by Mary Gentle
“I never thought she did,” Oxford said. “You forced me to that one, Sire.”
“Yes.” The Duke switched his prim gaze to Ash. “You have an interesting fool. She is young,” he added.
“I can command my men, Sire.” Ash, uncertain whether to cover her head, which marks respect in a woman, or uncover it, as a man does, settled for standing bareheaded, her hat in her hand. “You already have the best army in Christendom. Send me to do what your armies won’t – take out the heart of the Visigoth attack.”
“And where does that heart lie?”
“In Carthage,” Ash said.
Oxford said, “It’s not lunatic, Sire. Only audacious.”
The walls of this chamber were set about with tapestries, in which the Burgundian Heraldic Beast, the Hart, shone white and gold through the wild wood; pursued by hunters and worshippers. Ash shifted, hot in the late afternoon sun through the windows, and met the fiat, gold-embroidered stare of the Hart, the Green Cross worked finely between its many-tined antlers.
“You are an honest man, and a good soldier,” the Duke of Burgundy observed, as a page served him, and then Oxford, with wine. “Otherwise I would suspect this for some Lancastrian device.”
“I am only devious on the field of battle,” the Englishman said. Ash heard amusement in his tone; could see it pass Charles of Burgundy by.
“Then, do we have here the proof? That this ‘Stone Golem’ is where they claim – over the sea, far from us, and yet speaking to this Faris?”
“I believe that we do, Sire.”
“That would be much.”
So much depends on this man, Ash suddenly thought. This ugly, black-browed boy, with twenty thousand men and more guns than the Visigoths: so much depends on his decisions.
“I have the Faris’s blood, Sire,” she said.
“So my advisors tell me. They tell me,” Charles added, “that the likeness is remarkable. God send you are good, maîtresse, and not some device of the devil.”
“My priest can answer you best, Sire.”
Waved forward by her hand, Godfrey Maximillian said, “Your Grace, this woman hears mass and takes communion, and has made confession to me these past eight years.”
The Duke of Burgundy said, “Prince as I am, I cannot silence rumour’s tongues. It begins to be said that the Visigoth general’s voice is a devilish engine, and that we have no defence against it. I do not know, Lord Oxford, how long your condottiere’s name will be kept out of this.”
“The Faris herself may not know that she is…” de Vere hesitated, searching for a word. “That she is overheard. We cannot rely on that state of affairs continuing. She already seeks the girl, here, for interrogation. We have a short time in which we can act. Sire, a matter of weeks – days, if we are unlucky.”
“You are willing to let this matter of the Lancastrian succession drop?”
“I am willing to put it into abeyance, Sire, until we have faced this danger that comes on us from the south.”
Without looking around, the Duke said, “Clear the room.”
Within thirty seconds, pages, squires, falconers, Thomas Rochester, and the men-at-arms were ushered out of the chamber; leaving only Ash, Godfrey Maximillian, Oxford, and his brothers.
Charles of Burgundy said, “We are not what we were, de Vere.”
The wind through an open window brought the scent of chaff, and roses.
“I have had the armourers of Milan make me a harness of finest quality,” he said, “and if I could, sirs, I would be armed in it as a man should, and ride out to this despoiling army, and myself best in battle their champion, and that would decide the matter. But this is a fallen world, such honour and chivalry are no longer for us.”
“It would save a lot of people getting killed,” Ash said flatly, adding, “Sire,” as an afterthought.
“As will a raid on Carthage,” de Vere said. “Cut off the head, and the body is useless.”
“But you do not know where – if it is in Carthage – where, exactly, this Stone Golem is kept.”
Godfrey Maximillian, stroking his Briar Cross, remarked, “We can discover that, Sire. Given two hundred gold crowns, I undertake to bring you the news, within a very short time.”
“Mmm.” Charles of Burgundy switched his gaze to de Vere. “Tell me.”
Oxford set it out for the Burgundian Duke in brief, military sentences. Ash did not interrupt, knowing that for the plan to be accepted, it would have to be put forward by a man; and having it put forward by one of the better battle-commanders of Europe wouldn’t hurt a bit.
