Ash: A Secret History (202 page)

The Turkish commander, after an interchange with Anselm, said something which his interpreter rendered as: “You seriously expect to lift this siege?”

“We’re on last rations. Civilians are sick. If we’re going to do anything, it has to be before we’re too weak.” Ash reached out, grabbing Florian’s arm on one side, de Vere’s on the other. “Let’s not lose sight of the objective. Leaving aside our gracious Duchess—”

“Fuck you too,” Florian commented.

“—what do we need to do? We need to make the King-Caliph look weak. We need to do something so that his allies abandon him – and join Burgundy. We need to look strong. We need to win,” Ash said.

Olivier de la Marche stared at her. “‘Win’?”

“Look. There’s no reinforcements coming for us. We can give in. Or we can wait – and we won’t have to wait long! Make them come in and fight us through the streets, today or tomorrow. We’ll maul them. But we’ll lose. Either way, they’ll execute Florian.” Ash spoke in a pragmatic tone. “Look at the situation. There’s fifteen thousand men out there. We’re two and a half thousand. That’s us outnumbered over five to one!”

She grinned at Florian.

“You’re right. There’s only one thing we can do. We attack.”

“I thought we were surrendering!”

“Ah. We
say
we’re going to surrender. We’re going to send an envoy out, and ask the King-Caliph Gelimer to arrange a formal surrender, and negotiate the conditions under which we give Dijon up to him.” Ash smiled at Florian. “We’re
lying.
”

A slight frown crossed the Earl of Oxford’s face. “It is against the rules and customs of war.”

Olivier de la Marche was nodding. “Yes. It is treachery. But my men will remember Duke John
Sans Peur
⁶
on the bridge at Montereau. The French did not suffer for their treachery, since it was successful. We are in no position here to be more proud than a Frenchman.”

“We
are
in desperate straits,” John de Vere agreed mildly.

Ash snuffled back a laugh. She wiped her nose on her cloak. The wind penetrated wool, metal and skin; cold sank down into her bones. She moved, stiffly, from foot to foot; attempting to warm up.

“It looks hopeless.” She grinned toothily. “It
is
hopeless. It looks hopeless to the Sultan. And to King Louis. And to Frederick of Hapsburg. Can you imagine – what will happen – if we win? One bold stroke – and Gelimer doesn’t have any allies.”

“And we don’t have our lives!” Florian snapped. She was hitching herself up and down, toe and heel, in front of the brazier, attempting to find warmth in movement. Ash ignored the surgeon-Duchess’s asperity.

“Most of their men – Gelimer’s legions – are at the north side. Between the two rivers. They can get their other men up there. But it’ll take time. So we don’t face – more than ten thousand.”

“You’re going to get everybody killed,” Florian stated.

“Not everybody. Just one person.” Ash prodded the surgeon-Duchess with a completely numb finger. “Listen to this. What happens if
Gelimer
dies?”

There was a silence.

Florian, with a slow, amazed, and growing grin, said, “Gelimer. You want us to attack the
King-Caliph?
Himself?”

Olivier de la Marche said, “The Faris claims her replacement – Lebrija – is a man fit only for
following
orders.”

“Have to have another fucking election, wouldn’t they?” Robert Anselm was nodding. “Maybe go back to Carthage. All the
amirs
– in-fighting—”

“There is no obvious candidate for Caliph,” the Earl of Oxford said. “My lord Gelimer is not a man to welcome other powerful
amirs
in his court. He has weakened the influence of many. Madam, this idea is well thought on: take away their commander, and not only may you raise this siege, you may halt their crusade here for this winter – perhaps for all time.”

“They won’t have any friends,” Ash said dryly. “You watch Frederick and Louis leg it. And the Sultan come in – right, Colonel?”

Bajezet, translated, said, “It is not impossible, Woman Bey.”

John de Vere said, “But, madam, Lord Gelimer is not a stupid man. Yes, we might make a sally out in force, hoping to overrun his men and kill him – but where is he? In what part of the enemy camp? Or has he withdrawn – to a town nearby? He will expect just such an attempt.”

“He can expect what he likes: if two and a half thousand troops hit him, he’s dog-meat.” Ash shook her head vigorously, speaking over the rest of them, gasping with the tearing wind. “Listen to me. The Faris knows – troop dispositions – and guard rosters. She knew – she’d have to come over. Collected information. If we can do it – before things can be changed – we can get spies out – and back in again. We can find Gelimer’s household – without him knowing, and moving it again. My guess is, it’s to the north there. He needs an eye on his troops.”

