As if in answer, the first part of Sabraham’s plan came to fruition. Down on the docks, a warehouse burst into flame.
Bah. Arson has an ugly name, but war without fire is like sausage without mustard, eh?
The same free citizens who own all the crossbows are the same men who fight the fires – and own the cloth. They left us, if they’d ever been watching us, and ran to fight the fire on their waterfront.
We opened the gate to the inn and started through the streets.
The podestà’s men didn’t fight the fires. They were still out there, and the innkeeper had spoiled our surprise for them. We’d planned to start a nice little riot between the local Guelfs and Ghibbelines, but the podestà got there first, or so a panting Sabraham reported to me as we cut north.
It was Verona all over again, except that I had my doubts that we’d be allowed out the gate.
Two streets north of the cathedral, we had our first fight. A mounted fight in the dark is no joy at all – the noise of the steel-shod hooves on the cobbles is so loud that you cannot hear commands, or screams, and the sparks from the horseshoes and the swords give the whole thing a hellish feeling. We were hampered by a long tale of mules and non-combatants. Our opponents were not hampered by the least notion of honour, as they demonstrated by killing Father Hector at the first encounter – a priest, and he unarmed.
The second attack occurred a few streets from the northern gate. Of course, by then, my legate and most of his people were gone. Fiore took them to the left suddenly, so that the legate would not know that we’d divided our efforts in the darkness. I was willing to lose a few priests and deacons, to be sure.
I had a few second’s warning as my opponent’s horse caught a lantern’s light and I felt the vibration as he charged.
I killed his horse.
It’s not done in polite circles, and I’m sure it is the last thing the bastard expected from a knight of the order, but I was down to the training that lets a man survive the hell of France. I put the Emperor’s sword through the horse’s head and down he went. The rider behind him tangled with the first man’s dying mount, and I was backing. I gave them a moment, and then I attacked. I think I killed them both – I certainly left some marks. This in an alley so narrow I couldn’t turn Jacques. But a good horse is the best weapon; I backed all the way to the mouth of the alley even as crossbow bolts began to rattle against the stone walls.
The whole time I had been fighting, Ser Nerio had taken the rest of our feint, our pretend convoy, north to the wall. I saw motion in the right direction – my visor was down, and when your visor is down at night, you almost might as well close your eyes.
But I’d bought time.
I had bought time, but when I turned Jacques, I’d lost my bearings. One scout, even with someone as professional as Sabraham, is not enough to ensure real knowledge. I got the visor open – my new helmet had a wonderful visor.
Nothing. Except that my foes in the alley were coming, and a crossbow bolt – thanks to God, some of its force spent against the alley wall – slammed into my shoulder and ripped the pauldron away.
There were armoured men on horse coming from behind me.
Time to go I said to myself. I picked a direction and put Jacques at it.
It must have been the wrong direction. Or rather, not the direction that Nerio and Marc-Antonio and the Italian Carmelite had taken, but I was too desperate to care over much. I rode as fast as the alleys and streets would allow. Once I burst through a crowd of footmen – for all I know they were innocents just out of vespers, but I was through them and into the mouth of another street.
It was only when I emerged into the central square that I realised where I was, and how desperate my cause had become. I was almost a mile from our gate and I had a good idea what capture would mean.