The Master of Verona (13 page)

Pietro had no idea where the archers had come from. He only knew they had saved his life. Cangrande had charged, and for some baffling reason Pietro had followed, riding onto the battlefield towards glory, flanked by friends, glowing with pride, and out of his mind with terror.
What in Heaven's name am I doing
?

Cangrande was in the lead, of course. Ahead, some impetuous Paduans, probably hoping to make names for themselves, reversed their course of flight and set themselves to slay the enemy prince.

Seeing five horsemen riding towards him, Cangrande made a whoop of joy and spurred harder.

"Come on! Ride! Ride!" cried Mari. Pietro tried to speed up, but because he lacked spurs his horse failed to respond. Pietro kicked again but the pointed slippers offered no purchase in the stirrups, and the kicking hurt his heels worse than the horse's armour.

The Paduan in the best position rode a few paces behind the leader. Cangrande would probably survive the first blow only to be spitted on the sharpened point of this one's lance.

The Scaliger edged his horse slightly to his right, bringing him even with the lancer. His helmet gone, his eyes made contact with the grinning face across from him. He smiled back, showing them his perfect teeth. Then he pursed his lips and blew. Seeing this, the Paduans thought their prey was making an obscene face and spurred harder.

Cangrande bent lower, kicking free his stirrup and dropping his right boot to the dirt. Then he hitched that leg up onto the horse's back, knee crooked out and forward, right heel under his own rump.
Like a daredevil at a fair
, Pietro thought.
Or an acrobat
.

Cangrande cocked his head as if listening to music. The first sword would be on him in three more strides. Two. One….

The merlin struck. Called by a whistle from its master, it swooped out of the sky past Cangrande's left shoulder. For a moment the huge golden-headed bird seemed to hang in the air before the startled Paduans. Then it was upon them. The wicked pounces raked the head of the leading horse. The steed was armoured, so the talons did little damage. But the rider forgot his weapon as his arms flew up to protect his face.

As the merlin attacked, Cangrande moved. With a convulsive pull on the bridle he yanked the horse's head back and right. Well trained, it reared. But Cangrande kept pulling, and the combination of his strength and the heavy armour conspired to bring the horse down. With a burst of air expelled and legs flailing the animal fell on its right side — directly in the path of the attacking horses.

It was too late for the Paduans to stop. Through the screams of both men and mounts Pietro heard the snaps as the horses on the left broke their front legs. They pitched forward, throwing their riders headfirst into the ground. Held in the saddle by his stirrups, one rider's neck was broken as his own horse toppled end over end. The other Paduan was thrown clear, landing in an ignominious heap of broken bones.

Had the Scaliger not waited to the very last moment, the two approaching horses would have leapt the living hurdle with ease. As it was, he left it almost too late. Using the hitched leg under him he barely had time to propel him sideways off the falling beast. He rolled shoulder over shoulder clear of the massacre.

The three remaining attackers rode past, hardly understanding what had happened. Before they could come to grips, the defenders were upon them and they were cut to pieces. Pietro stunned one Paduan with the flat of his blade alongside his helmet, setting him up to be killed by Antony.

Cangrande, meantime, was on foot, facing down an oncoming rider. He gripped his mace with one hand on either end and blocked the downward blow. He twisted and jabbed back with the head of the mace in a move Pietro recognized from one of his old fightbooks. It was called the Murder Stroke, and had Cangrande been holding a sword the man would have been sliced open. Instead, the mace pulped his ribs. Cangrande hauled the man's carcass out of the saddle, mounted, and spurred the battle on.

"Dear Christ," breathed Pietro. "He is the Greyhound."

Behind the charge, under the arch of the Porte San Pietro, a trampled pile of bodies shifted. Some were dead, some dying. All but one bled. In the midst of the carnage Asdente feigned injury, biding his time. When his men had been cut down in their flight he'd used their fallen bodies to protect himself. Now he lay among them, on the city side of the bridge, watching the backs of the defenders as they rode into the fleeing Paduans. He watched, waiting for his chance. His withered, scarred, and twisted face was slack in a picture of death, but his eyes were vivid, his mind hard at work. Impossibly, Cangrande had slipped past the ambush at the north gates.
But he won't escape now
.

Asdente required a horse.
There
. An obliging latecomer to the fray approached, oblivious to the bodies of dead Flemings whose
condotierre
would never be paid. Asdente had lost his sword in the scrum but there was an obliging morning star in a nearby limp hand. Covertly he grasped it. It had a good, long chain attaching the spiked ball to the wooden handle.

Timing was important, and the Toothless Master knew his senses were blunted with drink. He needed a trick. He slowly reached his left hand out and grasped a part of his plunder, a fine linen tablecloth now covered in blood.

The rider was almost under the arch. Asdente leapt up and threw the cloth, which snagged on the man's helmet, momentarily blinding him. In that moment Asdente hit him full in the chest with the heavy spiked ball. The rider hit the ground with a wet smack. Asdente swung the ball again, and again, pulping the man's helmet and the head within. The linen covered the knight's dented face like a shroud, glued by gore.

