Ash: A Secret History (123 page)

“Joscelyn van Mander,” she said bleakly.

Thomas Rochester swore. “Fucking Flemish cock-sucker! What’s he doing out there?”

“Ah, shit, Tom! He’s a mercenary!”

A stench of wood-smoke filled the air. She winced, as the paving stones underfoot juddered; and glanced towards the north-west gate. The nearest brattice was on fire.

“Fucking incendiaries now!”

The rhythm of sound broke: men and women only too eager, now, to struggle down the steps and off the walls. Distantly, the creaking of siege-weapons being wound up for a shot came to her. In the Visigoth artillery park, the red sandstone arms of a golem glinted, raising the great trebuchet counterweight at four times the speed of a human crew.

A succession of badly aimed, jagged missiles slammed into the wall above the gate; a merlon flew apart in stone fragments, and the press of bodies lurched, cannoning into each other, screams now audible above the noise.

And just in case the Visigoths
also
have a gunner who can show you the brick in the castle wall that he’s about to hit
—

“Time to go,” Ash murmured, turning, as Rochester raised the banner.

“No: look!” Floria took another step forward, until she stood pressed against the hide-covered wooden frame of the brattice. Ash heard the surgeon’s harsh intake of breath. “Sweet Green Christ…”

Far over, under the pale sun, the distances of the river valley were plainly visible. On the far side of the Suzon and its bridge, people on foot plodded to the south. Too far to see who they were – peasants and craftsmen, goodwives and maids, a few deserting men-at-arms, maybe; maybe even a priest. Indistinguishable figures wrapped in cloaks and blankets, plodding, head-down in the biting wind; small figures – children or old men – huddled by the side of the road, some still crying out to those that had left them.

Hungry, frozen, exhausted, the column of walking refugees snaked on down the track, no end of them in sight.

“They’re
still
coming,” Floria breathed, almost inaudible over the roaring mob hanging off the walls.

Rather less interested than her surgeon, Ash grabbed Florian’s arm, pulling her back from the wall. “Let’s go!”

“Ash, those aren’t soldiers, those are
people!
”

“Well, don’t sweat it; the rag-heads are leaving them alone. We appear to still have some of the rules of war operating…” The press of bodies on the parapet lessened. Ash tugged the surgeon towards the steps, in the wake of her men; Rochester and the banner at her shoulder.

Shrill, Floria yelled, “I expect they come down and rape and rob a few, when it gets boring in camp – don’t you think, girl?”

“Depends how good her discipline is. I’d want them concentrating on getting inside these walls, if it was my troops.” Ash looked back over her shoulder at the distant road, and the thick clogging masses of people.

“You know what it is?” Floria said suddenly. “They’re heading
south.
To the border at Auxonne. Look at them, they’d rather go under the Sunless Sky than stay here!”

Too far, up here on the walls, to hear human voices; only the shriek of ungreased axles came up through the still air, and the scream of a driven packhorse. A dot – a person – lurched and fell down, got up on their feet, fell again, got up and trudged on.

Floria said, “Darkness or sun, they don’t care where they’re going. They just want to get away from here. These are Duchy people, townsmen, farmers, villagers, craftsmen; they’re just
going,
Ash. They don’t care what’s in front of them.”

“I’ll
tell
you what’s in front of them – starvation!”

The
crack!
of a small-calibre cannon: a ball thwacked off the eastern gate-tower. A huge roar of contempt and adrenalin went up from the remaining people crowding the walls:

“THE CALIPH IS
DEAD!
CARTHAGE FELL DOWN!”

In a moment of stillness, Ash looked out from the walls at the refugees. Despite what Florian said, she could see people trudging north, too, further into Burgundian territory; into sunlit cold and famine.

That could be us. I can’t feed my people, not out there, there’s no land to live off. The war-chest won’t buy anything if there’s nothing for money to buy. There was no harvest: we’re due a famine. And out there it’s dark, and
cold.
We’d fall apart as a company inside three days.

Let’s hope it’s better in here.

For however long this lasts.

Because the only way out of here is treachery.

