Swan looked down and was disconcerted to find that the tan top of his right boot had a cut right through the leather. ‘Uh – sorry.’ He shook his head.

‘He stayed and fought them. He killed at least one brigand,’ Giovanni said proudly.

‘Did you?’ Alessandro said. He looked at Swan with renewed interest.

Bessarion was sitting on three camp stools – reclining, with a book. He didn’t sit up, but merely waved his book at them, and a servant fetched wine. Swan was grateful for wine, and he drank his too fast while the notaries read their letter aloud.

Bessarion nodded sharply. ‘Well done,’ he said in Italian. ‘You had trouble with brigands?’

Giovanni bowed. ‘Messire Swan dealt with them, Eminence.’

Bessarion extended his hand to Swan. He knelt and kissed the cardinal’s ring. It was, apparently, what foreigners did with cardinals. The cardinal’s hand clasped his lightly. ‘That was well done, Messire Swan. I won’t insult you with payment, but—’

Swan winced. In his persona as a great man’s son, he couldn’t accept payment, it was true.

‘It is a pleasure to serve’ he said.

Bessarion’s eyes seemed to twinkle. It was probably a trick of the firelight, but Swan had the feeling that he amused the cardinal. The Prince of the Church held out the book he’d been reading, carefully marking his place with a ribbon. ‘Do you know it?’ he asked.

Swan almost dropped it when he opened it. It was a small volume bound in whitened parchment, and between the covers it was very ancient. It wasn’t a copy, or at least not a recent copy.

The lettering was alien, the hand almost square. But the first page clearly said that it was about the stars. Swan flipped it open – turned a page. And shook his head.

‘It’s not Aristotle’s Greek. It’s about mathematics.’ He felt foolish. ‘I can’t even find a title page.’

Bessarion smiled. ‘That’s because it isn’t a modern copy, young Englishman. This is at least five hundred years old. Monks made it – perhaps when Alexandria, in Egypt, was still Christian.’

Swan sucked in a difficult breath. ‘Oh!’ He grinned. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Oh, indeed. I see you have the heart of a true connoisseur.’ He extended his hand and Swan put the book reverentially in it. ‘It’s by Ptolemy.’

Swan felt he was being tested. ‘King Ptolemy?’ he asked.

‘One of them,’ Bessarion said. ‘I have trouble reading it, too. It’s about mathematics – the mathematics of measurement. Angles as relations to other distances.’ He shrugged. ‘There are men in Italy who understand this sort of thing.’ He nodded to Swan, who took that for a dismissal. He retreated from the cardinal’s tent area, and went to find Peter.

Peter was awake and better. Swan changed his bandage and got them both supper from the cardinal’s cooks. He sat on the ground to eat, and felt his eyelids closing.

‘Unroll your blankets, you fool, or you’ll freeze at midnight,’ Peter hissed. His oddly sibilant Dutch-English and his slightly too careful pronunciation made him sound as if he was giving orders.

Swan went and fetched his blanket roll and the sack he’d filled with purses. He used it as a pillow, but before he could get to sleep, he heard horses, and then he was summoned by Alessandro.

The Italian dusted the leaf mould off his back. ‘You killed four of them?’ he asked quietly.

Swan met his eye. ‘Yes.’

Alessandro whistled. ‘You weren’t going to mention it?’ he asked.

Swan shrugged.

‘And you robbed them?’ Alessandro asked.

Swan realised he hadn’t thought this through. ‘They were dead.’

Alessandro nodded. ‘I don’t mind. But the French think that someone else killed them and took their money. How do you want to play this?’

Swan looked at the Italian. Even through a haze of sleep, he could tell that he was worried, and further, was not telling him something.

‘Let them think that,’ Swan said.

Alessandro shook his head. ‘If I do, my master must travel slowly for days. If I say you did it, the French have no reason to go slowly, because all the brigands are dead.’ He waved. ‘Come.’

Swan followed him unwillingly, but consoled himself that he still had the sword.

They walked to a different fire, where the French soldiers were gathered. Alessandro was well known here – they handed him wine.

‘This is your fearsome Englishman?’ asked the count.

Swan bowed.

‘Did you kill four armed brigands by yourself, boy? Why didn’t you tell me when we rode up to you?’ The big knight took a step towards him.

Swan looked at the ground. ‘I . . . killed them, yes. I wasn’t thinking so well, after.’

The knight winced, but he did not sneer. ‘This I believe. Did you take their purses?’

Swan shrugged. ‘I’m not sure why—’ he said.

The count nodded. ‘It this your first time in battle?’ he asked.

‘Second,’ Swan admitted.

‘Mm,’ said the count. ‘So – this one to you, Messire Alessandro. We have no more brigands – that we know of. But I will beg you to ride with us another day or so.’

Alessandro shrugged wearily. ‘If you insist.’ He bowed, and the two of them walked back towards Swan’s sleeping roll.

‘Did you see anything? When you fought the brigands?’ Alessandro asked. ‘I am phrasing this badly. Did something . . . alert you?’

Swan stretched. ‘A dead man. If that’s what you mean. We saw the wagon, and it looked as if it had broken down, and then I saw . . . a body. In the bushes. I knew—’ He shrugged. ‘It felt like a trap.’

Alessandro put a hand on his shoulder. ‘This I must ask. Did you open the wagon?’

Swan looked at the ground. ‘No.’

Alessandro said, ‘I’m not trying to insult you, Englishman. But something doesn’t add up.’

Swan met his eye in the dark. ‘I took their purses. You know I have no money. It is within the laws of war.’

Alessandro laughed. ‘Laws of war. Messire Swan, for the first time I think perhaps you are a young gentleman.’ He looked into the darkness. ‘It was one of my men on that wagon. And he is dead.’

Swan nodded. ‘But – he wore the blue and red. I saw him – Cesare says it is the Paris livery.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry.’

Alessandro frowned. ‘You notice a great deal, Englishman. Yes – I dressed him as a Parisian. I hoped to . . . learn something.’

Swan scratched under his beard. ‘You distrust the count?’ he said.

‘Yes. Well. We’ll see. I do not suspect you. I merely wish you had seen more.’ He paused, fingering his dagger. ‘Why do you ask if I distrust the count?’

Swan looked around carefully. ‘He pretends poverty.’

Alessandro’s eyes narrowed. ‘He lost his patrimony in the king’s wars, or so he says.’

‘His sword is worth five hundred florins. His shoes are as good as the shoes the King of England wears.’ Swan shrugged.

Alessandro nodded. ‘You see a great deal. I missed the sword. But yes – I’ll give you this much. There is something not quite right about Messire the Count.’ He waved. They had arrived at Peter’s fire. ‘Go to sleep.’

Swan would have thought about it more, but the moment he had his blanket on his shoulders, he was asleep.

The next morning he fed Peter gruel from a copper pot. The Fleming laughed when he was done.

‘I think perhaps it is you who are my servant,’ he said.

Swan shrugged.

‘Where are you from?’ Peter asked.

‘London,’ Swan said.

Peter nodded. ‘I thought so. You are schooled?’

Swan smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Bishop’s School, Inns of Court. I never went to Oxenford.’ He leaned closer. ‘You?’

‘I am an archer. Once I was a cloth fuller, but the trade fell off. My wife died.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s money in war.’

‘I have no money, but when I have a chance to go through the purses—’ He paused.

Peter nodded. ‘I heard about your heroic deed of arms, young sir.’ He met Swan’s eye. ‘If you make this a habit, fighting four men, you will soon be dead.’