Ash: A Secret History (61 page)

Oxford’s mouth made a bitter twist. He scowled, said nothing, looked to be furiously thinking.

“He’s going to do it,” Ash whispered to the two men beside her: Anselm sweating, his head aggressively down; Angelotti’s hand on his dagger with deadly grace. “Maybe he won’t do it for political advantage – maybe he’s different from Frederick – but he’s going to listen to Lebrija. He’s going to hand me over because they
are
legally right.”

Behind her, the small group of her officers, men-at-arms, and archers began to shift, spread out a little; some men checking how far they were standing from the doors of the presence chamber, and where the guards were.

“You got any ideas?” she added, to Oxford.

The Earl scowled blackly, his pale eyes puzzled. “Give me a minute!”

The noise of a clarion cut through the ducal presence chamber: fine and high and clear. More knights in full harness, with axes, entered by the ornate doors, taking up their stations around the walls. Ash saw de la Marche give a satisfied nod of approval.

Charles of Burgundy spoke from his throne.

“What will your Faris-General do with the woman, Ash, when she has her?”

“
Do
with her?” Lebrija looked blank.

“Yes, do with her.” The Duke folded his hands in his lap, neatly. Young and grave, a little pompous, he said, “You see, it is my belief you will hurt her.”

“Harm her? Lord Prince, no.” Lebrija had the face of a man realising he sounded unconvincing. He shrugged. “Lord Prince, it is not your concern. The woman Ash is a House slave. You may as well ask if I mean harm to my horse when I ride it on to the field of battle.”

Some of the Visigoth soldiers with Lebrija laughed.

“What will you do with her?”

“My lord Prince, it is not your concern. It is for you to uphold the law. By law, she is ours.”

Charles of Burgundy said, “That, I think, is certainly true.”

The frustration that emanated from the men with her was all but tangible: they glared around at the armed Burgundians, swore; all internal dissent momentarily united. Anselm said something restraining to Angelotti.

“No!” Antonio Angelotti snapped. “I have
been
a slave in one of their
amirs
’ houses. Madonna, I will do anything to keep you out of that!”

Robert Anselm snarled, “Master gunner, be silent!”

Ash stared across the chamber at Agnus Dei as Lamb slapped Sancho Lebrija congratulatorily on the back. Behind the Italian mercenary, Fernando del Guiz listened to some comment from his escort and smiled, throwing his head back, gold in the sunlight.

Her decision crystallised.

“I’m happy to kill all of the Visigoths here.” Ash spoke steadily, loudly enough to be heard by Anselm, Angelotti, van Mander, Oxford and his brothers. “There are nine men. Take them out, now, fast; throw down our weapons – then let the Duke declare us outlaw. If they’re dead, we’ll just be thrown out of Burgundy, not handed over—”

“Let’s do it.” Anselm stepped forward; the men-at-arms in Lion livery moving as he did; Ash with them. She heard van Mander mutter something panicky about the guards – thought, in acceptance,
yes, we’ll take casualties
– and Carracci swear excitedly, saw Euen Huw and Rochester simultaneously grin, hard men reaching for their swords with reckless aggression.

“Wait!” the Earl of Oxford commanded.

The clarion rang out again. Charles, Duke of Burgundy, stood. As if there were no armed mercenaries ten yards from his throne, as if the armed guards were not moving to obey de la Marche’s abrupt signal, he spoke.

“No. I will not order the woman Ash turned over to you.”

Utterly affronted, Lebrija said, “But she is ours
by law.
”

“That is true. Nonetheless, I will not give her to you.”

Ash dimly felt Anselm’s hand grip her arm, with painful force.

“
What?
” she whispered. “What did he just say?”

The Duke looked around, at his counsellors, advisors, lawyers and subjects; a slight expression of satisfaction crossing his features as Olivier de la Marche bowed heavily, and indicated the armed men in the chamber.

“Furthermore, if you attempt to remove her by force, you will be prevented.”

“Lord Prince, you are an insane man!”

“Fuck me, he’s right,” Ash said under her breath.

De Vere laughed out loud, and cuffed Ash’s shoulder at much the same strength as he might one of his brothers. She had cause to be glad that she was wearing a brigandine: even so, she heard the riveted steel plates crunch.

