Ash: A Secret History (57 page)

“Rubbish,” Floria said with abrupt, complete confidence.

“She might have a case in law.”

“Not once my family lawyers see the documentation. Give me a copy of the
condotta.
I’ll take it to Tante Jeanne’s attorneys.”

Noting how her surgeon avoided the word
bondswoman,
Ash said, “Would it matter to you if I weren’t legitimate?”

“It would startle me considerably if you were.”

Ash almost laughed. She choked it back, shot a glance at Floria del Guiz, and licked her lips. “And if I’m not freeborn either?”

A silence.

“You see. It
matters,
” Ash said. “Proper bastards are okay, so long as they’re the bastards of noblemen, or gentlemen-at-arms at the very least. Being born a serf, or a slave – that’s something else. Property. Your family probably buys and sells women like me, Florian.”

The tall woman looked blank. “They probably do. Is there
proof
of your been born from a slave mother?”

“No, there’s no proof, as such.” Ash dropped her gaze. She rubbed at her sword’s steel pommel with her thumb, picking at nicks with her nail. “Except that by now, a lot of people are hearing what someone’s been using serfs for, in Carthage. Breeding soldiers. Breeding a general. And, as Fernando was happy to remind me, throwing out the ones they don’t think will grow up to standard.”

With a spurious air of unshockability, Florian snapped, “That’s stock-breeding, that’s what you do.”

“To give them credit,” Ash said, her voice altered, her throat constricting, “I don’t suppose my company are going to give a fuck. If they’ll wear me being female, they won’t care if my mother was a slave. So long as I can get them through a battle, I could be Beelzebub’s great scarlet whore for all they care!”

And when they know that I don’t hear a saint, I don’t hear the Lion, I just – just overhear someone else’s voice? Someone else’s machine. That I’m just a mistake, on the way to breeding
her.
What then? Does that make a difference? Their confidence in me is always a thin thread—

She felt a pressure, a weight, and lifted her head to find Floria del Guiz’s arm around her shoulders, the surgeon trying to force her touch through the armour.

“There’s no way you’re going anywhere near Visigoths again,” Floria said briskly. “Look, you’ve only got that woman’s word for it—”

“Fuck it, Florian, she’s my twin. She knows she’s slave-born. What else
can
I be?”

The tall woman lifted a hand, touching grimy fingers to Ash’s cheek. “It doesn’t matter. Stay here. Tante Jeanne used to have friends at court. She probably still does; she’s that kind of woman. I’ll make sure you’re not sent anywhere.”

Ash moved her shoulders uncomfortably. The breeze, dropping, left the upper walls of Dijon as hot as anywhere else. A noise of singing and drunken shouts came up from the tavern at the foot of the steps; and the clash of polearm-butts, as the guards on the bridge changed to evening shift.

“
It doesn’t matter.
” Floria’s hand insistently turned Ash’s head, forcing Ash to look at her. “It doesn’t matter to me!”

The warm pressure of her fingertips dug into Ash’s jaw. Ash stared up, close enough to Floria’s face to smell the woman’s sweet breath, close enough to see the dirt in the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, and the glimmer of light in her brown-green irises.

Making eye-contact, Floria grinned lopsidedly, released Ash’s jaw, and trailed a fingertip along the scar on her cheek.

“Don’t
worry,
boss.”

Ash gave a great sigh, relaxing back against Florian. She slapped the woman’s back. “You’re right. Fuck it, you’re right. Come on.”

“Where to?”

Ash grinned. “I’ve taken a command decision. Let’s go back to camp and get completely rat-arsed!”

“Good idea!”

At the foot of the steps, they picked up the escort, and strode back through the streets towards the south gate.

Arm-in-arm with the surgeon, Ash came to a stumbling halt as Florian suddenly stopped. Thomas and Euen’s men instantly faced outwards, hands on weapons.

An elderly woman’s voice said coldly, “I might have known that where Constanza’s brat is, you would also be. Where is your half-brother?”

The woman was fat, in brown kirtle and white wimple, and clasped a purse against her belly in both her hands. Her clothes were rich silk, embroidered; and the visible gathered neck of her shift made from the finest lawn. All that was visible of her lined, sweating white face was a double chin, round cheeks, and a snub-button nose.

Her eyes were still young, and a beautiful green.

She demanded, “Why have you come back to shame your family? Do you
hear
me? Where’s my nephew Fernando?”

Ash sighed. She murmured to herself, “Not
now
…”

Florian backed up a step.

