Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Six: Chios by Christian Cameron Read Free Book Online

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