Ash clapped her hand on Rochester’s shoulder. “Okay, if the civilians want to get themselves killed, fine – we’re leaving!
Lions, to the banner!
”

There was a pleasing amount of legionary discipline in the way that men wearing Lion livery detached themselves from the crowds to follow her banner, tugging in the wind above their heads. They scrambled across the devastation, into city streets again – away from the chanting crowd that now sank to its knees in prayer, still deafened by celebratory bells.

“Company billet’s this way, boss!” Rochester pointed south-east into winding streets.

“Let’s go!”

Green Christ, this place has been battered about!

They shouldered their way down narrow cobbled streets, under heavily timbered overhanging buildings. Glass and tiles covered the cobbles, clattering underfoot, slippery in the frost. Coming out into the open again – crossing a bridge into a square, beside the walls of silent mills – she recognised it. In the summer, a dozen Burgundian noblemen had reined in their horses here, to let a duck and her chicks waddle past to the water.

The memory took all her attention for a second; not until Rochester called the men to a halt did she rouse from her reverie, focus eyes gritty with lack of sleep, and realise she was at the company billet.

The shadow of a square, squat tower blocked out what November sun there was. Over its surrounding wall, she saw it was old, brutal in its construction; with featureless sides and narrow arrow-slit windows. Four, maybe five storeys high.

She opened her mouth to speak. A gust of wind down the cramped street snatched the breath out of her mouth. She swallowed, eyes running in the sudden, bitter blast.

One of the men-at-arms swore and stepped back as a roof-tile fell, hit, and sprayed fragments across the dung-covered cobbles. “
Jesu!
Fuckin’
storms
coming again!”

Ash recognised him as another of the men who had stayed behind in Dijon; one of di Conti’s Savoyards, remaining after his captain quit. She looked up, beyond the tower’s flat roof, at a sky that was rapidly losing morning clarity, turning grey and cold. “Storms?”

“Since August, boss,” Thomas Rochester said, at her elbow. “I’ve got reports. They’ve been having foul weather here. Rain, wind, snow, sleet; and storms every two or three days.
Bad
storms.”

“That’s… I should have thought of that. Shit.”

A darkness freezing Christendom beyond the Burgundian border – the border that, here, is barely forty miles away.

The body of air around her shifted. Even down between these buildings, it tugged hard at the silk of her rectangular banner, the material cracking loudly in the wind. A scurry of white dust – almost too powdery to be snow – blew into her face. Under velvet and steel, her warm flesh shivered at the sudden chill.

“Son of a bitch. Welcome to Dijon…”

It got a laugh, as she knew it would. Only Florian’s face remained serious. Despite reddening cheeks and nose, the tall woman spoke with gravitas:

“It’s been dark over Christendom for five months. We can be sure of one thing while we’re here. This weather isn’t going to get any better.”

The effect of her words was immediately visible on the faces of the men around her. Ash contemplated some jovial or profane remark, caught sight of Thomas Rochester’s superstitious scowl, and changed her mind.

“You keep one thing in mind,” she said, loudly enough to be heard over the gusting wind. “That’s one fuck of a big army out there. Soldiers, engines, guns; you name it. But we’ve still got one thing they haven’t.”

Evidently regretting her unguarded remark, Florian provided the required question. “
What
have we got that they haven’t?”

“A commander who isn’t cracking up.” Ash cast another glance up at the heavy bellies of the clouds, aware of the men-at-arms listening. “I saw her last night, Florian. Trust me. The woman’s going completely bug-fuck.”

III

The banner and escort moved forward, under the arch of the tower’s guard-wall.

“Sorry,” Floria del Guiz murmured. “That was stupid of me.”

Ash kept her tone equally low. “Let’s deal with current problems. We’re in here now. Now we worry about what happens next! You’re Burgundian – what’s this ‘siege council’ likely to be?”

The woman frowned. “I don’t know. He didn’t mention the Duke?”

“No. But no one except Duke Charles will be giving orders for the defence.” Ash huddled her cloak around her as they strode towards the tower entrance. “Unless he’s
not
here. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he did die at Auxonne, and they’re keeping it quiet.
Shit…
Florian, go talk to the physicians.”

The tall woman nodded, said breathlessly: “If they’ll let me.”

“You try it while I go to this ‘council’. We haven’t got much time. C’mon.”

Over the arched main gate of the tower, a painted heraldry plaque bore the arms of an obscure Burgundian noble – obscure enough not to be here, Ash thought. Or maybe his household are up north, besieged in Ghent or Bruges?

