The Powder of Death Page 25

  ‘A bronze gunne,’ he muttered flatly.

  ‘You like it?’ Farnese burbled in relief. ‘It took me more than five months to—’

  ‘Are we to see it fire?’ Jared directed the question to Braccio, in a wash of chagrin unable to speak to Farnese.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Yes, Excellency, certainly.’

  Farnese busied himself with his apparatus, which Jared couldn’t tear his eyes from. Much of it was similar to his own but one thing was so bizarre that it took his breath away. At this point where Jared would be placing a lead ball into his gunne Farnese had opened a long chest, within which lay a dozen arrows. They were much bigger than those any archer would recognise, bulky and with leather padding at two places. Farnese selected one and eased it into the bore until it met the powder, a foot or so of the barbed end protruding.

  ‘You’re going to … that?’ Jared gasped.

  ‘The fire-arrow, I call it,’ Farnese said proudly, patting the shaft. ‘With this I can send the flames of hell into an enemy city and none can withstand it. And—’

  ‘Where’s your target?’ Jared bit off.

  ‘Target? Oh, no. You’ve no need to aim! Simply fill the air with my fire-arrows and—’

  ‘Shall we see it, then?’

  The device was levered around to face a wall.

  ‘Carry on, Highness?’ the man fawned.

  ‘Do.’

  Drawing Braccio well clear Jared watched as Farnese readied the gunne – but there was no brazier, he had some kind of cord that glowed at the end. He blew on it then held it in a stick to the fire-passage and the gunne fired.

  There was a gouting of yellow flame and through vast quantities of light-brown smoke Jared watched the arrow trailing fire as it sailed down and shattered on the wall in flaming fragments. But Jared had noted something vital: the sound was weak, pitiful even against his own.

  ‘Thank you, Messer Farnese,’ he said. ‘We’ll call upon you when we need to.’

  Turning to Braccio, Jared gave a confident smile. ‘I don’t think we need go further with this, Signore. The man is demented if he thinks that a true wall-smasher. Arrows – ha! And so heavy a gunne to carry on the battlefield, it’s really not worth trifling with.’

  ‘You think so? The gunne is very handsome compared to yours.’

  ‘Ah, yes. That’s the point – everyone knows that bronze is softer than steel, but prettier. Which would you rather it be – in a military sense, that is?’

  ‘I see. Very well, you may carry on with your own work.’

  While the crestfallen Farnese packed away his things Jared asked innocently, ‘Er, who is the man – a local fellow?’

  ‘No, a bell-founder of Padua. How goes your gunne?’ Braccio added meaningfully.

  ‘Ah, yes, Highness. I must get back to work, some difficult testing to do.’

  In his quarters Jared flopped on the bed, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, his thoughts running wild.

  The most burning was the realisation that he was no longer alone in the quest. But then wasn’t it to be expected that somewhere out there, one with a similar experience to his own, would return to Europe with the secret? It had been chance and accident that had made him witness to the Cathayan huo yao, how could he have thought that no one else might not have followed the same path? It had been years now and …

  He tried to order his thoughts.

  So there were others who knew the secret, could produce gunnes. That meant he could no longer trade on the fact that he was the only one who possessed the knowledge. Even as he laboured on in a fruitless mission to produce a wall-smashing gunne there were now others who were his rivals, and probably some with better ideas.

  A cast gunne was a stroke of genius. Where his iron gunne was limited by what a blacksmith could physically achieve at the anvil, casting meant that thickness was no longer a limitation – if the gunne needed stouter walls to take a bigger charge, then you simply increased the thickness until it could. Never mind that bronze was softer, just make it thicker to compensate.

  A gunne the size of a horse could reasonably be expected to fire a ball the size of a man’s head. Larger still … and for a surety he had his boulder-throwing monster!

  Frantic with impatience and frustration Jared realised that here was a leap forward that made everything and anything possible – it was all within reach!

