Longo said. ‘The cold won’t do you any good, and neither will the Grimaldi men. The duel was honourably fought, but they’ll be in a foul mood when they arrive. Paolo,’ he called to the heavy-set young man, who was kneeling in shock over his brother’s body. ‘I trust this puts a satisfactory end to this disagreement? There will be no acts of vengeance?’ Paolo gazed at him dumbly. ‘Very well then,’ Longo continued, ‘I suggest you send for some of your men as soon as you can. The dogs will be at the body soon enough if you wait.’
They left the stupefied Paolo still kneeling beside Carlo. Longo helped William into the saddle, then mounted behind him. They rode back to the Palazzo dei Giustiniani, the bells of San Salvatore ringing out behind them to welcome the new day.
The next morning it was clear from the sickening smell of the bandages that William’s wound was festering, and later that day the boy contracted a raging fever that left him incoherent, talking to those around him as if he were at home in England with his mother. A doctor was summoned, and he bled William to reduce his bad humours and relieve the fever. Still, the boy continued to burn, and none of the doctor’s efforts succeeded in relieving the delirium. Two days passed with no sign of improvement, after which the doctor offered only the direst of forecasts: even if he survived, the doctor assured them, the boy would be an idiot, all his wits burned away by the fever.
Longo could not bear to watch William wasting away. Leaving Tristo with orders to alert him of any change in the boy’s condition, he returned to his villa and busied himself with the tending of his vines. The very night of his return there was a frost, and Longo and his serfs spent a busy night lighting pots filled with pitch all along the rows of vines, fighting to keep the killing chill from the young leaves. The next morning, as Longo walked his vineyards to inspect the damage, he was surprised to see Tristo on horseback, galloping down from the villa to meet him.
As Tristo came closer, Longo could see that the huge man was struggling to stay upright in the saddle, and that he favoured his right arm, keeping it pinned to his side. What in God’s name had happened to him?
‘My Lord,’ Tristo said with a wince as he reined in his horse and slid from the saddle. ‘I bring news from town.’ Tristo’s right arm was in a sling, and blood showed through a heavy bandage wrapped around his head.
‘What has happened?’ Longo asked.
‘There was a fight with some of the Grimaldi men. I only happened across it at the last, and I set about trying to separate the men. I had my arm broken by the mace of one of our own men – the cursed idiot – and got a nasty gash on my head for my troubles. Still, the rest had it much worse. Gucio and Piero are killed. Four others are laid up with various injuries. One Grimaldi man is dead, and the rest are pretty badly off.’
The news was not surprising – duels started more feuds than they ended – but it was not welcome either. The Grimaldi were a powerful family, and Longo did not fancy having them as an enemy. Much less did he fancy watching his back each time he rode through the streets of Genoa, or sending his servants to market with armed escort. He would have to act fast. Now that men on both sides had lost friends, the matter needed only a small push – the death of another noble from one of the two families – to evolve into a blood feud.
‘Who started the fight?’ Longo asked.
‘Our men had been to the dock, and most likely to the tavern as well. On returning, they met six Grimaldi men in the street. Probably they were waiting for our men. Insults were exchanged, a Grimaldi man drew, and that was that. From what our men tell me, the Grimaldi men seem bent on revenge for what William did to Carlo. They seem to think the boy is some kind of assassin.’
‘And what of William?’ Longo asked.
‘The same. Only
They left the stupefied Paolo still kneeling beside Carlo. Longo helped William into the saddle, then mounted behind him. They rode back to the Palazzo dei Giustiniani, the bells of San Salvatore ringing out behind them to welcome the new day.
The next morning it was clear from the sickening smell of the bandages that William’s wound was festering, and later that day the boy contracted a raging fever that left him incoherent, talking to those around him as if he were at home in England with his mother. A doctor was summoned, and he bled William to reduce his bad humours and relieve the fever. Still, the boy continued to burn, and none of the doctor’s efforts succeeded in relieving the delirium. Two days passed with no sign of improvement, after which the doctor offered only the direst of forecasts: even if he survived, the doctor assured them, the boy would be an idiot, all his wits burned away by the fever.
Longo could not bear to watch William wasting away. Leaving Tristo with orders to alert him of any change in the boy’s condition, he returned to his villa and busied himself with the tending of his vines. The very night of his return there was a frost, and Longo and his serfs spent a busy night lighting pots filled with pitch all along the rows of vines, fighting to keep the killing chill from the young leaves. The next morning, as Longo walked his vineyards to inspect the damage, he was surprised to see Tristo on horseback, galloping down from the villa to meet him.
As Tristo came closer, Longo could see that the huge man was struggling to stay upright in the saddle, and that he favoured his right arm, keeping it pinned to his side. What in God’s name had happened to him?
‘My Lord,’ Tristo said with a wince as he reined in his horse and slid from the saddle. ‘I bring news from town.’ Tristo’s right arm was in a sling, and blood showed through a heavy bandage wrapped around his head.
‘What has happened?’ Longo asked.
‘There was a fight with some of the Grimaldi men. I only happened across it at the last, and I set about trying to separate the men. I had my arm broken by the mace of one of our own men – the cursed idiot – and got a nasty gash on my head for my troubles. Still, the rest had it much worse. Gucio and Piero are killed. Four others are laid up with various injuries. One Grimaldi man is dead, and the rest are pretty badly off.’
The news was not surprising – duels started more feuds than they ended – but it was not welcome either. The Grimaldi were a powerful family, and Longo did not fancy having them as an enemy. Much less did he fancy watching his back each time he rode through the streets of Genoa, or sending his servants to market with armed escort. He would have to act fast. Now that men on both sides had lost friends, the matter needed only a small push – the death of another noble from one of the two families – to evolve into a blood feud.
‘Who started the fight?’ Longo asked.
‘Our men had been to the dock, and most likely to the tavern as well. On returning, they met six Grimaldi men in the street. Probably they were waiting for our men. Insults were exchanged, a Grimaldi man drew, and that was that. From what our men tell me, the Grimaldi men seem bent on revenge for what William did to Carlo. They seem to think the boy is some kind of assassin.’
‘And what of William?’ Longo asked.
‘The same. Only
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