This situation is looking stickier by the minute.

Loping from the courtyard up the steps to the first floor, she met Angelotti, Geraint ab Morgan and Euen Huw at the keep door.

“We got everybody?” she questioned sharply. “Everybody inside, last night?”

“Yes, boss,” Geraint nodded breathlessly.

“Baggage train as well?”

“All of them.”

“Casualties? John Price’s lot?”

Antonio Angelotti said, “We’re picking Price up tonight, after sunset. We have no one lost that we know of.”

“Fucking hell, I don’t believe it!” Ash looked to Euen Huw. “Robert’s lot put in an attack, too, didn’t they? They all get back?”

“Been checking ’em on the roll, boss, haven’t I? The attack force is here.”

“And Anselm?”

“He was leading it.” Euen’s unshaven face creased in a grin. “He’s upstairs, boss.”

“Okay, let’s go. I’ve got to be at this damn ‘siege council’ in half an hour.”

The inside of the keep was darker than the morning outside, but less chill. She nodded a brief greeting to the startled guards, loping with her officers up the steps as her sight adjusted to the lanterns. Rough grey masonry and brick lined the stairwell, bleakly strong. Walls fifteen or twenty feet thick, she gauged. Old, solid, undecorated, unsubtle.

Behind her, she heard bill-shafts thumped against the flagstones; someone bawling “Ash!” as loudly as they called it on a field of battle.

Guards pulled leather hangings back at the second floor entrance. She had one moment to take it all in: nothing but one hall, wooden-floored, as wide as the keep itself, stinking of humanity. Men and women crowded it, wall to wall. She rapidly identified faces – troops she has brought from Carthage – and saw no immediately apparent absences. There are men missing – casualties of Auxonne, but Rochester has warned her about them; and inevitably there will be some from the attrition of the siege.

Nine dead at Carthage, a score of deserters on the way here; with what we’ve got in Dijon, are we four hundred, four-fifty strong? I’ll call a muster.

“
Ash!
” Baggage-train officers not seen for months – bowyer, tailor, falconer, Master of Horse – jumped to their feet.

Washerwomen hugged each other, talking; children scrambled about; two or three couples were industriously having sex. The floor was hidden under their new heaps of baggage rolls, wicker baskets, mail shirts in rusted heaps, bills propped up against the stark walls. Wet clothes hung from makeshift lines, steaming dry after immersion in the Suzon river. A fire smoked in the hearth. As, one by one, lance by lance, they saw the banner at the doorway, saw
her,
men and women scrambled to their feet, the sound of a ragged cheer battering back off the stone walls:

“Ash!
Ash!
ASH!”

“Okay,
pack it in!
”

A brace of mastiffs ran across the hall, splaying plates, cups and costrels aside in their enthusiasm.

“Bonniau! Brifault! Down!” Ash neatly grabbed their studded collars, forcing the mastiffs down. They wriggled at her feet, growling happily, smelling of dog.

Despite the lanterns, and the light from the arrow-slit windows, it was a second before she saw Robert Anselm stomping across the cluttered floor towards her. She was at the centre of a crowd in seconds: Anselm shouldered through them without effort.

“Green fucking Christ up a Tree!” he snarled.

Ash snapped her fingers, quieting the mastiffs.

Three months – or hunger – had put lines in his face. Other than that, he was no different. His hose were torn at the knee, and his demi-gown had half its lead buttons ripped off; there was the glint of a mail standard at his throat. Stubble blackened his cheeks. His shaven head shone with sweat, despite the chill morning. She met his dark gaze.

If he’s going to challenge my authority, now’s the time. It’s been his company for three months; I’ve been dead.

“Fucking hell, woman!”

At his tone, at his expression, she couldn’t help but laugh.

“You wouldn’t like to try that again, would you, Roberto?”

Euen Huw had his hand over his mouth; some of the others were openly grinning.

“Fucking hell,
Captain Ash.
” Robert Anselm shook his head, bear-like, and for a second she did not know whether he was about to yell at her, attempt to hit her, or laugh. He reached out. His strong hands gripped her shoulders painfully hard. “Christ, girl, you took your time! Just like a bloody woman. Always late!”