job like any other. Just a job. Scarlett watched him take a deep breath, nod at the ground, and look up at Hawkwood, his eyes lit with the cold flame of a born killer. “At your service, Ser Giovanni.”
Hawkwood clapped the man on the shoulder. “Very well, then.” He started to untie the knots, freeing Taricani from his chair. “The rendezvous is set for Bologna. You’ll have four spears of ours, in addition to any accompanying the delegation. From Bologna up to the Aosta pass and over to Geneva, then on the Rhine from Basel to Cologne. Next a hard ride to Hamburg, where you’ll sail to Dover. The French are likely massing in Flanders, so there’s no getting through by land to Calais.” Even as Hawkwood rattled off the sites along the itinerary Scarlett could hear the mix of wistfulness and anticipation in his lord’s voice, thick with longing to make this journey his own.
“You will arrive in London the third week of May or thereabouts, and the thing is set for—well, Scarlett here will fill you in on the details. Should be a beautiful spring day.”
Hawkwood walked inside. Scarlett spoke to Taricani for a while longer, then hailed several of the men who had brought the man up from Florence. “See him back to Orsanmichele. And, Paolo, this is for your woman, and for Piccolamela.” He tossed a purse on the dirt. Taricani rubbed his wrists, reached for it, and peered inside. He looked up at Scarlett. A grim nod. The job would be done, and done well, despite the cost. With that, Paolo Taricani was taken back to Florence, for a final farewell to his family.
Inside the villa Hawkwood was staring up at the arms of his father, Gilbert Hawkwood, now his brother’s: a lion rampant above a bend, the tendrils curling up the sides and the center. The Inheritor, Hawkwood liked to call his brother. The condottiero ’s own arms, much more prominently displayed on the east wall, consisted of a lone falcon poised above a tangled forest of vines.
“My father was a strange man, Adam,” Hawkwood said into the gloom. “Imagine having three sons, and naming them all John. The eldest son, heir to the name, and all that comes with it. The youngest, also John Hawkwood, has the luck to die young. And the middle son? That’s right: John Hawkwood.”
He sniffed. “Middle John, my mother called me. ‘Does Middle John want his cider now?’ ‘Time for Middle John to get him to his lessons!’ And it all stacks on, doesn’t it? Thornbury and the others, fled back to suck on Lancaster’s teat with scarcely a word of thanks. My son-in-law takes my daughter away and now sits in Parliament, one of the highest men in Essex. Then all this business with Chaucer . . .”
“You’ve bought up half of Essex, John,” Scarlett said. “Sible Hedingham, the lands around Gosfield.” He put a hand on Hawkwood’s shoulder, a gesture to frame the familiar use of the condottiero ’s first name. Hawkwood permitted it when they were alone, though Scarlett rarely took advantage. “You own more of England than your brother ever could, let alone Coggeshale.” The son-in-law. “Are you absolutely sure this is the wisest course? This is what you want for yourself, to reclaim your legacy under such circumstances?” He had been trying for weeks to turn the condottiero from his dark purpose; one last try, however weak, could not hurt.
Hawkwood reached up and patted Scarlett’s hand, clasping it tightly as he nodded at his family’s arms. “It is not about me anymore, Adam. It is about my son.”
“Your—your son, sire?”
“He’s in Donnina’s belly. I can smell him in there, baking away.”
This was news to Scarlett—and, he suspected, a bit of wishful thinking.
“The next Sir John Hawkwood will be a baron, Adam. Perhaps even an earl, belted by the king himself. And I won’t curse the poor fellow with a brother, either. Perhaps I’ll name him George.” He smiled, looked at his friend. “Or Adam.”
Scarlett felt it,
Hawkwood clapped the man on the shoulder. “Very well, then.” He started to untie the knots, freeing Taricani from his chair. “The rendezvous is set for Bologna. You’ll have four spears of ours, in addition to any accompanying the delegation. From Bologna up to the Aosta pass and over to Geneva, then on the Rhine from Basel to Cologne. Next a hard ride to Hamburg, where you’ll sail to Dover. The French are likely massing in Flanders, so there’s no getting through by land to Calais.” Even as Hawkwood rattled off the sites along the itinerary Scarlett could hear the mix of wistfulness and anticipation in his lord’s voice, thick with longing to make this journey his own.
“You will arrive in London the third week of May or thereabouts, and the thing is set for—well, Scarlett here will fill you in on the details. Should be a beautiful spring day.”
Hawkwood walked inside. Scarlett spoke to Taricani for a while longer, then hailed several of the men who had brought the man up from Florence. “See him back to Orsanmichele. And, Paolo, this is for your woman, and for Piccolamela.” He tossed a purse on the dirt. Taricani rubbed his wrists, reached for it, and peered inside. He looked up at Scarlett. A grim nod. The job would be done, and done well, despite the cost. With that, Paolo Taricani was taken back to Florence, for a final farewell to his family.
Inside the villa Hawkwood was staring up at the arms of his father, Gilbert Hawkwood, now his brother’s: a lion rampant above a bend, the tendrils curling up the sides and the center. The Inheritor, Hawkwood liked to call his brother. The condottiero ’s own arms, much more prominently displayed on the east wall, consisted of a lone falcon poised above a tangled forest of vines.
“My father was a strange man, Adam,” Hawkwood said into the gloom. “Imagine having three sons, and naming them all John. The eldest son, heir to the name, and all that comes with it. The youngest, also John Hawkwood, has the luck to die young. And the middle son? That’s right: John Hawkwood.”
He sniffed. “Middle John, my mother called me. ‘Does Middle John want his cider now?’ ‘Time for Middle John to get him to his lessons!’ And it all stacks on, doesn’t it? Thornbury and the others, fled back to suck on Lancaster’s teat with scarcely a word of thanks. My son-in-law takes my daughter away and now sits in Parliament, one of the highest men in Essex. Then all this business with Chaucer . . .”
“You’ve bought up half of Essex, John,” Scarlett said. “Sible Hedingham, the lands around Gosfield.” He put a hand on Hawkwood’s shoulder, a gesture to frame the familiar use of the condottiero ’s first name. Hawkwood permitted it when they were alone, though Scarlett rarely took advantage. “You own more of England than your brother ever could, let alone Coggeshale.” The son-in-law. “Are you absolutely sure this is the wisest course? This is what you want for yourself, to reclaim your legacy under such circumstances?” He had been trying for weeks to turn the condottiero from his dark purpose; one last try, however weak, could not hurt.
Hawkwood reached up and patted Scarlett’s hand, clasping it tightly as he nodded at his family’s arms. “It is not about me anymore, Adam. It is about my son.”
“Your—your son, sire?”
“He’s in Donnina’s belly. I can smell him in there, baking away.”
This was news to Scarlett—and, he suspected, a bit of wishful thinking.
“The next Sir John Hawkwood will be a baron, Adam. Perhaps even an earl, belted by the king himself. And I won’t curse the poor fellow with a brother, either. Perhaps I’ll name him George.” He smiled, looked at his friend. “Or Adam.”
Scarlett felt it,
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