The Toothless Master grinned. "That's one." Stepping into the dead man's stirrups, Asdente raised the square shield of the fallen rider. It would be his passport — no one would look too closely at a man bearing a Vicentine shield.

He could escape easily now. But escape was not his plan. He galloped over the bridge, his horse leaping over the prone figures of men and beasts that littered it. He carried the dripping morning star low on his right side, ready to bring it down in a deadly arc over his head to smash a skull.

The skull of a Dog.

Numbers no longer mattered. The cavalieri spread themselves out to chase the fleeing Paduans. The Vicentines had what all soldiers on horseback throughout history longed for most — a scattered army on open ground.

Mariotto and Antony rode together, following Antonio Nogarola in pursuit of at least a hundred men running down the road to Quartesolo. Some turned to fight. Most fled. Mariotto considered it ungentlemanly to hack into a man whose back was turned. Instead he used the flat of his sword to club them down. Antony used a stolen mace caked with Flemish blood to crack shoulders and skulls. Most would live, though if their bones would ever knit from those blows Mariotto wouldn't care to say.

Ahead two Paduans were attempting to rally their men-at-arms to stand and fight. Both wore red farsettos under their armour with some sort of family device over their plate mail. They rode their horses in wide circles, attempting to corral the men-at-arms running south and force them to face the oncoming Vicentines. They were having little success, but there was danger in such an action. If one man's reckless courage could cause a panicked flight, two men's bravery could restore order to their army and reverse the fortunes of the day.

Recognizing the danger the men posed, Nogarola led a charge, raking his spurs down the flanks of his steed, raising streaks of blood. "Onward, for victory!" he shouted, only to be silenced as the younger of the two mounted nobles lifted a crossbow from his saddle, took aim, and fired. Nogarola spun right to left in his saddle as the force of the bolt knocked him sideways off his horse.

Nogarola's fall was witnessed by several of his fellow Vicentines. Though some resented Cangrande, they had nothing but respect for the house of Nogarola. When their leader was felled from his horse no less than fourteen men stopped their horses to surround his senseless body on the ground.

Among them was young Montecchio. Because his helmet cut off his peripheral vision, Mariotto did not see Marsilio da Carrara finish loading a second bolt in his crossbow.

On Mariotto's far side, Capecelatro's mail coif allowed him better range of vision. He saw the crossbow out of the corner of his eye, and just as the bolt was released from its catch, he launched himself sideways out of his saddle, crying out, "Mari!" Landing clumsily, he banged his ribs on the side of Montecchio's horse. With his left arm he dragged Mariotto out of his saddle, clear of the path of the bolt just as it ripped through the air overhead.

Falling, they landed badly, rolling over each other, desperately trying to stay clear of the spiked hooves of Montecchio's mount. A buffet of blows and churned earth was their universe for the next several seconds. One hard knock sent both end over end, then they came to a rest, Mari ending half underneath Antony, miraculously unscathed.

"What the devil are you about?" shouted Mariotto, trying to be heard over the noise around them. He struggled to get his helmet off then slapped at Antony, trying to get out from underneath him. "Idiot! We could have been killed!" Capecelatro was silent and Mariotto realized the Capuan was unconscious, knocked senseless in the fall. Mari tried to get purchase under his left shoulder.
What do I do? I can't leave him here…

He was still deciding on a course of action when the sun above him went out. He looked up to see what had caused the sudden shadow. A Paduan on horseback, backlit by the sun, raised a spear to run them both through together.

Heaving with every muscle he owned, Mariotto rolled the limp Capuan off to the right, then threw himself left. The spear dug into the earth where they had lain. Cheated of blood, it came easily away again for another blow.

Mariotto scrambled up desperately. Under the gambeson he wore only a cloth shirt, his finest, donned for the wedding this morning. He realized he would die in his best shirt. The thought did not please him. "Come on!" Stepping further away from the unconscious Capuan, he made himself a target to keep Antony safe.

The spear came again, plunging towards Mariotto's breast, and the youth twisted away just in time. He tried to grasp the shaft but pulled back at once. It was barbed. His fingers dripped blood.

As the Paduan drew back for another thrust, Mariotto's hands searched for a weapon. There was nothing on his person, only little leather straps tucked into his belt —

The other jess! His fingers yanked it free from where it hung just as the faceless Paduan delivered what was meant to be the deathblow. Mariotto twisted sideways again. The barbed tip caught his armour and ripped it wide, making a deep gash across the muscles of his chest. Even as he cried out he looped the ring of the jess over one of the jutting barbs on the length of the spear. With the long end of the leather strap wrapped around his bleeding knuckles, Mariotto yanked the spear out of his enemy's grip.

Weapon gone, the Paduan turned towards the bridge and fled, only to be caught short by a Vicentine on horseback who, to Mariotto's satisfaction, removed the man's head from his shoulders.

Mariotto moved to Antony's side and stood with the spear poised, ready to defend his new friend against all comers.