  Farnese must have got the idea from somewhere and as a bell-founder had naturally thought of casting a gunne, as he himself had naturally turned to blacksmithing. Farnese, however, had been let down by his poor gunne-powder, which had not shown the weapon to advantage.

  But his gunne with Jared’s powder …

  And there must be others at work along different paths …

  There were now two very good reasons why he had to make his escape.

  The first was that he was not going to be able to give Braccio what he wanted and he would be quickly discarded or worse. The other was that he had to put himself in the middle of whatever was happening – or die in the attempt.

  CHAPTER 82

  Padua, Italy

  It had been easier than Jared had dared hope, thanks to Rosamunde. She had given him a ring when they’d parted on the understanding that it could be used if he found himself without funds in a foreign land. He’d worn it out of sight on a string around his neck and had almost forgotten its existence but it had raised a remarkable sum – after the bribes it had left enough to get him to Padua. As a fleeing Arezzo citizen he was quite safe in the Ghibelline stronghold.

  Finding Farnese was straightforward, he being one of the only two bell-founders in the city. Jared left an anonymous message asking to meet him in a public wine shop.

  The man arrived, looking nervous and tense. Jared went up to him. ‘Messer Farnese? So good of you to come.’

  There was a flash of recognition. ‘You’re a Guelph of Perugia! Sent by—’

  ‘No, no, er, Bartolomeo. Only in temporary employ of the signore,’ Jared said with a friendly smile. ‘I’m English, as you must know, and have no interest in these rivalries.’

  ‘Then why do you—?’

  ‘I was passing through Padua, and thought to tell you why you had a hard time at Perugia. You see, the signore has recently triumphed over Arezzo, who rashly employed gunnes which were … er, ineffective and therefore not of value in his eyes.’

  ‘Gunnes? An odd word to call them. I name them cannones, as being hollow tubes. Cannula – Latin of course …’ He trailed off at Jared’s look.

  ‘Tell me, where did you get the idea for these … cannones?’

  ‘It was not my idea, but my friend Marco of Florence. He’s new returned from Constantinople and—’

  ‘How interesting!’ Jared enthused. ‘I’d like to meet him. I’ve some small experience with, um, cannone-powder, which I’m sure he’d like to hear.’

  ‘Well … he’s very shy, he’s worried some may take against his work. But I’ll ask him.’

  It was working out. Soon he’d be with others who’d ventured down his path. But what then? Were they rivals or fellow discoverers, or were they all dreamers and visionaries of some lost cause?

  Marco turned out to be a mousey young man who could not stop fiddling. During supper at Farnese’s modest house he warmed to Jared and told of what he knew: a trading voyage in the Black Sea; Sinope on the southern shores – the Seljuq Turks arrayed against the Trebizond empire; pillars of flame and smoke traced to projectors hurling objects against the city; the secret of huo yao, however, not granted him. Then he was shown writings by the great English scholar Roger Bacon and found enlightenment.

  Jared poured more wine for Marco and asked mildly, ‘Your powder is weak, lacking spirit. What is your mixture?’

  Unbelievably it seemed the good friar had laid down five parts each of sulphur and charcoal but only seven of saltpetre. Did the scholar really not know his gunne-powder … or was he trying to distract and decoy to prevent its spread?r />
  Jared knew he was at a crossroads. Should he join Farnese or Marco or walk away and leave them to it, but take their idea of the cannone and go on to make his own, superior, weapon?

  But these two were hopeful dreamers, compared to his experiences, callow and unworldly. They’d been open with him, why not with others – the secret would soon be known far and wide and all would be the loser.

  There was another way, he realised, one which could well prove both secure and profitable to them all – a guild. To be effective it must extend beyond a single city, perhaps over lands and seas. Like the guild of blacksmiths it would preserve trade secrets, regulate prices, act as a fraternity of equals and have the strength of many.

  Jared’s brow furled deeply in concentration. Yes, this was what must be done. Here and now!