She glimpsed Godfrey’s shoulders relax, briefly, at her silence.
What Visigoths? What won’t you tell me?
The priest gazed at the hangings of the little chamber in awe. There was no way she could speak confidentially to him. Ash stared at the tiny, lattice-paned windows and the later afternoon sky, and wanted to be outdoors.
“No,” the Duke of Burgundy said.
“Do as you think best,” John de Vere rumbled. “God’s teeth, man! – your Grace. What use is a battle, whether we win it or not, if the main enemy is untouched?”
The Duke sat back, waving John de Vere away. “I am determined to fight a battle against the Visigoths, and soon. My diviner advised me that it should be before the sun passes out of Leo, to be auspicious. The twenty-first of the month of Augustus is the feast of Saint Sidonius.”
Ash saw Godfrey frown, be caught with the expression by the Duke, and steel his face to unctuousness as he rumbled an explanation. “Very fitting, Sire. Since Sidonius Apollinaris was martyred by early Visigoths, this should be a day for avenging him.”
“So I think.” Satisfied, the Duke said, “My preparations have been in hand since I returned from Neuss.”
“But—” Ash bit her lip.
“Captain?”
She spoke with reluctance. “I was about to say, Sire, that I don’t think even the armies of Burgundy can defeat the numbers they have here, let alone the numbers they have coming in by galley every day from North Africa. Even if you and the Emperor Frederick and King Louis united—”
Ash was familiar with catching the expression which tells you that, upon this one subject, a man is not rational. Having mentioned Louis XI, she was seeing it now on the face of Charles of Burgundy. She shut up.
“You won’t put up gold for an attack on Carthage?” the Earl of Oxford demanded.
“No. I think it unwise. It cannot succeed, and the battle that I shall fight, that can.” He looked at Ash. Disquiet stirred her stomach. He said, “Maîtresse Ash, there are Visigoths already present in my court, being ushered in under a flag of parley this morning. They have many demands – or humble requests, as they prefer to say. One of which is, their seeing the standard of your camp outside the walls of Dijon, that you yourself should be given up to them.”
His black eyes watched her. By the quiet consternation among the younger de Veres, this seemed as though it must be that rare thing, a genuinely secret delegation.
But not for long, Ash thought, and said aloud, “The Visigoths broke their condotta when they imprisoned me, but I don’t seriously suppose I can resist you handing me over if that’s what you’re going to do, Sire. Not with the whole Burgundian army at your disposal.”
The Duke of Burgundy gravely turned his rings upon his fingers, and made no answer.
Dizzy with news of the Visigoths so close, Ash said bluntly, “What do you intend to do with me, Sire? And – please – will you reconsider funding this raid against Carthage?”
“I will consider both these matters,” the Duke said. “I must talk to de la Marche, and to my advisors. You will know … by tomorrow.”
Twenty-four hours on hold. God damn it.
The Duke rose, ending the audience.
“I am a prince,” he said. “If you meet, here in my court, with these men from Carthage and their renegade allies, be assured that no man will harm you.”
Ash let none of
her scepticism show on her face. “Thank you, Sire.”
But I shall be in the Lion Azure camp, just as fast I can ride.
The Duke’s intense, lugubrious expression darkened.
“Maîtresse Ash. As a bastard slave of a Visigoth House, you are legally a bondswoman. They claim you, not as their paid captain, or their prisoner, but as their property. That claim may well be valid and lawful.”
II
Ash, her men at her heels, finally halted at the bottom of a flight of stairs. She realised she had left the Earl of Oxford and his brothers way behind, had ignored court officials, got through ceremonial farewells purely mechanically, in the shock of that realisation:
I can be bought and sold.
The Duke will hand me over for political advantage. Or, if not because of that, then because he can’t be seen to ignore the law. Not when law keeps anarchy away from his kingdom…
Vespers rang through the chambers of the ducal palace.
Maybe I need prayers!
Wondering where the nearest chapel was, about to ask Godfrey, she did not see a party of men approaching. Thomas Rochester coughed. “Boss…”
“What? Shit.” Ash folded her arms, which the sleeves of her mail shirt under her brigandine did not make particularly easy.
