also taken her six-fingered hand. And the tortured path he’d trod then led here, directly to this further woe.
Once again, Jean Rombaud cursed the time he’d first heard the name of Anne Boleyn, felt weariness return to his limbs with its utterance. He didn’t have time for that weakness now. He had two hours. Two! Well, they had arrived with nothing and they would leave with less. If Beck could be moved.
The only one who could know that answer appeared, just as the echo of hooves died away.
‘You heard?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Can we move her?’ He saw the hesitation in his daughter’s eyes, those dark pools so like the woman’s she was named for. Saw the sadness in them, too. He wanted more than anything to bring some light into them again.
‘Can we take her home?’ he said.
‘But Siena’s beaten. Did you not say we could only get our lands back with a victory?’
‘That may still be true. Yet war moves strangely, daughter. It may have burnt the Comet and then passed by. The farm may be in ashes. But even ashes can be built on.’
‘Then I think we must go to see, Father.’
‘Good. Prepare her. I will arrange a cart, some bedding. I just need to find Haakon.’
Anne smiled. ‘Well, you know he’s never far away.’
He knew. Like an irritant in the corner of his eye, the big Norwegian had skulked near him, shadow and protector still, keeping to the windward of Jean’s wrath. It had somewhat abated when Anne was hopeful of cure for her mother, when Haakon’s excuse of protecting his son, mumbled to Anne and passed on, was accepted. Erik had avoided Jean’s anger by keeping away, so Jean kept his glares for his old comrade.
Jean looked across to where the large figure lurked in a doorway. ‘Haakon! Come here.’
Like a disobedient dog, wary of chastisement, Haakon made his way across. ‘Jean. Anne. A sad day for Siena, eh?’
The mournful expression seemed so out of place on that huge and open face that Jean could not help but laugh. It was the thing with Haakon. No matter how weary he got, how desperate the situation, the Norseman had always had a way of making Jean laugh.
‘We’re getting out, Hawk. With De Monluc.’
Haakon beamed. ‘To fight on, Jean?’
‘To go home. If there’s any home left to go to. To rebuild it if there’s not.’
Swiftly he told Haakon what they needed. Finishing a list that already had the Norwegian scratching his head, he said, ‘And keep an eye out for the Fugger. He wasn’t at his lodgings, he’d gone looking for his daughter. I left him a note but …’
Haakon smiled. ‘He will have done what I will do – seek out my son, for Erik is never far from her and that great lout of a boy is hard to miss.’
With that, he was gone about their business. Jean hugged his daughter, then set out himself. There were scant goods to gather, favours to call in.
Home! The thought pushed him on. Maybe, just maybe it was possible. To go back, to make it like it was, to see his vineyards flourish, to see the light come back once more into his wife’s eyes. To be reunited, all of them, once again in the courtyard of the Comet, telling the old stories!
The memory, the image, broke his stride. Some things were possible, some were not. For there would be a ghost at any feast they held, a space between them that could not be filled.
Gianni . Somewhere out in the world his son breathed, prayed, lived. Miles from these walls, no doubt, but often the distance between two people could not be measured in miles. And Gianni was as far from him as Jean Rombaud was from the sun.
FOUR
FLIGHT
It began with the bells. The first heard was in the belfry of the Torre del Mangia, the principal and largest bell in all Siena, a deep note, single and solemn which still rung across the Campo when the second note was struck. Yet the great square remained empty, no citizen roused to answer the call, to see what the Republic required of them. For all knew that this tolling was not
Once again, Jean Rombaud cursed the time he’d first heard the name of Anne Boleyn, felt weariness return to his limbs with its utterance. He didn’t have time for that weakness now. He had two hours. Two! Well, they had arrived with nothing and they would leave with less. If Beck could be moved.
The only one who could know that answer appeared, just as the echo of hooves died away.
‘You heard?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Can we move her?’ He saw the hesitation in his daughter’s eyes, those dark pools so like the woman’s she was named for. Saw the sadness in them, too. He wanted more than anything to bring some light into them again.
‘Can we take her home?’ he said.
‘But Siena’s beaten. Did you not say we could only get our lands back with a victory?’
‘That may still be true. Yet war moves strangely, daughter. It may have burnt the Comet and then passed by. The farm may be in ashes. But even ashes can be built on.’
‘Then I think we must go to see, Father.’
‘Good. Prepare her. I will arrange a cart, some bedding. I just need to find Haakon.’
Anne smiled. ‘Well, you know he’s never far away.’
He knew. Like an irritant in the corner of his eye, the big Norwegian had skulked near him, shadow and protector still, keeping to the windward of Jean’s wrath. It had somewhat abated when Anne was hopeful of cure for her mother, when Haakon’s excuse of protecting his son, mumbled to Anne and passed on, was accepted. Erik had avoided Jean’s anger by keeping away, so Jean kept his glares for his old comrade.
Jean looked across to where the large figure lurked in a doorway. ‘Haakon! Come here.’
Like a disobedient dog, wary of chastisement, Haakon made his way across. ‘Jean. Anne. A sad day for Siena, eh?’
The mournful expression seemed so out of place on that huge and open face that Jean could not help but laugh. It was the thing with Haakon. No matter how weary he got, how desperate the situation, the Norseman had always had a way of making Jean laugh.
‘We’re getting out, Hawk. With De Monluc.’
Haakon beamed. ‘To fight on, Jean?’
‘To go home. If there’s any home left to go to. To rebuild it if there’s not.’
Swiftly he told Haakon what they needed. Finishing a list that already had the Norwegian scratching his head, he said, ‘And keep an eye out for the Fugger. He wasn’t at his lodgings, he’d gone looking for his daughter. I left him a note but …’
Haakon smiled. ‘He will have done what I will do – seek out my son, for Erik is never far from her and that great lout of a boy is hard to miss.’
With that, he was gone about their business. Jean hugged his daughter, then set out himself. There were scant goods to gather, favours to call in.
Home! The thought pushed him on. Maybe, just maybe it was possible. To go back, to make it like it was, to see his vineyards flourish, to see the light come back once more into his wife’s eyes. To be reunited, all of them, once again in the courtyard of the Comet, telling the old stories!
The memory, the image, broke his stride. Some things were possible, some were not. For there would be a ghost at any feast they held, a space between them that could not be filled.
Gianni . Somewhere out in the world his son breathed, prayed, lived. Miles from these walls, no doubt, but often the distance between two people could not be measured in miles. And Gianni was as far from him as Jean Rombaud was from the sun.
FOUR
FLIGHT
It began with the bells. The first heard was in the belfry of the Torre del Mangia, the principal and largest bell in all Siena, a deep note, single and solemn which still rung across the Campo when the second note was struck. Yet the great square remained empty, no citizen roused to answer the call, to see what the Republic required of them. For all knew that this tolling was not
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