  At his serious expression Marco and Farnese looked at him in concern but a broad smile soon surfaced.

  ‘My friends! I think I should tell you the real reason I’m here.’

  The first thing was to establish credentials.

  While Marco had been a casual observer he himself had actually been in battle alongside the mysterious Cathayans and had learnt the secret at source. He could demonstrate to them a gunne-powder many times the power, and would in due course.

  He was skilled at the military arts having worked with the knights at Acre and with the Mongols and knew both. He could therefore talk with military lords on their own terms.

  Therefore he was one to be trusted when he said the time was ripe to bring the art of gunnes to fruition.

  It was like talking to children to explain that if they gave away their secrets, would not their rivals steal their bread? And if inferior craftwork, however well intentioned, was what was seen by those who would take up their handiwork, this would rebound on each and all.

  Much better that they keep together in the same way all artisans did, in a proper guild with rules and protection covering them all.

  The two sat open-mouthed then gave their vigorous agreement.

  ‘There will be much to decide on,’ Jared cautioned. ‘And we must swear to keep it and our work privily from the world for now.’

  CHAPTER 83

  They met again, this time with another, Streuvel of Münster. Brought in by Farnese, he was a quiet, respectful man who’d shown an interest in what he’d been doing.

  With all feeling confident to talk, the ideas came. It was exhilarating.

  A chest was to be kept, not merely for those fallen on hard times but so that if a new idea came from a member there would be funds available to try it for the benefit of all. Communications and meetings would be between all chapters of the guild such that successful discoveries and inventions could be passed on. And flowing from that, a system of the sharing of profit if one member assisted another to fulfil a big order.

  It was taking shape, and they met again the next night.

  This time it was the guild itself – to be a clandestine fellowship of the mysteries of fire and iron, with all proper oaths and ceremonies, feast days and signs.

  And to be known provisionally as ‘The Guild of Master Gunners’ with a prime warden wearing a chain of office at a central lodge in a city, to be elected.

  On the third night the main point of discussion was whether a list of names and terms be drawn up to bring into line everybody’s notion of what their fire-breathing devices were to be known as, the parts thereof and what to call their operators.

  The quiet Streuvel held up his hand to be heard. ‘It is a fine thing, it must be declared,’ he said in his broken Italian. ‘But I ask, where is the money at the back of this? A guild asks a hall at least, I’m thinking.’

  Jared was vaguely aware that if this was to be a main regulating and organising centre it would need to have clerks and officers to run it and no doubt there would be other expenses. Until there was some sort of revenue flowing they simply could not have it. But without it they couldn’t make the guild work.

  It was a reality that he had to deal with and his spirits fell. It was not enough to have these soaring dreams – a good sound practical head better than his was needed to bring it all down to earth and devise ways and means to make it work.

  He flinched at the thought of approaching Rosamunde. She had lost an unimaginable sum by trusting him and he couldn’t go back to her with another foolhardy scheme.

  A rush of warmth came as he remembered her standing cool and poised as he left, wishing him well of his venture. Did she mean anything more when she gave him the ring? No, of course not. She was a great lady. Jared dismissed the notion – but the warmth remained.

  What wouldn’t he give to have her here, next to him, now … She would know what to do. He felt the wish sharpen to a need – a strong desire to see her, to have her by his side, hand in hand as they faced things together and … and …

  He coldly buried the thought. This was no time for fantasy. He was now next to penniless and needed to make something of his life. He was over forty now, and his blacksmith’s strength would not last indefinitely.

  Therefore he had to make the guild happen.

  And like a betraying temptress his mind led him directly back to Rosamunde. She was the only hope of raising an investment, and he trusted her in whatever arrangement or conditions she might demand – if in fact she still believed in him. There was no other course left than to put his fate in her hands.