Light shone down into the antechamber in front of her, falling from tall thin windows on to flagstones, bouncing back from the whitewashed walls and high barrel-vaulting, making the whole place airy and light and entirely not a place where one might stay unnoticed.
Ahead, a group of men in Visigoth robes began to slow their steps, seeing her.
“Wish they’d let us bring the dogs in,” Ash murmured. “A leash full of mastiffs would come in very handy right now…”
Thomas Rochester grunted. “So let’s see if the Duke’s peace holds, or if we have to kick ass, boss.”
Ash took a glance at the Ducal guards lining the walls of the antechamber.
She began to smile. “Hey. We’re the ones on home ground here. Not the fucking Goths.”
“That’s right, boss.” Euen Huw grinned.
“Banjo ’em with a fucking poleaxe,” one of Rochester’s lance rumbled.
“Do nothing unless I say so. Got me?”
“Yes, boss.”
The mutual reply was reluctant. She was aware of Euen and Thomas at her shoulders. The first man in the group of Visigoths speeded his pace, walking up to her.
Sancho Lebrija.
“Qa’id” Ash acknowledged the Visigoth, steadily.
“Mistress jund.”
A tall man in Lebrija’s wake, in Milanese armour, proved to be Agnus Dei. The Lamb grinned at her, teeth yellow in his black beard.
“Madonna,” he greeted. “That’s a nasty cut you have there.”
She still carried her hat in her hand, from being in the Duke’s presence. Her hand went up to the side of her head automatically, fingers brushing a patch of shaven scalp.
Godfrey Maximillian said warningly, at her ear, “Ash—”
Soldiers in mail and white robes, four or five of them, accompanied the Visigoth delegates. As they halted, Ash saw a young man among them. He carried his helmet under his arm; was instantly recognisable.
“—of course!” Godfrey whispered vindictively. “It had to be! He can bribe some court chamberlain to find out when Charles is having audiences, and who with. Of course he can.”
Fernando del Guiz.
“Well, look who it isn’t,” Ash remarked loudly. “That’s the little shit who told the Faris where to find me in Basle. Euen, Thomas: you want to remember that face. Some day soon, you’ll be spoiling it!”
Fernando seemed to ignore her. Agnus Dei said a word in Lebrija’s ear that made the Visigoth qa’id bark out a short laugh.
Lamb continued to smile.
“Cara. You had a pleasant journey here from Basle, I trust?”
“A fast one.” Ash did not take her gaze from Fernando. “You want to watch it, Agnes. One of these days they’ll steal your best armour, too, if you don’t look out!”
“The Faris wishes more speech with you,” Sancho Lebrija said stiffly.
Meeting the Visigoth’s pale eyes – none of the charm of his dead cousin there – Ash thought, What would you say if I told you how badly I want to talk to her again?
Sister, half-sister, twin.
“Then let’s hope for a truce,” she said, making her voice carry clearly enough to be overheard by any court intriguers. “War’s always better when you’re not fighting. Any old soldier knows that – right, Agnes?”
The mercenary grinned sardonically. Behind him, the Visigoth soldiers carrying swords made no aggressive move on the Duke’s premises. Ash recognised an ’uqda lance-pennon6 with the escort, looked for the nazir who had taken her from the gardens of Basle, and saw his brown face scowling at her from behind the nasal bar of his helm.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Sancho Lebrija half-turned, glared at Fernando del Guiz, and then turned back to say, “Madam jund, your husband wishes to speak with you.”
“He does?” Ash said sceptically. “He doesn’t look like he does.”
The Visigoth qa’id put his hand firmly behind the German knight’s back, pushing him forward. “Yes. He does!”
Fernando del Guiz still wore white robes and Visigoth mail. It cannot be much more than a week, ten days, since she saw him in Basle – the thought is a shock; so much has happened – but his face seems leaner, his golden hair untidily shaggy as it grows out of its crop. Not, as it was at Neuss, long enough to fall down over his young, broad, muscled shoulders.