Over what was an undoubted cheer from Ash’s men, Charles of Burgundy addressed the Visigoth delegation:

“It is my will that the woman Ash stays here. So be it.”

As if the Burgundian Duke, at least ten years his junior, was no more than a recalcitrant page, Sancho Lebrija exclaimed, “But you’re
breaking the law!
”

“Yes. I am. Take this message to your masters – your Faris: I will continue to break the law, at all times, if the law is wrong.” Stilted, and still a little pompous, Charles of Burgundy said, “Honour is above Law. Honour and chivalry demand we protect the weak. It would be morally wrong to give the woman to you, when every man listening here knows that you will butcher her.”

Sancho Lebrija gazed up at him, utterly bemused.

“I don’t get it.” Ash shook her head, bewildered. “Where’s the advantage? What’s Charles getting out of this?”

“Nothing,” the Earl of Oxford said, beside her, clasping his hands behind his back as if he had not just been drawing sword. He glanced keenly at her. “Absolutely nothing, madam. No political advantage. His action will be thought indefensible.”

Ignoring the raucous pleasure of the Lion contingent, Ash gazed across the presence chamber at the Visigoth delegation, marching out flanked by Burgundian troops; and then at the throne, and at the Burgundian Duke.

“I don’t
get
it,” Ash said.

V

Ash came back to her command tent by a circuitous route. She spoke, on her way from fire-pit to fire-pit, to a hundred or more of the teenage males
¹⁰
who sat around drinking, talking inaccurately about their success with women, and even more inaccurately about the capabilities of their longbows or bills.

“It’s war,” she said, outwardly cheerful. And listened, both to what they said and didn’t say; squatting by the flames that flickered invisibly in sunlight, drinking beer here, and eating a bowl of pottage there; listening to excited voices. Listening to what they had to say about war. About their surgeon. About the drum-head court’s penalties after Josse’s death.

She paid particular attention to that side of the camp that was made up of the thirteen or fourteen Flemish lances that had signed on with Joscelyn van Mander.

Arriving at her tent, she surveyed her officers’ meeting. A tiny frown dinted her silver brows. She stepped outside again, picked up her escort of six men from (this time) an English knight’s lance, and their dogs, and walked back down the straw-trodden paths between the tents and bashas.

“Di Conti,” she called. Paul di Conti loped up, a broad grin on his sun-reddened face, and dropped to one knee in front of her. “I don’t see you or the Flemish lance-leaders in my tent. Get your asses in gear; there’s a meeting.”

The Savoyard man-at-arms beamed up at her. In his soft accent, he said, “Sieur Joscelyn said he would attend in our places. Willem and I don’t mind, nor the others. Sieur Joscelyn will pass on all we need to know.”

And di Conti’s not even Flemish.
Ash made herself smile.

Di Conti, his grin fading slightly, added, “It saves us crowding in, boss!”

“Well, I guess it saves half of you sitting on my lap! Right.” Ash abruptly about-faced, striding back to the centre of camp.

Walking, thinking furiously, she did not at first notice herself being shadowed by a very large, dark-haired man. His skin was pale despite the south Burgundian sun, and his sparse beard black, and he stood – she continued to look up, and up – something above six foot high. One of the dogs yelped at him and he skipped, surprisingly lightly, to one side.

“You’re… Faversham,” she recalled.

“Richard Faversham,” he confirmed, in English.

“You’re Godfrey’s assistant priest.” She could not, for some reason, find the English term in her mind.

“Deacon. Do you wish me to hold mass until Master Godfrey returns?” Richard Faversham asked, solemnly.

The Englishman was not much above her own age; sweating as he walked in the dark green robes of a priest, the sharp edges of cut straw spiking in vain against the hardened soles of his feet. One cheek had a small cross tattooed on it in blue ink. A clanking mass of saint’s medals hung suspended around his neck. Ash, identifying several prominent St Barbara’s,
¹¹
thought he might have the right idea.

“Yes. Has he notified you of when he’s coming back from,” she crossed her fingers behind her back, “Dijon?”

Deacon Faversham smiled benevolently. “No, boss. I make allowances for Master Godfrey’s unworldliness. If there is a poor man, or a sick man, and he’s met them, he’ll stay until he’s remedied their trouble.”

