Ash: A Secret History (176 page)

Almost at the door of the hall, with cold wind swirling the steam into towers of whiteness, he touched her arm. “Don’t think of us as friends, madonna. We’re not your friends. We’re men and women who obey you. Burgundy’s men, too. That is not what friends do.”

She gave him a startled look. The relief of that detached view sank in. She nodded absently.

He added, “Even if what I say is half true, it is not wholly false. Men who have given you the responsibility of leading them are not your friends; they expect more of you. ‘Lioness’.”

“So: is this a warning?” A little cynically, she said, “Gun captains go anywhere. The Visigoths would give you a job with their siege-machines – they wouldn’t send your gun-crews against these walls. You’re too expensive to kill off. Shall I expect to be told when you’re going, or shall I wake up in the next few days and find you and Jussey’s lads gone?”

His oval eyelids shut, briefly; allowing her one look at the smooth perfection of his face. He opened his eyes. “Nothing like so easy, madonna. Fever has a grip, famine is here. Sooner, rather than later, now, you’ll commit us to an attack – and we’ll do it.”

Four days later, in the company armoury, she looks down at herself. At a new breastplate and plackart buckled into her body-armour; only the brightness of the buff leather, and therefore the newness of the straps, giving away that this mirror-finish steel is not her original Milanese-made harness.

“Shit-hot job…” She brought her arms together, let her body follow the lines of someone moving a weapon in precise arcs. Nothing caught, or pulled.

“Not
my
job, boss.” Jean Bertran, something over six foot tall, forge-blackened like a pageant-devil, gave her a look equal parts diffidence and cynicism. “I roughed it out like Master Dickon taught me. Took it to the old Duke’s royal armourers for the rest. The lads here did the buckles.”

“Tell ’em fucking brilliant—”

“
Boss!
” a voice bawled. “Boss! Come quick!”

She winced, turning; catching her bruised flesh painfully. Willem Verhaecht’s 2IC, Adriaen Campin, stumbled across the ice-rutted paving stones and into the forge.

“Boss, you’d better come!”

“Is it an assault?” Ash was already staring around wildly. “Rickard, my sword! Where are they coming this time?”

The big Fleming shook his head, red-faced under his war-hat. “The north-east gate, boss. I don’t know
what
it is! Maybe not an attack. Someone’s coming in!”

“
In?
” Ash stared.

“In!”

“Fucking
hell!
”

Rickard thumped back from the recesses of the armoury, the sword and belt slung over his shoulder, her livery jacket in his hands. In a frantic few seconds, Ash found herself attempting simultaneously to answer questions from the lance-leaders crowding in after Campin; and answer Robert Anselm – and Duchess Florian – as they came in on the men-at-arms’ heels.

“Son of a
bitch!
” she bellowed.

Silence fell in the armoury, apart from the subdued hiss of the coals in the forge.

“Double the wall guard,” she ordered rapidly. “This could be a diversion. Roberto, you and twenty men, with me, to the north-east gate. Florian—”

The surgeon shoved her herb-sack at Baldina. “I’m with you.”

“No, you’re damn well not! The goddamn Visigoths would like nothing better than a shot at the Burgundian Duchess. I’ll get you an escort back to the palace.”

“What part of ‘fuck off’ didn’t you understand?” Floria del Guiz murmured, her eyes bright. She grinned at Ash. “There is such a thing as morale. As you keep telling me. If I’m Duchess, then I’m not afraid to walk the city wall here!”

“But you’re not the normal type of Duchess – oh shit, there isn’t time!”

Rickard held her livery surcoat up high, by its shoulders. Ash fisted her gauntlets, ducked under, and dived up, attempting to shove her fists and remaining arm-defences through the wide sleeves. Two moments’ breathless tugging and panic got it down over her head. Rickard slung the sword-belt around her waist, buckled and tugged; and she settled the hilt of the single-handed blade to where she wanted it, grabbed her cloak from him, pulled her hood up, and strode out of the room.

Too cold again to ride without danger to the horses. The hurried half-run to the north-eastern side of Dijon took them perhaps half an hour. In that time, they saw no one but soldiers up on the walls, and Burgundian men-at-arms on street patrol. Not a dog barked, not a cow lowed; the bright, eggshell-blue sky shone, birdless, no doves in the dovecotes now. The winter wind brought tears into her eyes, snatched the breath out of her throat.

