where Erik had burst through, and the killing ground around them began to buckle and shift. Furrows, as if dug by some crazed plowman, shot out between legs, knocking men aside.
‘The mine! The mine is blown.’
And with that cry, a huge section of earth fell into the tunnels below. It was mainly on the Florentine side, and it dropped men thirty feet into the ground. A jagged rent appeared just before Haakon and Beck, the Norseman just managing to grab his son by the collar, dangling him over the sudden precipice for a moment before pulling him back.
Haakon yelled, ‘The hand of God, Beck?’
‘The one hand of the Fugger! Come on!’
The explosion had shaken Jean from his daze, preceded as it was by the Fugger bursting up from the well. Looking over, he saw, the front rank of the enemy disappear into the earth, saw reinforcements even now rushing around the flank of the hole, as his men began to squeeze through the narrow sally port.
‘My lord?’ he called up to the tower above.
‘Seen them, Rombaud,’ came a drawled response.
The volley cut down the pursuit, gave their own men a chance to withdraw. They crowded through the gate, but never blocked it and within a minute, all who could walk, crawl, or be carried were into Siena. Haakon and Beck were the last, going back for the one last wounded man of his command. Pushing him through the gate, he turned to Beck and smiled. ‘After you, my lady.’
He saw the beginnings of a smile in return, then saw that smile change to surprise, as she staggered into him. Reaching around to catch her, his hand encountered something hard, feathered. It protruded a finger’s length from her back.
He swept her up into his arms, moved inside. As the sally port slammed shut, he cried, ‘Jean! Beck is down.’
‘It’s all right. I’m all right!’ she said, just before she fainted.
Jean was there in a moment. ‘To me! Give her to me.’
He took her, wondering at how light she had become, in the long age since he had last picked her up. Her head was rolled back, sightless eyes under her heavy lashes, and he was suddenly terrified that he would never look into those eyes again, see her love or even her fury there. The crowd of men parted before him, jubilation quelled. Above, Blaise de Monluc stepped onto the ramparts, once more slowly sweeping the plumed hat from his head. Crouched at the foot of the stairs, a bloodied Fugger raised a bandaged arm toward Jean and his burden.
There was only one place he could go, one person who could bring the flame back into Beck’s black eyes. He had to find her now, and swiftly. He had to find his Anne.
TWO
INQUISITION
They began to trail him from the entrance of the ghetto. Even though they knew his destination, it was good practice to follow the old Jew through the narrow alleys, then onto the broader, crowded thoroughfares. Not only did they have to avoid his eyes – and this one was wary, stopping at street stalls, fingering a pear or a bolt of cloth while glancing the way he had come – they also had to spot and isolate his shadows. Three of them and hard to recognize in the throng, for they had eliminated all signs of their faith, dressed like any other Roman, stopping when the Jew stopped, sometimes moving past to wait, to let him pass again. They were good, but the Grey Wolves were better, soon had them isolated, cut out, two on one, within their own elaborate dance of misdirection and disguise.
Gianni Rombaud was pleased. They had learnt well, his Cubs, while his more experienced brethren – Rudolpho, Wilhelm – had assumed their role of shepherd effortlessly, restraining their own natural desire for the swift kill, in service to the plan. Wilhelm would be finding it especially hard, his hand twitching at his dagger. But meeting his eyes now, crouched over a book on the Via Gulia, haggling with the stall holder, even in the briefest of contact they allowed themselves, Gianni saw the Bavarian was poised, calm. Ahead, the
‘The mine! The mine is blown.’
And with that cry, a huge section of earth fell into the tunnels below. It was mainly on the Florentine side, and it dropped men thirty feet into the ground. A jagged rent appeared just before Haakon and Beck, the Norseman just managing to grab his son by the collar, dangling him over the sudden precipice for a moment before pulling him back.
Haakon yelled, ‘The hand of God, Beck?’
‘The one hand of the Fugger! Come on!’
The explosion had shaken Jean from his daze, preceded as it was by the Fugger bursting up from the well. Looking over, he saw, the front rank of the enemy disappear into the earth, saw reinforcements even now rushing around the flank of the hole, as his men began to squeeze through the narrow sally port.
‘My lord?’ he called up to the tower above.
‘Seen them, Rombaud,’ came a drawled response.
The volley cut down the pursuit, gave their own men a chance to withdraw. They crowded through the gate, but never blocked it and within a minute, all who could walk, crawl, or be carried were into Siena. Haakon and Beck were the last, going back for the one last wounded man of his command. Pushing him through the gate, he turned to Beck and smiled. ‘After you, my lady.’
He saw the beginnings of a smile in return, then saw that smile change to surprise, as she staggered into him. Reaching around to catch her, his hand encountered something hard, feathered. It protruded a finger’s length from her back.
He swept her up into his arms, moved inside. As the sally port slammed shut, he cried, ‘Jean! Beck is down.’
‘It’s all right. I’m all right!’ she said, just before she fainted.
Jean was there in a moment. ‘To me! Give her to me.’
He took her, wondering at how light she had become, in the long age since he had last picked her up. Her head was rolled back, sightless eyes under her heavy lashes, and he was suddenly terrified that he would never look into those eyes again, see her love or even her fury there. The crowd of men parted before him, jubilation quelled. Above, Blaise de Monluc stepped onto the ramparts, once more slowly sweeping the plumed hat from his head. Crouched at the foot of the stairs, a bloodied Fugger raised a bandaged arm toward Jean and his burden.
There was only one place he could go, one person who could bring the flame back into Beck’s black eyes. He had to find her now, and swiftly. He had to find his Anne.
TWO
INQUISITION
They began to trail him from the entrance of the ghetto. Even though they knew his destination, it was good practice to follow the old Jew through the narrow alleys, then onto the broader, crowded thoroughfares. Not only did they have to avoid his eyes – and this one was wary, stopping at street stalls, fingering a pear or a bolt of cloth while glancing the way he had come – they also had to spot and isolate his shadows. Three of them and hard to recognize in the throng, for they had eliminated all signs of their faith, dressed like any other Roman, stopping when the Jew stopped, sometimes moving past to wait, to let him pass again. They were good, but the Grey Wolves were better, soon had them isolated, cut out, two on one, within their own elaborate dance of misdirection and disguise.
Gianni Rombaud was pleased. They had learnt well, his Cubs, while his more experienced brethren – Rudolpho, Wilhelm – had assumed their role of shepherd effortlessly, restraining their own natural desire for the swift kill, in service to the plan. Wilhelm would be finding it especially hard, his hand twitching at his dagger. But meeting his eyes now, crouched over a book on the Via Gulia, haggling with the stall holder, even in the briefest of contact they allowed themselves, Gianni saw the Bavarian was poised, calm. Ahead, the
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