by Mary Gentle
The atmosphere around the table changed, the men’s expressions taking on more weight, more memory. Feeling how it did not exclude her, Ash realises: I have been watched, up at the north-west gate. And at Auxonne, too.
De la Marche said, “I myself led what survives of sixteen one-hundred-strong companies of mounted archers and household infantry back to Dijon. There are three hundred of us.”
He kept a steady gaze on Floria del Guiz.
“We lost our bombards, serpentines, and mortars on that field. Of the army itself, there died men-at-arms to the number of one thousand, one hundred and five—” He looked down at the slanting ink lines on the paper he held. “Mounted archers, upwards of three thousand; crossbowmen, one thousand or less; the archers on foot, eight hundred; the billmen, fifteen hundred or more.”
Romont, Lacombe, and two or three of the other officers stared down at the table.
Florian said nothing. Ash saw her lips move, soundless. Hearing it listed made her own gut turn over, remembering that half-dark wet morning scarred by Greek Fire. It must be worse, she thought, for a surgeon who only sees the result of such numbers, and never the butchery that brings it about.
“Your Grace, I may still offer you your archier de corps, but there is one captain now, and not two; twenty men, not forty. They are your bodyguard; they will die to keep you alive. For the rest, I have re-structured the companies of Berghes and Loyecte and Saint-Seigne.” He nodded acknowledgement to those centeniers. “If I could make up twenty full companies in Dijon now, I would count us rich. What strength we have is knights, foot archers and arquebusiers, and billmen, in the main. No more than two thousand men.”
“The Lion is down to forty-eight lances,” Robert Anselm put in. “Mostly men-at-arms, archers, and hackbutters; some cannon. The company’s light guns are still in Carthage. Unless the rag-heads shipped them north and they’re out there in the artillery park.”
Angelotti gave him a filthy look.
De la Marche said, “We have scouts enough in towers and on the walls to give us warning of where an attack will come. If every man attends to the trumpets and standards, we can deploy our companies well enough to cover an attack against any part of the walls. Perhaps two attacks at once.” He opened his mouth as if to complete the thought, and stopped.
We had a hard enough job holding one gate against one attack. They’ve got the man-power to put two full-strength attacks in at once, or three.
And we’ve got far too few troops for a break-out.
Ash shifted herself up off the chair-back, careless of scratching the golden oak; steel plates sliding, tassets shifting on buff leather straps. A fierce restlessness kept her from sitting down, kept her on her feet and moving. “I want the companies’ duties rotated. Nobody gets the same section of wall for more than twenty-four hours.”
Lacombe scowled up at her as she passed. “They will say, demoiselle, that you do that to spare your own men – and mine – their constant danger at the north-west gate.”
“They can say what they like.” Ash halted. “I don’t want the rag-heads knowing which Franks they’ll be up against, and I don’t want anybody getting used to the Visigoth unit they’re facing. I don’t want familiarity – that’s when men start getting bribed to open postern gates. So we’ll do it my way, okay?”
He nodded briskly. “We’ll see to it, Demoiselle-Captain.”
“That’s ‘Captain’. Or ‘Captain-General’.” She grinned. “Or ‘Boss’.”
With enough eye-contact to make it seem a small contest of wills, Lacombe said – as if he had not cheerfully been saying it for forty-eight hours now, up on the walls – “We’ll see to it, boss.”
Her silk arming doublet is clammy, under her armour, with new sweat. Two thousand five hundred men, and all the miles of wall to be guarded—!
“Okay,” she went on smoothly, walking around to de la Marche’s seat. “So now let’s move on. Messire, when I sent Father Paston to you, before the hunt – I know there was one Visigoth report from Flanders.” She spoke over the rising mutter of interest. “By that time I was dictating in my sleep! Let’s have your clerk or mine read it out. We need to know now what chance we’ve got of the northern army raising this siege – and I think it was a very recent report?”
De la Marche frowned, fretting among the papers piled on the desk. A tonsured clerk got up from beside the Bishop of Cambrai, searching more of the papers. Ash sensed movement, shifted, and Rickard, blushing, reached past her and took a document from the heap.