Ash dropped her gaze, fixed her eyes on his strong hands – bare; his gloves tucked into his belt.
The smell of him in her nostrils hit her below any guard she might have made; a smell that jolted her back into warm linen sheets, the silk-smooth skin of his chest, belly and thighs, the thrust of his velvet-hard cock in her body. A flush rose up from her breasts, up the column of her throat, and reddened her cheeks. Her fingers moved of their own accord: she would, if she had not stopped herself, have reached out and touched his cheek. She made a fist, her pulse dry in her mouth.
“We’d better talk,” Fernando del Guiz mumbled, not looking at her.
“Asshole!” Thomas Rochester said.
Godfrey Maximillian pulled at Ash’s arm. “Let’s leave.”
She resisted the priest’s force without effort, without looking at him. Studying the closed expression of Sancho Lebrija, and Lamb’s malice, she murmured, “No. I am going to talk to del Guiz. I’ve got things to say to this man!”
“Child, no.”
She removed her arm from Godfrey’s grip, casually, and indicated an area of the antechamber a few paces away. “Step into my office, husband. Thomas, Euen, you know what to do.”
She crossed the flagstones, and waited in an area where red and blue light from the stained-glass windows dappled the floor, under hanging battle standards from old Burgundian wars against France. It took her far enough away to put her out of earshot of the Visigoth delegation, and of Duke Charles’s guard.
And it’s public enough that any harm he tries to do me will be instantly seen – but, sadly, that works both ways.
She busied herself removing her gloves, rested the palm of her left hand on the pommel of her sword, and waited.
He left Lebrija and approached, alone, boots clicking on the worn, chequered tiles. The echo hissed back from the walls. The early evening heat might have accounted for the sweat on his face.
“So,” Ash prodded. “What do you want to say to me?”
“Me?” Fernando del Guiz gazed down at her. “I don’t think this was my idea at all!”
“Stop wasting my time.”
All her authority was in her tone, although she was quite unconscious of it. She was only aware that he blinked, startled; glanced back over his shoulder at Lebrija; and finally spoke:
“This is awkward…”
&nbs
p; “‘Awkward’!”
Unexpectedly, Fernando reached out and put his hand on her arm. Ash looked down at his blunt, square-cut nails; the texture of his skin; the faint blond hairs at his wrist.
“Let’s talk this over somewhere else. Alone.” Fernando’s hand came up, brushing her cheek.
“And do what?” Ash reached up and put her hand over his. Meaning to move it away, she found herself holding his hand, wrapping his strong fingers around hers. The warmth of it was so welcome, she did not immediately let go. “What, Fernando?”
He lowered his voice, uncomfortably watching her priest and her men-at-arms. “We’ll just talk. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”
“Yes, I think I’ve heard that one before.”
Looking into his face, she thought she could see the young man still there – the young noble, riding to hawk and to hounds, golden and glorious among his wide affinity of friends, never needing to work out whether he could afford this wine or that horse, not ever needing to choose between shoeing his horse and shoes for his own feet. A little road-worn, now, but still the golden boy.
Her fingers still clasped his. The warmth of them made her hands shake. She opened her hand and drew it away, feeling cold. Absently, she put her hand to her face, breathing in the particular scent of him.
“Oh, come on.” Ash’s lips pressed together, in extreme scepticism. A quiver went through her belly. She was genuinely unsure whether it was lust, or plain nausea. “Fernando – I don’t believe this. Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s easier.”
Ash opened her mouth, found she had no words, and stood for a count of ten staring at his face. Outrage hit. “Are you – what do you mean, ‘because it’s easier’? Easier than what?”
“Refusing the Faris and her officers.” All the humour faded from his expression; perhaps it had been no more than momentary. “Even when they say a good fuck might get you into their hands again, so why don’t I go give it to you?”
“‘A good fuck—!’” Ash bellowed.
Across the floor, Agnus Dei put a restraining hand on Sancho Lebrija’s arm, both men scowling; this shouted row obviously reaching them, obviously not what either of them expected to hear. Ash glimpsed Godfrey take a few steps forward, staring at her, his face drained and pale.