“Who’s the old bat?” a billman at the back of the escort asked.

“Fernando del Guiz is in the Duke’s palace, madame,” Ash cut in, before Florian could speak. “I think you’ll find him with the Visigoths!”

“Did I ask you, abomination?”

It was said quite casually.

There was a shifting among the men in Lion tabards; assessing that there were no Burgundian soldiers in this street, that the woman – although nobly dressed – was out with no escort. Someone sniggered. One of the archers drew his dagger. Someone else muttered, “Cunt!”

“Boss, you want us to do the old bitch over?” Euen Huw asked loudly. “She’s an ugly old shite, but Thomas here will fuck everything on two legs, isn’t that right?”

“Better than you, you Welsh bastard. At least I don’t fuck everything with
four
legs.”

They were moving as they spoke, broad men in armour, hands going to bollock daggers. Ash barked, “Hold it!”, and put her hand on Florian’s shoulder.

The elderly woman screwed up her eyes, squinting at Ash against the bright sun that slanted down into the street, between the gabled roofs. “I am not afraid of your armed thugs.”

Ash spoke with no asperity. “Then you’re downright stupid, because they won’t think twice about killing you.”

The woman bristled. “The Duke’s peace holds here! The church forbids murder!”

Seeing this woman, in her neat chaff-flecked gown, with the folds of her white headdress neat under her chin – knowing just how quickly it could all be changed, to cloth ripped off to show grey hair, kirtle slashed, shift bloodied, skinny legs sprawled naked on the cobbles – all this made Ash speak quite gently.

“We kill for a living. It gets to be a habit. They’d kill you for your shoes, never mind your purse, and they’re even more likely to do it for the fun of it. Thomas, Euen, I think this woman’s name is – Jeanne? – and she’s some relative of our surgeon. Hands off. Got me?”

“Yes, boss…”

“And don’t sound so damn disappointed!”

“Shit, boss,” Thomas Rochester remarked, “you must think I’m
desperate!
”

They seemed to fill the street: the bulk of men who have padded doublets under mail, steel plates strapped to legs, long-hilted swords swinging from their hips. Their voices were loud, and under cover of Euen Huw’s beery “Couldn’t get laid in a whorehouse with a bag of gold louis!”, Ash said, “Florian, this is your aunt?”

Florian stared ahead, her face set. She said, “My father Philippe’s sister. Captain Ash, may I present Mademoiselle Jeanne Châlon…”

“No,” Ash said feelingly. “You may not. Not today. Today, I’ve had just about enough!”

The elderly woman stepped straight into the group of soldiers, oblivious to their only brief amusement. She seized the shoulder of Florian’s doublet and shook her, twice, with little jerky movements.

Ash saw it momentarily as Thomas and Euen did: a small, fat old woman catching hold of their surgeon, and the tall, strong, dirty young man staring down with an appalled helplessness.

“If you don’t want her hurt,” Thomas Rochester offered to Florian, “we’ll just take her away for you. Where’s the family live?”

“Teach her a few manners, on the way.” Wiry, black-haired Euen Huw thumbed his dagger back into its sheath, and took hold of both the woman’s elbows from behind. As his hands tightened, Jeanne Châlon’s face turned white under its summer flush and she gasped, and went limp against him.

“Leave her alone.” Ash stared the Welshman down until he relaxed.

“Let me look, Tante Jeanne!” Floria del Guiz reached out, with long-fingered hands, taking the woman’s fat arm, and moving it gently at the elbow. “Damn it! Next time I have you in the surgeon’s tent, Euen Huw—”

The Welsh lance-leader shifted his grip, uncomfortably aware that he was still supporting the woman against his chest. Half-fainting, Jeanne Châlon flapped her free hand, slapping at him. He attempted to support her without gripping her wide waist and hips, grabbed her as she slid downwards, finally lowered her to the cobbles, and grunted, “Fuck, Florian, boy; get rid of the old cow! We all got families back home, don’t we? That’s why we’re out here!”

“Sweet Christ on a stick!” Ash shoved the men bodily back, breaking up the sweat-soaked, airless crush. “She’s a
noblewoman,
for Christ’s sake! Get it through your thick heads, the Duke can throw us out of Dijon! She’s my fucking
husband’s
aunt, as well!”

“She is?” Euen sounded doubtful.

“Yeah. She is.”

“Shit. And him with all those Visigoth friends, now. Not that he doesn’t need them – skid-marks in his hose, that boy’s got.”