“God’s
teeth!
” John de Vere said.

Surveying the enemy lines, beyond the walls, there was no sign of the King-Caliph’s standard among the other eagles. Any of the finer pavilions and turf-roofed buildings might house him –
whichever is the warmer,
Ash thought cynically, letting Florian and de Vere and de la Marche stare north at the encamped Visigoth legions.

“It would need to be very fast,” the Earl of Oxford said thoughtfully. “And if he is on that ground, you would find it difficult to get a great number of troops out of the north-east or north-west gates in time. Impossible. They would be on us before we could deploy out of the bottleneck.”

“I know how to do that,” Ash said.

She spoke with a confidence that made them ignore her chattering teeth, and the fact that she hugged herself, shivering violently in the bitter wind. The advancing sun dappled a pale gold over Dijon’s white walls. The frost on the battlements did not melt.

“I know how to get the troops out there,” Ash repeated. She looked at Florian. “It’s St Stephen’s day, it isn’t twenty-four hours since the Faris came over to us. Whatever we’re going to do, we’ve got to at least get
intelligence
collected quickly.” She snatched a breath of freezing air. “Some weaknesses Gelimer can’t alter. He can’t alter his weak units – but he can move them. He needs to think there’s no hurry, we’re surrendering. We need time to prepare for this. And we need him
not
to think he’s our target.”

Florian chuckled, a little hoarse and breathless. She held out her hands to the brazier. “He’s our target. Yes. We’re surrounded by fifteen thousand men – so we’re going to attack their leader.
Perfect
logic, boss!”

“It is. It’s why they want
you.
Cut off the head, and the body dies.” Ash halted. “Look, if we do this, that’s it: it hangs on this. Once we’re outside, if we lose, they come in and trash this city.”

The surgeon-Duchess said frankly, “So where are you planning on putting me? Down in some deep dungeon where they won’t find me? Because they will.”

“They can attack the city even while we attack them,” Olivier de la Marche cut in. “If the opportunity were seen, they would send a legion in while we fought on the outside. Then we have lost – her Grace being dead – everything.”

“I’ve got an answer for that, too,” Ash said. “Are we agreed on this?”

They looked at each other.

In the end it was Florian who spoke. Wrapped in wolf-pelts, her dirty, hung-over face peering out of the grey fur, she swallowed back bile, frowned, and said, “Not until I’ve heard every detail six times. I don’t buy a pig in a poke. And where does the Duchess feature in all this?”

“That,” Ash said, smiling and nodding at the Janissary commander, “is where Colonel Bajezet and his horses come in. And,” she turned to the Earl of Oxford, “your youngest brother, my lord. We need to speak with Dickon de Vere.”

She did not arrive back at the company’s tower until the second hour of the afternoon. She immediately called Ludmilla Rostovnaya and Katherine over.

“How many woman sergeants have we got in the company at present?”

Ludmilla frowned, glancing at her lance-mate. “Not sure, boss. About thirty, I think. Why?”

“I want you to get them together. Get all the spare polearms we’ve got – the Burgundians’ as well, Jonvelle’s expecting you. You’re going to put some people through basic training.”

The Rus woman still frowned. “Yes, boss. Who?”

“The civilians, here. They’re going to get basic instruction in how to defend the city walls.”

“Green Christ, boss,
they can’t fight!
They don’t know how! It’ll be a massacre.”

“I don’t think I asked for an opinion,” Ash said. After a stern moment, she added, “There’s a difference between dying defenceless, if we’re overrun, and dying trying to take someone else with you. These people know that. I want you and the other women to teach them which end of a bill to hold, and how far away they should stand so they don’t impale each other. That’s all. You’ve got today.”

“Yes, boss.” The Rus woman, turning away, stopped and said, “Boss – why the women?”

“Because you’re going to be training the men and women of Dijon. You may not have noticed, soldier, but they don’t like soldiers. They think we’re drunken, licentious, aggressive louts.” Ash grinned at Ludmilla’s expression of angelic innocence. “So. The women civilians will learn if they see women who can already do it. The men will learn because they won’t have women outdoing them. Satisfied?”