Panting from the climb up to the top of the gatehouse, she joined Olivier de la Marche and twenty or more Burgundian nobles on the wall. The big Burgundian was shading his eyes with his gauntlet, peering north-east.

“Well?” Ash demanded.

Willem Verhaecht ran from the battlements to her side. He pointed. “There, boss.”

A squabble broke out behind her – de la Marche noting Floria’s presence; the surgeon-Duchess refusing to listen to his explosive, protective complaints – but Ash ignored it.

“What the
fuck
is that?” she asked.

Rickard elbowed his way through the Lion men-at-arms to her side. He carried her second-best sallet under his arm. She took it, thoughtfully; standing bareheaded in the icy wind, a woman with scars, and feathery silver hair now grown long enough to cover the lobes of her ears.

Ash glanced at her nearest captain of archers, and covertly back at Floria. “How far’s crossbow range from here?”

Ludmilla Rostovnaya smiled with a face still taut from healing burns. “About four hundred yards, boss.”

“How far away are their lines from this wall?”

“About four hundred and one yards!”

“Fine. Anything comes a yard closer to us, I want it skewered. Instantly. And watch those bloody siege-engines.”

“Yes, boss!”

The Visigoth tents shone white under a winter-clear sky. Spirals of smoke rose straight up from their turf-roofed huts, surrounding this quarter of the city. A neighing came from their horse lines. She strained her gaze to see siege machinery; could see none within range. A scurry of people ran, five hundred yards away, ranks parting; and something else moved, between the tents, northeast along the road that ran by the river. Horses? Pennants? Armed or unarmed men?

Rickard squinted, rubbing his watering eyes. “Can’t tell the livery, boss.”

“No –
yes.
Yes, I can.” Ash grabbed the arm of Robert Anselm, standing next to her; and the broad-shouldered man, bundled up against the bitter cold, grinned from under his visor. “Sweet Christ, Robert, is that what I think it is?”

Sounding light-hearted for the first time in weeks, her second-in-command said, “Getting old, girl? Getting short-sighted?”

“That’s a fucking red crescent!” Ash spoke loudly. The noise from the Burgundian knights cut off. She pointed. “That’s the
Turks!
”

“Motherfuckers!” Floria del Guiz exclaimed; fortunately in the broad patois of the mercenary camp. Jeanne Châlon pursed her lips, disapproving the vehemence; Olivier de la Marche choked.

A neat column of cavalry horses trotted out from between the Visigoth ranks. At this distance, in winter’s haze, all Ash could make out were white pennants with red crescents, and riders in fawn robes and white helms. No spear-points silhouetted against the sky: therefore not lancers. The column wound out of the Visigoth camp into the deserted land between it and the city walls: horses picking their way across churned mud vitrified by black frosts. A hundred, two hundred, five hundred men…

“What are they
doing?
I don’t believe it!” Ash swore again. She threw her arms around the shoulders of Ludmilla Rostovnaya and Willem Verhaecht, embracing them. “Well spotted! What the
hell
are they doing?”

“If they plan to attack us, it is foolish,” Olivier de la Marche said. He made an obvious effort and turned to Floria del Guiz. “You see we have guns on the walls, my lady.”

Floria wore her
I do know one end of an arquebus from the other
expression; Ash has seen a lot of it in the past month.

“Don’t fire,” Floria said.

It was unmistakably an order. After a moment, de la Marche said, “No, my lady.”

Ash grinned to herself. She murmured quietly, “And to think I thought you’d have trouble being a Duchess…”

“I’m a doctor. I’m used to telling people what to do.” Floria rested her hands on the battlements, staring out at the approaching armed horsemen. “Even when I don’t know what’s best.”

“Especially then.”

Ash put her helmet on, and when she glanced up from buckling the strap, the Turkish riders were close enough that she could see they carried round shields, and recurved bows; and their helmets were not white, but were covered by a white felt sleeve that hung down over the backs of their necks.

“They are indeed Turks,” Olivier de la Marche said, his voice loud in the icy silence. “I know them. They are the Sultan’s crack troops, his Janissaries.”

The mingled respect and awe on the faces of both her men and the Burgundians was enough to let Ash know they shared de la Marche’s opinion.

“Fine. So they’re shit-hot. What are they doing
here?
Why are they heading for this city?” Ash leaned out from one of the embrasures, frustrated. A great number of troops – Legio VI Leptis Parva, by the eagle – milled about on the edges of their earthworks; but otherwise made no move. Watching.