“Quiet,” Ash snapped, her eyes on Jeanne Châlon.

Ruthlessly, Florian stripped the white linen headdress away. The woman’s eyelids fluttered. Wisps of grey-white hair plastered themselves to her forehead. Her red, sweating complexion became more normal.

“Water!” Florian snapped, holding her hand up without looking. Thomas Rochester lifted the strap of his water bottle hastily over his head and stuffed it into her hand.

“Is she all right?”

“Nobody saw us.”

“Shit, I think there’s Burgundians coming!”

Ash gestured, cutting off the comments. “You two, Ricau, Michael, get down to the end of the street, make sure it stays private up here. Florian, is she dead, or what?”

The crêpe skin, under Florian’s fingers, fluttered with a pulse.

“It’s too hot, she’s overdressed, you scared her shitless, she fainted,” the surgeon rattled off. “Is there any
more
trouble you can get me into?”

Under the sharp bravado, Ash heard the woman’s voice shaking.

“Don’t worry, I’ll fix it,” Ash said confidently, and with absolutely no idea of how anything might be salvaged from this disaster. She saw her confident tone steady Florian, for all that the surgeon might be very well aware Ash had no answers.

“Get her up on her feet,” Ash added. “You, Simon, get wine.
Run.
”

It took minutes for the page of Euen’s lance to run back to the inn, for the men-at-arms to begin to shuffle, remember they were in a city, become awed by the sheer number of streets and people, and remember the Burgundian army encamped outside. Ash saw their faces and heard their comments, while she knelt down beside Florian, staring at the old woman.

“I raised you!” the woman slurred. Her eyes opened, fixing on Florian’s face. “What was I, to you? No more than a nursemaid? With you always whimpering for your dead mother! What thanks did you ever give me?”

“Sit up, Aunt.” Florian’s voice was firm. She put a wiry arm behind the woman’s back, shifting her upright. “Drink this.”

The fat woman sat on the cobbles, unaware of her sprawling legs. She blinked against the bright light, the legs of the men surrounding them; and opened her mouth, dribbling the wine that Florian poured between her lips.

“If she’s well enough to slag you off, she’ll live,” Ash said grimly. “Come on, Florian. We’re out of here.”

She got a hand under the surgeon’s arm, hoisting. Florian shook her off.

“Aunt, let me help you up—”

“Take your hands off me!”

“I
said,
we’re leaving,” Ash repeated urgently.

Jeanne Châlon gave a subdued shriek, and grabbed her ruined headdress up from the road. She clutched the linen over her grey hair. “Vile—!”

The men-at-arms laughed. She ignored them, glaring at Florian.

“You are a vile abomination! I always knew it! Even at thirteen, you seduced that girl—”

Her next words were inaudible, drowned in raucous comments. Thomas Rochester reached down and thumped the surgeon on the back. “Thirteen? Randy little sod!”

Florian’s mouth curved, unwillingly. Bright-eyed, reckless, she said, “Lizette. Yes. Her father kept our hounds. Black curly hair … pretty girl.”

One of the crossbow-women, at the back of the escort group, chuckled. “He’s a ladies’ man, our surgeon!”

“—
Enough!
” Jeanne Châlon shrieked.

Ash bent down and hauled Florian bodily to her feet. “Don’t argue, just
go.
”

Before the surgeon could move, the fat woman sitting on the cobbles shrieked again, loudly and urgently enough that the men fell silent around her:

“
Enough of this vile pretence.
God will never forgive you, little whore, little bitch, little abomination!” Panting, Jeanne Châlon heaved in a breath, staring up, wet-eyed. “Why do you tolerate her? Don’t you know that she damns you, pollutes you, just by being with you? Why else is she forbidden her home? Are you blind?
Look at her!
”

Faces – Euen, Thomas, the billmen – turned to Ash, and then to Florian. And from Florian back to Ash.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Ash said quickly, hoping to take advantage of their confusion. “We’re leaving.”

Thomas gazed at Florian. “What’s she on about, man?”

Ash filled her lungs. “Form up—”

Jeanne Châlon shuddered, rose, scrambling unaided to her feet in a flurry of skirts and shift. She was panting. One hand went out, grabbing Euen Huw’s livery tabard.

“You
are
blind!”

She faced Florian.

“Look at her! Can’t you see what she is? She’s a whore, an abomination, she dresses in man’s clothes,
she is a woman
—”