“Father Paston’s hand, boss,” he explained. “Shall I read it?”
He automatically looked at Ash; Ash, as automatically, nodded permission; and only afterwards saw the surgeon-Duchess’s expression of quiet amusement. Ash noted it had gone right past the centeniers, too.
The boy seated himself at the table, close to a patch of bright sunlight, and spread out his folded sheets of paper. Ash admired the neat chancery hand, upside down.
“This is something Godfrey heard, in the machina rei militarist” Florian herself reached for wine, and poured it into her cup, not bothering to call over a page. De la Marche frowned, caught between social embarrassment – a Duchess should not do this! – and an inability to criticise his sovereign.
“Yeah. A Visigoth report, from before the Faris stopped using the machina.”
Florian tapped the table with the foot of her goblet. “So. Does it tell us about Duchess Margaret? Who are her forces, where are they, who is she fighting?”
Memory of dictating this, in the early hours, sparked a memory. Ash said, “Strictly speaking, it’ll be Margaret of York, Dowager Duchesse de Bourgogne, now.”
Are we going to have trouble because Charles’s daughter Marie ought to inherit? She watched the Burgundians’ faces. No. Florian hunted the hart. Look at them: they’re unshakable.
Ash signalled to Rickard. The boy ran his fingers down one sheet of paper, his lips moving, until he reached the part he wanted to read aloud. “‘The town of Le Crotoy fell to us, this day, the thirteenth in the sign of the scorpion.’”20 Aware of the captains listening, his voice strengthened. “‘Glory to the King-Caliph Gelimer, under the hand of the One True God, who will remember that our treaty with the Frankish king, Louis, forces him to help us. Since the Burgundian town of Crotoy is close to the French border, we bid him allow us to cross his territory, and to re-supply our legions, which he did. And therefore we fell upon the men in Crotoy.’”
“Devious little fuck!” Ash muttered. “Louis, I mean.”
Olivier de la Marche cleared his throat. “I know my lady Margaret had planned to write to Louis, as she is sister to the English King as well as Duchess of Burgundy, and beg him to come to her aid. The Spider long supported both sides in the English wars. There was a chance he’d change his allegiance from the Anjou woman21 to York, and to us. He has made overtures to King Edward, her brother, since he took the throne, and is paying him a pension.”
“He’s not going to bolster up Anglo-Burgundian power on the French borders,” Florian said, and as they stared at her, shrugged and added, “I’ve listened to Messire Ternant and my other counsellors. Louis sees the Visigoths as a useful counterweight to Burgundy and the English.”
“And the French will expect the King-Caliph to hold what he’s conquered.” Ash added, “They’ll be shit-scared, right now, about the Darkness – they’ll know it’s spread everywhere, even to Iberia, where Carthage gets its grain. Louis’s probably hoping the Visigoths can take it away!”
“Can they?” Rickard broke in. He flushed. “Sorry, my lord de la Marche—”
“Rickard’s one of my junior officers, my lord,” Ash said smoothly. “I let everybody speak in officer meetings. Then I make my own mind up.”
Floria spoke to the boy. “Rickard, I think if the Visigoths could take the Eternal Twilight away, they’d have done it by now.”
Lacombe and a couple of the others – Berghes? Loyecte? – grunted knowing agree
ment.
“Carry on,” Ash directed.
Rickard read without hesitation from the cramped lines. “‘The Frankish woman and her forces fell back from Le Crotoy, and it is likely she will make for Bruges, Ghent, or Antwerp. Be aware, great Caliph, that in Ghent, because of the trouble to her that her Chancellor has been, she was forced to disband the estates there.’”22
“Who’s the Chancellor?” Ash looked at Ternant.
Florian cut in. “Guillaime Hugonet, Lord of Saillant, Chancellor of Burgundy.” She spoke as if she had memorised the name. “I’m told he’s good at raising taxes. She can pay that army. He’s a good orator… Apparently he was with Margaret before, in Flanders and Brabant.”
Philippe Ternant inclined his head in agreement.