Ash nearly choked, coming to a dead stop amid men-at-arms, leashed hounds, tent guy-ropes, and the round balls of sweet-smelling horse droppings. “‘Unworldly’?
Godfrey?
”

Richard Faversham’s small black eyes narrowed uncertainly against the sunlight. His voice, however, remained sure. “Master Godfrey will be a saint one day. There’s no billman so low, or whore so dirty, that he won’t bring them God’s Bread and Wine. I’ve known him minister to a sick child forty hours at a stretch – and do the same with a sick hound. He’ll be one of the Community of Saints, when he dies.”

Ash, her breath returning, managed to say, “Well, at the moment, I could do with him on earth! If you see him, tell him boss needs him
now;
meanwhile, go prepare for a mass.”

She moved on, back to the command tent, diverting only once – to speak briefly to John de Vere; and the visiting Olivier de la Marche, conveniently in conversation with the English Earl – and then stood under the Lion Azure standard, in front of her tent, and called all her officers out into the open piece of ground.

They stumbled out into the bright Burgundian sun: Geraint with his points undone and his split hose rolled down to his calves, Robert Anselm in breast-and backplate; Angelotti in a white silk doublet – Ash muttered “
white!
” and “
silk!
” under her breath in equal amazement, noting her master gunner to be clean – and Joscelyn van Mander, blinking hooded eyes against the glare.

She lifted her arm. Euen Huw put a clarion to his mouth and blew for general assembly. She was not too surprised at the speed with which the men made their way to the empty ground at the centre of camp, crowding it, pushing back into the open fire-break paths between the tents. Sometimes, she mused, the rumours of what I’m going to do get around before
I’ve
thought of it…

“Okay!” Ash pushed a squawking hen off an upturned barrel, at the foot of the Lion Azure standard, and sprang neatly up on top of it. She put her hands on her hips. The blue and gold standard hung, stiffened, above her, no breeze to ripple it on the air, but you couldn’t have everything, she thought, and let her gaze travel across the crowd, picking out faces here and there, smiling as she did so.

“Gentlemen,” she said, projecting only enough that they had to be quiet to hear her. “Gentlemen – and I use the term loosely – you will be pleased to hear that we’re going to war again.”

A muted rumble greeted this, part pleasure, part groans of dismay (some of them genuine).

Ash did not know what her grin did to her face as she stood there facing them, did not quite realise how it made her face blaze with brightness, with a sincere content. It broadcast, in the anticipation of a battle, her absolute (if unconscious) certainty that all was right with the world.

“We’re going to fight a battle against the Visigoths,” she called. “Partly because we like the sun here in Burgundy! Mostly because my lord the Earl of Oxford is
paying
us to do this. But mainly,” she added emphasis, “mainly we’re fighting the Visigoth bitch because
I want my fucking armour back!
”

What had been raucous, deep male laughter and cheers came together as a shout of laughter, and a loud yell of triumph that almost jarred the earth under the upturned barrel. Ash held up both arms over her head. There was a silence.

“What about Carthage?” Blanche called from one of the wagons.

What did I say about rumour?

“That can wait!” Ash made herself grin. “Three or four days and we fight a field against the rag-heads. I’ve got you an advance on your pay. Your duties for the rest of today are to go out and get rat-arsed, and fuck every whore in Dijon twice! I don’t—” The loudest roar of noise overwhelmed her, she tried to make herself heard, gave up, grinning so hard it hurt; and at the first drop in the sound level, completed what she had been going to say: “I don’t want to see a sober man wearing the Lion Azure tonight!”

A Welsh voice shouted, “No danger of that, boss!”

Ash raised a silver brow at Geraint ab Morgan. “Did I say that included officers? I don’t
think
so.”

The noise at this was, if anything, louder than before; eight hundred male voices baying with pure pleasure. Ash felt herself lifted up on the adrenalin.

“Okay – whoa! I said, whoa! Shut
up!
” Ash took a breath. “That’s better. Go get pissed. Go get laid. Those of you that
do
come back are going to fight a battle, and give the rag-heads fucking
hell.
” She slammed a hand against the standard-pole, shaking the folds of the silk above her. “Remember, I don’t want you guys to die for your flag – I want you to make the Visigoths die for theirs!”

There was a cheer for that, and men at the back of the crowd beginning to drift away. Ash nodded once to herself, and turned around precariously on the barrel. “Mynheer van Mander!”