‘Let me buy you some saddles,’ he said. ‘Peter, it is the least I can do.’
Fra Peter shook his head. ‘Nicolas, I could not.’
‘We accept!’ I said, leaping to my feet. I had on my own plaque belt, the heavy belt that showed my status as a knight. Mine was silver with heavy gilding, and was worth roughly the price of my ransom: that’s what we used to say they were for. I realised that I looked incongruous – knights don’t sit about repairing horse tack and mule saddles.
But the prince took no heed. ‘Here’s a man of sense – your squire, I doubt not?’
Fra Peter raised an eyebrow. ‘No one’s squire, my lord. This is Sir William Gold—’
‘Ha! The Cook!’ cried the prince. ‘But I know of you, of course! Knighted at Florence, attacking my home city! My bastard brother wrote and told me every cut, every blow. He said you were the best caveliere he had ever seen.’
Too much praise can be as confusing as an insult. ‘My lord has the better of me,’ I said, a little stiffly.
‘Ah, my pardon!’ he bowed.
Fra Peter laughed. ‘William, this is the richest man in the world and one of the best knights I’ve ever met. Ser Niccolò Acciaioli, of Florence. And Naples. And the Morea?’
‘I am no longer Baillie,’ Acciaioli said. ‘I remain Count of Melfi.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘A fine accomplishment for a man who started as a baker’s errand boy, eh?’
‘I started a cook, my lord baron,’ I said. Acciaioli seemed to boil with energy and good humour, and I had to like him. His neat pointed beard and perfectly groomed hair were the height of Italianate fashion. His eyes were large, and almost never serious.
‘So this is true?’ Acciaioli took my arm. ‘I think we are both the better for humble origins. Eh? Do you love chivalry? My heart says you do.’
This man was an assault on the senses: rich, quick of wit, brilliant – and penetrating. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘He’s not easy to share a campfire with, either,’ Fra Peter said. ‘Has Father Pierre brought you here?’
Ser Niccolò shrugged. ‘I could make excuses, but yes. My Lady Queen has sent me with some letters of support, and I will arrange some funds.’ He smiled at me. ‘Do you like to spend money, Messire Le Coq?’
‘At least as much as any banker I’ve ever met,’ I said.
Ser Niccolò laughed. ‘Well struck. Although let me tell you that in my family, they think my talent for spending gold a fault, not a virtue.’
Fra Peter interrupted him to introduce the other squires. He embraced Juan. ‘I know your uncle,’ he said. ‘You must be close to your knighting?’
Juan blushed to the roots of his hair.
Ser Niccolò looked at Fra Peter.
Fra Peter shrugged. ‘It hasn’t been talked of, but he is ready.’
I felt like a fool – I had been knighted and I hadn’t thought about Juan.
Miles Stapleton bowed to the Florentine. ‘Messire is a famous knight,’ he said. ‘I have heard of your exploits in Greece from my father.’
Ser Niccolò made a face and grinned. ‘It is good to be both handsome and rich and good at arms,’ he said. He laughed. ‘Come, i miei amici. Let us go to the streets of Bologna and see the papal legate’s retinue better equipped.’