“Hugonet may be good at keeping the northern army funded and in the field,” Olivier de la Marche snarled, “but even under war conditions, I doubt that anyone will put up with him! The man made innumerable political enemies in Ghent, and Bruges. A hard-liner, demoiselle. If Guillaime Hugonet has made the Lady Margaret disband the estates, that means the cities will be in a ferment.”
“I guess Anthony de la Roche is still her military commander?” Ash speculated.
Another of the centeniers exclaimed, “He’s one of our late Duke’s father’s bastards. He ought to be loyal, if nothing else!”23
Ash caught Florian’s eye. She had no need to say professional rivalry; it was plain from the surgeon-Duchess’s expression that she deduced exactly the same thing.
“Rickard?”
“‘The Frankish woman has yet an army, by virtue that she is pious in her heretic religion. Know, great Gelimer, that she does not swear, either by God or the Saints; that she is said to hold mass wherever the army travels, three times a day; that she has with her her musicians, choir, and has mass sung. She travels always as befits a lady, riding side-saddle, always chaperoned by priests. My heart is cold, King-Caliph, when I tell you how much support she has among the common folk, who still revere her husband’s name.’”
“This was a fortnight ago?” Captain Romont murmured. “I wonder how long he held his command after this report got back to Carthage?”
Ash grinned at the curly-haired knight, and gestured for Richard to read on.
“‘The Frankish woman has with her some eight thousand men—’”
Someone at the far end of the table whistled. Ash glanced in that direction and saw men grinning. Eight thousand! Now there’s a reassuring figure…
“‘—all in Burgundian colours, and at first under the command of Philippe of Croy, the Lord of Chimay, but after his death,24 under command of Anthony, duke’s bastard, Count of La Roche. This man, great King-Caliph, is a notable soldier. In battle, he has been in command of the ducal banner, and often was deputed to act as regent for the dead Duke. He is her first chamberlain, and men say that she holds him dear in her heart, for that, when they held tournament to celebrate her wedding to his half-brother Charles, he was gravely injured, wearing her favour—’”
“Oh, spare me!” Florian sighed.
Ash chuckled. “I like this one. He picks up all the gossip.”
“Eight thousand men,” Olivier de la Marche repeated.
More soberly, Ash said, “About the same number that we’ve got sitting outside the walls. Doesn’t she get more? Rickard, where’s the next bit?”
The boy shuffled through four sheets of paper, bringing one to the top of the pile, and smoothing it out. He squinted at the black lettering.
“‘I have heard – under the One True God to your ear, King-Caliph – that when she had dismissed the councils of her common people, she was forced to ride personally from city to city, to The Hague, Leiden, Delft, and Gouda, to raise more men. But I do not fear to tell you that she has a scant one thousand more.25 Rumour says she has made these cities melt down all their bells to make new cannon. Our three legions push north and east, hard in her pursuit now, and before long there will be more victories to gladden the heart of Carthage.’”
“Before long,” Ash said, “that man will be digging latrines. Christus! I can see why the Faris wanted to be up north, not here. That’s where the action is!”
“I see that both you and she wish to meet each other on the field of battle, Demoiselle-Captain. That is commendable fire and courage.” Olivier de la Marche reached out with one fleshy hand and patted Floria’s arm, oblivious to the look of dry humour on her face. “However, this tells us of one minor victory for them, but Lady Margaret and the lord of la Roche leading an army – this is good news!”
“It’s good news fourteen or fifteen days old.” Ash drummed her fingertips lightly against her leg armour. “It’s too early to say for sure, but if the Mère-Duchesse has had another fortnight since this, and she hasn’t been defeated – we could see her coming south.”
Into the optimistic silence, Florian said:
“There’s no mention of Lord-Amir Leofric. Or the Faris herself. Or the machina rei militaris itself.”
“No. The reports the other way - to the Faris – have said nothing… I don’t know who this ‘cousin’ Sisnandus is, who took over the House after we left, after the earthquake. I don’t know if Leofric’s more seriously injured than I first thought.” She momentarily forgot the centeniers of the Burgundian army, staring unseeing into distance. “But remember, nothing’s happened to make the King-Caliph distrust the Stone Golem’s strategic advice. As far as he’s concerned, all this is a sign of God’s favour! If it’s still telling him ‘take Burgundy’ – that’s what he’s going to do. Damn: we need Margaret’s army here now!”
