Read Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part One: Castillon for Free Online

Swan. ‘There’s more of them coming. We outran them.’
    At this, the party whooped, and set out for the wagon. Swan left them to it.
    He rode until he caught up with Cesare and Giovanni. The two notaries were clearly pleased to see him. It steadied him.
    ‘What happened?’ Cesare asked.
    ‘I left them,’ Swan said. He shrugged. His hands were shaking. ‘We should keep going.’
    By nightfall, they caught the convoy, well north of the valley of the L’Isle. The wagons and carts were drawn in a circle, and the three of them were challenged on approach.
    Cardinal Bessarion sent for them as soon as their presence was known. Alessandro came to fetch them. He gave Swan a civil nod. ‘You came back,’ he said.
    ‘I have your boots,’ Swan said.
    ‘You managed to get a sword-cut on them,’ Alessandro said.
    Swan looked down and was disconcerted to find that the tan top of his right boot had a cut right through the leather. ‘Uh – sorry.’ He shook his head.
    ‘He stayed and fought them. He killed at least one brigand,’ Giovanni said proudly.
    ‘Did you?’ Alessandro said. He looked at Swan with renewed interest.
    Bessarion was sitting on three camp stools – reclining, with a book. He didn’t sit up, but merely waved his book at them, and a servant fetched wine. Swan was grateful for wine, and he drank his too fast while the notaries read their letter aloud.
    Bessarion nodded sharply. ‘Well done,’ he said in Italian. ‘You had trouble with brigands?’
    Giovanni bowed. ‘Messire Swan dealt with them, Eminence.’
    Bessarion extended his hand to Swan. He knelt and kissed the cardinal’s ring. It was, apparently, what foreigners did with cardinals. The cardinal’s hand clasped his lightly. ‘That was well done, Messire Swan. I won’t insult you with payment, but—’
    Swan winced. In his persona as a great man’s son, he couldn’t accept payment, it was true.
    ‘It is a pleasure to serve’ he said.
    Bessarion’s eyes seemed to twinkle. It was probably a trick of the firelight, but Swan had the feeling that he amused the cardinal. The Prince of the Church held out the book he’d been reading, carefully marking his place with a ribbon. ‘Do you know it?’ he asked.
    Swan almost dropped it when he opened it. It was a small volume bound in whitened parchment, and between the covers it was very ancient. It wasn’t a copy, or at least not a recent copy.
    The lettering was alien, the hand almost square. But the first page clearly said that it was about the stars. Swan flipped it open – turned a page. And shook his head.
    ‘It’s not Aristotle’s Greek. It’s about mathematics.’ He felt foolish. ‘I can’t even find a title page.’
    Bessarion smiled. ‘That’s because it isn’t a modern copy, young Englishman. This is at least five hundred years old. Monks made it – perhaps when Alexandria, in Egypt, was still Christian.’
    Swan sucked in a difficult breath. ‘Oh!’ He grinned. ‘It’s beautiful.’
    ‘Oh, indeed. I see you have the heart of a true connoisseur.’ He extended his hand and Swan put the book reverentially in it. ‘It’s by Ptolemy.’
    Swan felt he was being tested. ‘King Ptolemy?’ he asked.
    ‘One of them,’ Bessarion said. ‘I have trouble reading it, too. It’s about mathematics – the mathematics of measurement. Angles as relations to other distances.’ He shrugged. ‘There are men in Italy who understand this sort of thing.’ He nodded to Swan, who took that for a dismissal. He retreated from the cardinal’s tent area, and went to find Peter.
    Peter was awake and better. Swan changed his bandage and got them both supper from the cardinal’s cooks. He sat on the ground to eat, and felt his eyelids closing.
    ‘Unroll your blankets, you fool, or you’ll freeze at midnight,’ Peter hissed. His oddly sibilant Dutch-English and his slightly too careful pronunciation made him sound as if he was giving orders.
    Swan went and fetched his blanket