marching." Diaz's face never showed his feelings. "They fight well if they get the chance, though."
"We'll give them the chance," Toby said. "How about the Red Band?"
The day flew by in argument and discussion, the men by turns sitting on the wooden stools or pacing around. Who was good, who unreliable? Who clashed with whom? Why hadn't so-and-so's band been signed up already?
Time and again Toby's mind slid back to the problem of the missing gold. It made no sense. Whoever the mysterious shadow was, why make an impossible mystery out of the crime? Why take one small bag and ignore all the rest? Why take any? Perhaps the unknown spy's purpose was merely to sow distrust. Now no one could feel completely safe or rely on anyone else.
"Fifteen lire a man won't buy many," Diaz was saying. "They all know there'll be no looting, and the cost of everything is going up like a bombard shot. Rosselli is asking a twenty-thousand-ducat signing bonus."
"Can't afford it. He's good but not that good."
How much silver for a man's life? How much gold for his honor? Ignoring gramarye, who might sell out for simple avarice? Any of these three?
Brother Bartolo? The friar was a wine tub of a man, rubicund face perpetually beaming, with only a faint fringe of silver around his tonsure, an Italian edition of Friar Tuck. During a memorable celebration after the Battle of Padua some very drunk young squires had found a steelyard and started laying bets on who weighed more, Longdirk in his battle gear or Bartolo in his gray Franciscan robe. Because those striplings had acquitted themselves like veterans that day, Toby had submitted to the indignity of being weighed. He had lost handily. Enormous Bartolo ran the secretariat with good humor and unfailing efficiency. Even now, as each decision was reached, he would poke two fingers in his mouth and emit a whistle louder than a bugle call. A clerk would come running out to hear the details and then run indoors to write the letter. Soon corrected drafts and fair copies were piling up, ready to be signed and sealed. Toby could not imagine life without the fat man to handle his endless correspondence.