  CHAPTER 84

  Coventry, England, AD 1318

  The cold, windswept rain of the city was as unlike the sunny uplands of Italy as it was possible to find. The streets, so much the same, so subtly different, the careless filth of the lower quarters, the English placidity of the more spacious merchant quarter, the folk scurrying heads down in the rain cursing in his native tongue – and then at the corner of Whitefriars the storeyed house he’d turned to after leaving Hurnwych so long ago.

  With a lurch of the heart Jared rattled the door-knocker. A servant he didn’t know asked his business.

  ‘To see Mistress Barnwell upon an affair of funds.’

  Jared waited apprehensively, dripping water on the floor, wondering what he’d do if Rosamunde refused to see him.

  A door opened – not the one at the top of the stairs but at the compting room to his left and he was caught off guard.

  It was Rosamunde. She looked at him as if he was a ghost. Jared took off his rain-sodden cap and held it but before he could say anything she gave a muffled cry and ran up the stairs weeping.

  The servant looked at him in astonishment.

  Hesitating for a moment, Jared went up the well-known staircase and found her by the fire, her face averted.

  ‘I’m returned, mistress. To tell you—’

  ‘I’d heard you were dead,’ she said in a high, strained voice.

  ‘Dead? Oh, well no, as you see I’m not—’

  She turned about abruptly, the sparkle of tears staining her face, her expression unreadable. Then she flew to him and threw her arms about his neck and sobbed – just once, her womanly essence enveloping him before she pulled away and drew herself up to face him. ‘I’m … I’m happy to see you alive, Master Jared, that you must believe.’

  Shaken by her display of emotion he said carefully, ‘Thank you, mistress. I thought you’d not wish to see me after …’

  ‘Yes, you cost me dear.’ Once more cool and practical, she smoothed her gown. ‘And I shall desire a report of it from you at supper but in the meantime we must find you dry raiment.’ The food was satisfyingly English and he fell to, for he hadn’t been able to afford the comforts of travel.

  Rosamunde was reserved but attentive.

  ‘I’m so sorry you lost your money,’ Jared said awkwardly.

  ‘Don’t be,’ she said flatly.

  ‘I thank you—’

  ‘A merchant hazards his pelf according to his judgement, upon the principle “If nothing is ventured, nothing may be gained.” Therefore it is entirely at my own determination whether it
be considered a regret or a commercial loss.’

  ‘Do you say, then, that it is a regret or …?’ he dared.

  ‘My judgement stands. Given all you have told me, I was not wrong in the investing. Things turned out against me – us. That is all.’

  It was now or never. ‘Rosamunde. If you had the chance once more but under different circumstances, would you invest again?’

  ‘Every opportunity is taken on its own qualities,’ she answered coolly. ‘I thus cannot answer that.’

  He hesitated; not at what he must say next, but the realisation that setting aside the cold tenacity of her business imperatives, she had a beauty – an aura, a nobility, that he’d never seen in a woman before and it was affecting him as a man.

  ‘Well … um, could I ask your advice in a matter of investing?’

  She quickly had it out of him – the vision, the reality, the risks.

  ‘And you are expecting me to chance my fortune in a trade guild of four persons that stands against the world as it is?’

  ‘Not as if it were like that,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘Your advice and direction would be gratefully followed, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I shall think on this.’

  ‘You will consider a small investment?’

  ‘You shall have my answer only when I’m ready. Shall we take more wine and talk further?’

  The servants cleared the table as they sat each side of the fire. Rosamunde asked many questions – his life, his opinions and tastes. Her clear-eyed gaze was one of appraisal and evaluation. Jared had expected to talk more about the guild and this was unnerving.

  The questions tailed off and she looked away.

  A servant came to refresh their goblets but was dismissed for the night.

  Rosamunde said nothing until he’d left and closed the door, then looked at Jared and said simply, ‘I have decided.’

  ‘What did you decide, mistress?’

  ‘I’m a good judge of character and a better judge of men. I’m resolved that I will invest.’