And then he realised that he was due in two hours at the castle, and he hurried to his inn.
‘There’s a package on the bed for you,’ Fra Tommaso said. ‘And a note from a Greek silversmith, and another from a man who rents horses. What a busy, busy boy you are.’
The package on the bed was a magnificent piece of linen with woven-in stripes of deep Tyrian red-purple, the very colour most prized by the emperors at Constantinople. It had a stripe along each selvedge. The whole was sewn in a tube. There were, included in the package, a pair of pins — really, brooches — that were in the form of lions. They were made of solid gold, and worth … Swan guessed they were worth twenty ducats a piece. There was also a belt of tiny gold links, and a pair of sandals in red leather with gold buckles. And a very short cloak — a wonderful, soft wool, dark blue, but with a Tyrian red hem that matched the rest.
Swan played with the fabric, trying to imagine how to put it on.
Then he went to the baths. This time, he moved more quickly, avoided boys with trays of wine, and was neat, clean, and presentable an hour before he was due at the castle. He walked down the beach, where two work parties — oarsmen and sailors who had earned Fra Tommaso’s wrath — were scraping the hulls and applying clean, new pitch.
The Lord of Eressos was watching. With him were a dozen mounted stradiotes and two heavy wagons. Swan walked carefully across the sand and paused, a little unsure of himself. As a volunteer of the order, did he outrank a local lord? Or rather, would he annoy the knights?
He was saved from his social predicament by the Lord of Eressos bowing from the saddle. ‘Ah! The English prince.’
Swan returned the bow with interest. ‘My lord,’ he said.
‘Happy Saint George’s Day, Your Grace’ the man said. He smiled. ‘For you heretics!’
The Lord of Eressos was not as old as he had appeared the day before. Rare among Greeks, he had blond hair — ruddy blond, with a snub nose and freckles. With time to examine him, Swan noted that he had Genoese gloves tucked in his belt, and wore Italianate hose and boots, very different from what his retainers wore. And a fine sword that looked — to Swan’s professional eye — like a German sword with some age to it.
All this in an instant. Swan nodded. ‘I shall sail back in ten days and wish you the same, my lord.’ He wasn’t sure he’d ever actually been referred to as ‘Your Grace’ before, and he was prepared to like it.
‘My father was a great one for Saint George,’ the lord went on. ‘And Saint Andrew and Saint Patrick. He was not a Greek.’
‘English?’ Swan asked, because he was coming to believe that half the population of Lesvos was English.
‘Scots,’ the Lord of Eressos said. ‘He came out when the Company of Saint George took the condotta for the Gattelusi. He was constable,’ the young man said with pride. ‘By the way, I’m called Hector. Hector Zambale of Eressos.’
Swan tried to parse Zambale and came up with nothing. ‘Is Zambale a local name?’ he asked.
The young tow-headed Greek grinned. ‘In Scots, its Campbell. Zambale is what the Emperor made of Da’s name.’
Swan grinned. The Lord of Eressos’s smile was infectious. ‘Enjoying our ships?’ he asked.
‘The prince ordered us to provide pitch this morning. Prince Dorino likes to see his orders carried out quickly. He wants you to sail away and leave us alone as soon as possible, so that if the Turks return he can claim he didn’t know you.’ Zambale watched two men with a red-hot iron sealing the patched seam on the bow of the Blessed Saint John. ‘We offered shipwrights, but apparently your knights don’t trust Greeks near their ships.’
There didn’t seem to be a good answer to that.
‘Is it true you are a prince of England?’ Zambale asked. ‘I hope I don’t offend when I say you seem a lot more relaxed than the princes I know.’
Swan laughed. ‘I’m the bastard of a bastard. Nonetheless, John of Gaunt really is my grandfather.’
‘A famous line, even if reached the wrong way,’ Zambale said. ‘Prince Dorino intends to make much of you tonight. Can you dance?’
‘I know all the Italian dances,’ Swan said, suddenly thankful for Violetta’s instruction and a month of home entertainment.
Zambale nodded. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It should be quite an evening.’ He looked around. ‘The oarsmen say you are quite the swordsman. That you killed ten Turks fighting in a mine under Rhodos.’ He grinned to take the sting out of his next remark. ‘You don’t look like such a firebrand.’
Swan scratched his beard. ‘Swords fascinate me. I … practise. And the knights — they have very high standards for everything — wrestling, swordsmanship — even fighting with the dagger.’
Zambale’s eyes fairly glowed with enthusiasm. ‘Would you care to teach me?’ he asked.
‘Teach you what?’ Swan asked.
‘Anything!’ Zambale said. ‘I’m a young pup in a backwater and nothing ever comes here. We don’t get good sword masters and we don’t get good dancing masters. I learned everything from Da’s friends.’ He said it with the air of a man who didn’t believe a word of his own modesty.
Sweet Jesu, Swan thought. He thinks he’s a swordsman.
The Lord of Eressos dismounted and threw his reins to an oarsman, who glared at him with the resentment of a free man for an aristocrat.
‘You don’t practise with sharp swords,’ Swan said as kindly as he could manage. ‘In Italy and Rhodos they have practice swords.’
Hector Zambale was young and immortal. ‘Oh — we do. Nothing to it. I’ll be careful.’ The younger man was bouncing on his toes. He was a clear six feet tall and probably three fingers taller than Swan, and had shoulders as broad as an ox. He drew his heavy long sword with a flourish.
Swan wasn’t wearing a long sword. ‘If you’d like me to show you some things, perhaps you’d like to use an arming sword?’ he asked.
The other man nodded. ‘Sure, it would be a great shame to have a mismatch.’ He went to his horse and drew a smaller sword from the scabbard on his saddle.
‘The big sword was my da’s,’ he said. ‘Now we’ll have a proper tiff.’
His arming sword was much more modern — with a finger ring and a complex ricasso, it was like a slightly more aristocratic version of a Venetian marine’s sword, complete to a spur on the backbone for trapping the unwary.
‘Guard yourself, now,’ Zambale said, and attacked.
The Graeco-Scot was big and fast and, unlike a genuine swordsman, seemed to be willing to squander energy with every blow, so that he twirled his weapon, made a dozen fanfaronades, cut the air, and bounced on his toes. Swan moved around the beach as quickly as he could, trying to remain fluid and graceful and hoping desperately that someone would come and put a stop to it.
Instead, the oarsmen gathered in a ring and began wagering.
‘Stop running away!’ Zambale shouted. ‘You were going to teach me.’ He laughed.
Swan cursed and backed away again. The younger man would have been easy to kill — his whole style invited Swan to cut his sword-hand off at the wrist, and the temptation to do so was growing. The redhead was swinging hard — swinging to intimidate. If he missed a parry, he’d be dead.
Swan tried a simple overhead cut, and the other man parried heavily, so that the sword-blades locked for a moment. Zambale pushed — hard — and made Swan stumble.
Swan thrust outside into the bigger man’s covered line — a foolish move, but it did guarantee the man would be safe. As Swan stepped back from his failed attack, Zambale twirled his sword over his wrist …
And Swan cut at his head, forcing him to make a rapid parry. It was the same blow as before — the Graeco-Scot grinned as the blades locked.
He began to use the force of his wrist on the bind, but Swan had a different notion, and had stepped forward and offline. His left hand shot out and he grabbed his opponent’s blade high in the air — near the point — while keeping the blades locked by the hilt. Then he pushed with his left hand, rotating the other man at his knees and midsection. His left elbow passed over Zambale’s head, and the blade — his own blade — lay along his neck.