“If they’re intending to come inside the city…” De la Marche’s voice trailed off.

Ash found herself watching the Janissaries’ cavalry mounts and thinking not of military use, but only of food on the hoof. There were no Turkish packhorses visible. “If they’re intending to come inside the city, then why aren’t the Visigoths slaughtering them?”

“Yes, Demoiselle-Captain, exactly.”

“They’re never going to let five hundred Turks in here to reinforce the siege. What the fuck is going on!”

Robert Anselm snuffled.

Ash looked sharply at him. The big man wiped his wrist across his nose, stifling another snuffling laugh; caught her eye and broke out into a loud guffaw.

“That’s what’s going on. Take a look at that, girl! It’s fucking mad – so who’s behind it?”

Now the head of the column was within a hundred yards of Dijon’s northeast gate, it was possible to discern European riders among the Turkish cavalry. Not many of them, Ash saw: not above fifty men. She wiped her streaming eyes again, staring into the wind.

A great red-and-yellow standard flew above the few Europeans; and a personal banner. The wind blew the cloth towards them, among Turkish pennants; and it was a second before a gust unrolled the silk on the air so that all could see it. A ripple of exclamations went along the wall. Up and down the battlements, a great ragged cheer went up, on and on.

Ash blinked at the yellow banner. A tusked blue boar, flanked by white five-pointed stars.

“Holy
shit!
”

It was not necessary, the man’s name was being shouted from one end of the walls to the other, but Robert Anselm said it anyway.

“John de Vere,” he said, “thirteenth Earl of Oxford.”

II

A brief shouted confrontation between the Burgundians and Oxford; the gates of Dijon opened just long enough for five hundred men to ride through; Ash pelted down the stairs, off the wall.

Her men crowded her on the steps, scabbards tangling; she found herself barely ahead of Robert Anselm, Olivier de la Marche treading on her armoured heels.

“An Oxford!” Robert Anselm bellowed the de Vere battle-cry happily. “
An
Oxford!
”

The crowd poured off the walls at the same time as the great city gates clashed shut. Iron bars slammed noisily back into place. A weight cannoned into Ash’s back: she skidded on cobblestones, and grabbed the person who had fallen into her – Floria, feet tangled in her jewelled skirts, cursing.

“Is it him? It
is
him! The man’s a lunatic!” Floria exclaimed.

“Tell me something I don’t know!”

A great orderly mass of Ottoman Turks – five hundred at least – formed their horses up into a square in the market space behind the gate. The icy wind whipped the mounts’ tails. Mares, mostly, she saw at a glance, tough fawn-coloured mares; and their armed riders sitting their dyed-leather saddles in complete stillness, no shouting, no calling out, no dismounting.

A raw-boned grey gelding galloped out of the mass of Turks, three or more horses with it. The yellow-and-blue banner streamed out, carried by the lead rider.

The armoured banner-bearer, riding without a helmet, curly fair hair flying and a great smile on his face, was Viscount Beaumont. De Vere’s three brothers rode at his heels; behind Dickon and Tom and George, on the grey, came John de Vere himself.

The Earl of Oxford flung himself out of the saddle, throwing the war-horse’s reins to any who might get them – Thomas Rochester, Ash saw. His battle-harsh voice bellowed, “Madam Captain Ash!”

“My lord Oxford— oof!”

The English Earl threw his arms around her in a crushing embrace. Ash had a split second to reflect that she was far better off wearing plate than she would have been mail. Her ribs stabbed pain into her side. She gasped. John de Vere, still holding her in a bear-hug, burst into tears. “Madam, God save you, do I find you well?”

“Wonderful,” she whispered. “Now – let – go—”

The Englishmen were all, she saw, either in tears or waving their hands around and talking excitedly; Beaumont wringing Olivier de la Marche by the hand; Dickon de Vere embracing Robert Anselm; Thomas and George loud among the throng of Burgundian nobles. The rows of mounted Janissaries gazed down from their horses at this spectacle, seeming mildly interested, if impassive.

John de Vere wiped his face unselfconsciously. His skin had become pale in the months since she had seen him last. Winter mud covered him to the knee. For the rest – she looked him up and down, fists on her hips – the English Earl stood in battle-worn harness, faded blue eyes watering in the wind, so little different that it made her heart lurch.