And died.

After a while, Fra Tommaso put the dead knight’s head on the deck. He turned to the two Venetian knights. ‘Are we agreed that we follow the rest of his plan?’ Tommaso asked.

Fra Giovanni nodded. ‘First, because he was who he was.’ The Venetian shrugged. ‘Secondly, because it is still the best plan.’

Later, Swan half carried Tommaso into his room at the hostel. The older man was so far gone – fatigue, and sorrow, and a small wound on his left thigh – that he could scarcely walk. Outside, the town celebrated as if it were Easter. It almost was, if you were a Frank.

Recklessly, Swan poured his mentor a cup of wine, and the older knight drank it off. He stared out at the revellers just outside his window.

He turned his head, and by the fitful candlelight, Swan could see that the other man was crying.

Swan put a hand on his shoulder – embarrassed as children are when parents show weakness. But Tommaso pushed him away. ‘What if it is for nothing?’ the old man asked the darkness. ‘What if Drappierro is right, and we’d be better to sail away and leave them to surrender?’

Swan sighed. He’d wondered the same thing, even as his arrows plucked lives. He thought of all the Turks he knew – and admired. And all the Italians he detested.

But he didn’t suggest any such thing. Instead, he straightened and said, ‘It can’t be for nothing. Fra Domenico …’

Tommaso turned back to the darkness. ‘Lived by the sword, and died by it. Bah – be gone, boy. Go drink wine, or worse. I’m in a black mood, and I’ll console myself in the usual way.’

Swan went to pour him more wine, and the old man managed a slight smile.

‘Prayer, foolish boy. Be gone.’ He put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘We’ll play this through to the end in the morning. Eh? I know you won’t do it, but I’d recommend some sleep.’ He sniffed. ‘Or a bath. Do I smell fish?’

Swan left the knight on his knees.

Fra Tommaso knew him all too well, and the bells at midnight found him on the slope under the castello, drinking his third cup of wine with a dozen English sailors. Shipman had his arm around Swan’s waist, and said, ‘Just come aboard and we’ll see you home, Master Swan. These foreigners are no friends, let me tell you, for all you’ve steered us through ’em like a ship through reefs and sands. Eh, Master Richard?’

Richard Sturmy had his arm around his wife, a tall, brown-haired woman who looked very much in charge of her own destiny. She dropped a pretty, straight-backed curtsy and said, ‘Your servant, Master Swan.’

Swan gave her a bow.

‘If my husband is to be believed, we owe you a real debt,’ she said. She smiled to show she was teasing. ‘I came for adventure, and I confess I’ve had a good deal more adventure than I wanted. But our thanks are genuine.’

Master Richard nodded. ‘Anything for you, Master Swan. Any time. That alum will make my fortune.’

Swan nodded. ‘There are – to be frank – three things you could do for me. And one is to take my mother a letter.’

If they were shocked to hear that a gentleman of the order had a mother at an inn in Southwark, none of them gave themselves away by midnight torchlight, although Katherine’s twelve-year-old girl shrieked and asked her mother, ‘Aren’t they all whores in Southwark? Pater says so!’

And Master Shipman laughed. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said. ‘I know the Swan quite well.’ He shook his head. ‘I probably know your mum, lad.’

Swan laughed, because social embarrassment was the farthest thing from his mind. ‘She owns the place,’ he said.

‘Christ on the cross!’ exclaimed Master Shipman. ‘You mum’s Ann the Swan of Southwark?’

‘It’s a small world,’ Swan said. He knew his mother would be flattered to hell and back to know that men stood on a beach in Greece and spoke of her inn.

‘And the second thing?’ Sturmy asked.

Swan shrugged. ‘I noticed you have a small wherry on your decks. I need her.’

Shipman looked pained, but he nodded. ‘Can you handle her?’ he asked. ‘We brought her all the way from the Thames!’

Swan shrugged. ‘I stole a dozen of them as a boy,’ he admitted. ‘I’d also like a small cask, and some tallow.’

‘Tallow we have.’ Sturmy laughed.

Eventually, it was all too much for him – their gratitude, the matter of his mother, and their offers to take him home. He sent a taverna boy for pen and parchment, paid in good silver, and sat on a camp stool to write a letter that would cross many thousands of miles before it reached his mother – if ever.

‘Dear Mater,

You may be surprised that I am still alive …’ he began. He grinned, feeling a little better, and wrote on for almost half an hour, until the small blond girl came shyly to his elbow. She watched him write. She’d been asleep twice, but now was awake because cannon had been fired out over the harbour – at first, men thought it was an alarm, but it proved just the garrison clearing loads from the day.

‘You write very well,’ the girl said.

Swan nodded. He was almost done.

‘You said you was writing your mater, but that says “Messire Drappiero”.’

Swan glared at her.

‘The princess in the fortress …’ Hannah Sturmy paused. ‘She said if I met the English knight, I was to give him this. But I think my mother won’t approve.’ Young Hannah looked at him – a frank appraisal, as if trying to work out why her mother might not approve.

It took Swan several moments to work it out – he was composing something very carefully. He looked up. ‘At the palace?’ he asked.

‘You smell really bad,’ Miss Sturmy said.

Swan managed a laugh. He rose and stretched and caught a whiff of his own smell, and wrinkled his nose.

‘By Saint George,’ he said to Hannah. ‘I am rather foul.’ He saw her mother close at hand, by the family fire. ‘Goodwife Sturmy?’ he called out, dusting sand from the beach under his feet on the small square of parchment. Then he used the seal he’d pocketed from Fra Tommaso’s room.

‘I think we are gossips, now, Master Swan – you being from Southwark just as we.’ She nodded graciously. ‘Londoners or near enough.’ She curtsied. ‘You may call me Katherine. Or even Kat.’

He nodded, warmed by the accent – the exact accent – of home. ‘Please call me Tom,’ he said.

He smiled at Hannah, and the child looked at her mother. ‘I have a note. For Master Swan. But that’s wrong, isn’t it? From a lady, I mean.’

Goodwife Sturmy took the note from her daughter and placed it in Master Swan’s hands.

‘But I cannot receive notes from men!’ Hannah muttered. She rolled her eyes like twelve-year-old girls the world over.

Katherine Sturmy looked, for a moment, like her namesake in the harbour. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You may not, Hannah Sturmy.’ She allowed herself the slightest smile at Master Swan, although there was disapproval there, too.

Swan made himself finish his letter to his mother, although he longed to read the note and rush off. In truth, he knew that the Sturmys had left the palace shortly after the battle. The note was six hours old.

He kissed Katherine Sturmy’s cheeks and embraced Richard Sturmy. He embraced half a dozen sailors and Master Shipman, and then, free at last, he wandered down the hill towards the torchlit tavernas open along the beach. The night was still full of revellers.

He read the note.

I will wait. Find me.

Fatigue fell away from him.

Where would she wait? The palace? He walked up the winding road, almost half a mile around the great stone bulk of the fortress and its many bastions. There were revellers everywhere, and just short of the torchlit main gatehouse, he found what he’d hoped for – twenty noblemen and women gathered in the softly lit darkness under the great walls. He watched them from a distance for a long minute – but none of them was the woman he sought. He went into the gatehouse, and was passed without question – he was still, he was shocked to find, in his breast and back plate and his red surcoat.