That is to say, I stared at his visor, and he stared at my naked face.
After some time had passed, I became angry. I took a step back, and turned slowly to face the walls. I held aloft my ivory tube and pointed at the papal banner. ‘We are servants of the Pope and we are sworn to crusade.’ I looked around. The impasse had lasted long enough that the crossbowmen – all mercenaries, and mostly Bretons – were tired of aiming their weapons.
‘Shut up,’ said the visored man.
‘If you harm us, you will be excommunicated,’ I said, and my voice rang off the stone. ‘Whatever you have been told—’
‘One more word and they shoot,’ growled the Visor.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Leave your papers and go,’ he said.
‘Why? This is an insult to the Pope.’ I put my hands on my hips. I fetched a glance at Juan and he nodded. We weren’t just young bucks with a message. We were soldiers of the papacy. I leaned toward the visor. ‘And frankly, messire, you have done nothing to indicate that I should trust you with all of our travel documents. Which …’ I raised my voice, ‘which are signed by the Pope, the King of France, the Emperor, and the council of Bologna.’
He stepped forward and placed the blade of his axe against my neck. ‘You!’ he began.
I grabbed the haft just below the head and pivoted on my back foot, gave the haft a sharp pull to throw him off balance and then slammed my unarmoured hand into the chainmail of his aventail at his neck, got my right leg behind his knee, and put him down with his own axe as the fulcrum. As fast as a crying woman draws a breath, I had his dagger under his aventail at his throat.
Everyone was very, very still.
‘I can help you up, and we can start this again,’ I said very softly. ‘Or you can die. I may also die, but please understand that you will be ahead of me at the gates.’
His eyes were not daunted. ‘You will not seize this castle while I’m its commander,’ he said.
‘I’m not here to seize your poxy castle!’ I spat. ‘I’m here to get the papal legate’s travel paper’s signed.’
All this while fifty Breton crossbowmen considered whether to kill me or not.
‘Do you know that man over there?’ I asked, pointing at Ser Nerio. ‘He’s an Accaioulo.’
‘Heraldry can be faked,’ he said. Then, ‘Very well, let me up.’
The change was too sharp. ‘Let you up? Why?’ I asked.
He raised his head and opened his own visor. ‘Stand down,’ he shouted. ‘Clearly been a misunderstanding. Stand down!’
The crossbowmen sighed all together, so that it sounded like a flock of birds landing on a pond, their wings all beating together. The knights in the courtyard watched the cup of death pass away from them, and they sighed too.
I probably sighed.
The man who opened his visor was Antoine della Scala. The lord of the city.
He poured wine with his own hand while a pair of boys in red and white livery disarmed him. ‘The cardinal of Geneva sent word that you would attempt to seize the citadel and take the city for Milan,’ he said. He passed this as if it was a pleasantry, a matter of little consequence.
I decided that he was quite mad. His eyes glittered, and his movements were curiously uncoordinated. He spilled a little wine almost every time he raised the cup to his lips and he had spittle at the corner of his mouth.