“Yes, boss.” Ludmilla Rostovnaya went off, grinning.

Ash’s amusement faded, watching her go.
Civilians do not turn into militia overnight; even militia don’t function until they’ve had a couple of fights. They’re going to get slaughtered.

Brutally honest, she thought,
Better them than men and women who can fight. I need
them.

“Boss?” Thomas Rochester slid in through the main door, the guards slamming it shut instantly behind the dark Englishman. A scurry of thin snow came in with him, and stayed, white and unmelted, on the flagstones. He said, “You’d better come, boss. The Turkish Janissaries are leaving the city.”

“Good!” Ash said.

II

The cold was no less bitter up on the battlements of Dijon’s north-east gate.

“Keep your fucking fingers crossed,” Robert Anselm growled, standing beside her. He had the ends of his cloak wrapped around his arms, and the whole lot bundled across his body; his hood pulled down almost to his nose. Only his stubbled chin was visible.

The pale afternoon sun put her shadow across the ramparts. Ash shaded her eyes with her hand, gazing north at the rider and red crescent banner moving out into the no-man’s-land between the city and the Visigoth lines. A second rider – on a borrowed Turkish mare – carried a yellow silk banner with the Blue Boar of the Oxfords on it.

“Well, if nothing else, this ought to convince them we’re really going to surrender.”

Anselm chuckled explosively at that. “Fucking right. Our last allies up the Swannee.”

From behind her, down in the square behind the north-east gate, Ash heard the chink of tack and the creak of saddles; many hooves ringing as they shifted on iron-hard cobblestones. She looked down. The ochre gowns and pointed helmets of Bajezet’s Janissaries dizzied her with their uniformity. The few Englishmen – de Vere’s household troops, his brothers, and Viscount Beaumont – stood out by virtue of their murrey and white livery.

Apprehension paralysed her. She said, “I can’t believe we’re doing this. I’m going to shit myself. Roberto, go tell them to quit.”

“Bugger off, girl. This was your idea!” Robert Anselm threw his head up, shifting his hood back to see her, and she saw his pinched white face and red nose. He grinned at her. “Don’t lose your bottle now. You said ‘a bold stroke’.”

With guards at the entrance to the battlements, and no one within fifty yards who could possibly hear them, Ash still spoke in a whisper.

“This isn’t something to joke about. We’re risking Florian. We’re risking everything.”

Equally softly, and with the appearance of calm rationality, Anselm said, “If it wasn’t risky, the Visigoths would see it coming, wouldn’t they? Thought that was your point.”

“Fuck you,” Ash said. “Shit. Oh,
shit.
”

The sunlight cast his hood’s shadow over his face, but she saw that there were beads of sweat on his forehead. She strode across and leaned on the crenellations, staring out at the riders.

A Visigoth eagle, shatteringly bright in the frosty air, left the enemy lines. Ash was not aware that she was holding her breath until she let it out, with a choking sound. No more than twenty men, Visigoth foot soldiers and horsemen, were leaving the camp; and they rode into the empty ground at the walk.

“Told you they wouldn’t fire on the Turks.”

“Yet,” Anselm said.

“Christ up a Tree, will you shut
up!
”

Anselm said companionably, “Helps to have someone to yell at,” and then leaned out over the merlon beside her, straining to see the riders meet. “That’s it. Take it easy. Don’t fuck up now.”

Plainly, he was talking to the Turkish and English envoys. Ash shaded her eyes again. The frost lay white and heavy on the ground. Two hundred yards beyond the gate, the red crescent banner halted, and the Blue Boar; and one Visigoth rider came forward from beneath the eagle. The armed figures on horseback blurred in her vision.

“Don’t you wish you were a fly on
that
horse?” she murmured. “I know what Bajezet’s Voynik is saying. ‘Burgundy is about to fall. My master the Sultan has no confidence in the Duchess. It is time that we returned to our own land.’”

Robert Anselm nodded slowly. “I don’t reckon Gelimer wants a war with the Turk. Not
this
winter.”

The shouting on the distant ground went on. A horse neighed once, in the square behind and below them. Ash shivered in the wind. She wiped her nose on her cloak; skin abraded by the wet wool.

The Visigoth rider approached the banners more closely, until Ash could not tell one man from another, only the coloured silks clear against the sky. The Visigoth troop of foot soldiers waited stolidly under their eagle.