Free Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part One: Castillon by Christian Cameron

done.
    ‘Put fire to the wood,’ Alessandro said.
    The soldiers got a fire going, and spread it. The summer woods caught very fast.
    ‘Let’s go,’ Alessandro said.
    Paris was dull after the road. Alessandro’s ankle cut was worse than it had looked in the field, and he had to go to a surgeon to be bled. The cardinal had apartments in the Louvre, but the rest of them were housed in the Convent of the Ursilines, and the cardinal introduced Swan to the King’s Librarian. He was shocked to be given the run of the Royal Library. Days passed very quickly while he read. He did little but read.
    That was good, because every night he dreamed. He dreamed of the four men on the road, of the count’s one remaining eye, of the blood. Every night. Sometimes in the day.
    He fantasised about every young nun in the convent, went out with the notaries and drank too much on the silver of the men he’d killed, and diced and played cards until he felt tired enough to sleep without dreams.
    It never worked.
    After they’d been in Paris a week, the cardinal summoned him. A servant fetched him from Aristotle, and he walked up through the labyrinth of halls to the cardinal’s apartment.
    He bowed, was summoned forward, and kissed the cardinal’s ring.
    ‘Your Eminence,’ he said.
    Bessarion smiled. He looked strained. ‘I am about to trade you,’ he said. ‘I believe you said you were worth a thousand florins?’
    Swan noted that Alessandro was lying on the cardinal’s bed. He waved an idle salute.
    Swan twitched. ‘As to that . . .’ he said, smiling apologetically.
    ‘Half that?’ the cardinal said. He was already writing. ‘I’m trading you to the King’s Librarian. He wants you as his prisoner. He’ll use you in the library until your father arranges your release.’ He paused. ‘Of course, we’ll need your father’s name.’ He looked at Alessandro. ‘I’m sorry for this, young man. I had thought of releasing you without ransom after your daring on the road, but the truth is . . . we’ve had a disaster.’ Bessarion, the very model of decorum, or Roman-style gravitas, had a catch in his voice.
    Swan realised the man was on the edge of tears.
    ‘A . . . disaster?’ Swan asked.
    Alessandro rose on his elbow. ‘Constantinople fell to the Turks. In May.’
    Bessarion buried his head in his hands. ‘My city.’
    Swan was at a loss. Constantinople was a name redolent with magic – a wonderful place, a schismatic, heretical place, a palace of wonders. Babylon. He had to imagine that the flesh-and-blood Bessarion thought of the great city as . . . as home. Home, like London.
    Bessarion raised his head. Now Swan could see that he had aged. His lips were thin, his hair greyer. ‘Suddenly I am cut off from revenue. So I’m afraid I must sell your ransom, young man.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’
    Swan shrugged.
    ‘Tell him,’ Alessandro said suddenly. ‘There’s no point in pretence, boy. Tell him.’
    ‘What’s this?’ Bessarion asked.
    Alessandro shook his head. ‘He’s not worth a sou of ransom. He’s someone’s bastard, that’s all.’
    Bessarion continued to look at Swan. ‘Is this true? Do you know this to be true?’ he asked.
    Swan was frozen. But if he said his father’s name, it would all become instantly clear, anyway.
    Cardinal Bessarion nodded. ‘Ah. Of course. What nobly born boy speaks Greek?’ He looked at Swan. ‘Tell us, boy.’
    ‘My father is dead,’ he said. He shrugged his shrug. ‘He was a cardinal. He wanted me educated for the Church.’
    ‘Kemp?’ asked the cardinal, his voice sharp. ‘Kemp had a mistress?’
    Swan lowered his eyes. ‘Cardinal Beaufort, Eminence.’
    Alessandro whistled from the bed. ‘You’re a bastard of that bastard?’ He snorted.
    Bessarion pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. ‘You aren’t worth a sou.’
    Alessandro laughed aloud. ‘So – you were a royal page!’
    Swan spread his hands. ‘Not for long,’ he admitted. ‘I . . .