With the last word, her frustration broke out; her hand went up and came down flat on the table, with a hollow gun-shot sound. Rickard twitched, and wiped his squinting eyes.
“Suppose God grants the Mère-Duchesse the defeat of the legions in the north.” Olivier de la Marche swept extraneous papers aside and uncovered a map. “It will not be easy to feed her men, away from the rich cities, but suppose Lady Margaret’s commander commandeers boats, Demoiselle-Captain. Rivers will bring them south faster than a forced march. There is still sunlight over Burgundy. The Meuse and the Marne will not have frozen.“ He bowed his head towards Florian. ”Your Grace, if they can win in the north, they can come to us. God send them a victory!”
“Soon would be nice,” Ash remarked wryly. Over his chuckle, she said, “Okay: we talk about this, we make initial deployments, we wait for Margaret, we see if we can kill the Faris before she gets here. Anything anyone thinks has been left out?”
Silence.
Antonio Angelotti said languidly, “Just one thing, boss. May we stop holding council in the Tour Philippe, at least in daylight? Every Visigoth gun-team out there’s using it as a marker for target practice!”
The centeniers laughed, one man leaning over to speak to another, two knights sharing ale from the server’s jug; and her stomach clenched, painfully.
Don’t be stupid, girl! – it’s obvious from this window – you can see they’re not trying to deploy for an attack yet. I don’t need to be up at the gate…
I can’t leave these guys yet.
Green Christ, am I going to spend all my time now talking?
“Boss need to hit something?” Florian queried, with acid penetration.
“Boss isn’t going to get the chance, is she?” Ash continued to look, to memorise faces: Romont, Loyecte, Berghes—no, the skinny-legged one in Gothic arm-defences is Berghes— “Because that isn’t what the Big Boss does, is it?”
“You’re not the Big Boss,” Florian said briskly. She raised her voice for attention. “Right. The Duke stayed here in Dijon. It didn’t help him. If digging a long tunnel is what it takes, dig one. Start it now.”
Rickard automatically began to scribble on a sheet of paper.
Floria added, “They could attack us at any time. So send out the heralds. But send out – was it the Sieur de Loyecte’s men? Yes. Them too.”
“Flo
rian—”
De la Marche said, “Your Grace—”
“It’s my responsibility.”
The surgeon-turned-Duchess held up a pale hand. For all the white samite that covered the back of it, it remained what it was: the hand of a woman who lives out of doors, and who handles sharpened steel.
“My responsibility,” she repeated. “Even if it’s only for today, then the ultimate responsibility is mine.”
Ash stared. After a moment, both de la Marche and Bishop John bowed their heads.
“Just as well you got a surgeon,” Floria added, sardonically. “I’ve had to take responsibility for men dying long before this. All right. Send out your killers.”
For all her certainty, there was a dazed numbness in her expression that Ash recognised.
“Having someone die when you’re digging an arquebus ball out of their stomach isn’t the same as ordering a death. Florian, I was going to order it anyway.”
“She is either Duchess or she is not,” Philippe Ternant said, speaking without opening his fragile closed eyelids. “Demoiselle Ash, you must act with her permission.”
Ash bit down on a raucous remark. Florian doesn’t need that right now.
Florian rubbed her fingers one against the other. “Ash, I have never had the least desire to be Duchess. If I had any taste for Burgundian politics, I would have come to court, here, when I was a girl.”
Ash glimpsed momentary dismay on several faces.
Still decisively, Floria announced, “I’ll come into the palace daily, but I can’t run the company hospital at a distance. Baldina isn’t good enough unsupervised. I’m staying at the company tower. I’ll be talking to the abbots about additional hospices for the civilian wounded. Ash, I’ll be taking over the ground floor, too. The men can sleep in the cellars.”
That isn’t the way to do this! These guys want you here: you’re their Duchess…
