by Dave Duncan
"Only if you're sure you've earned it." He passed over the wineskin. A boyish squire came running with another.
"That isn't your blood, is it?"
"Isn't even human, I'm afraid. Horse."
Toby took a drink and surveyed the field. The makeshift bridge was a smoking ruin, but since the Allies were obviously winning on both banks on this downstream side, that was not overly serious. Now he could appreciate why Ercole had stationed his infantry on the left. Having broken the opposition with his archers and cavalry, he had deployed the foot soldiers to close off any possible retreat to the hills. Like Villars, he had pinned the Fiend's forces between the river and the city wall. He just had not reached the butchery part yet, and there was a lot of arquebus firing going on.
"How is the struggle going elsewhere, comandante?" asked a sweat-soaked face from inside a helm, a young knight Toby did not know.
"Very well on the left bank. Upstream, the Venetians are in serious trouble. Ercole? Can you—"
The old warrior brightened. "Certainly! Luigi, Giovanni—help me up. We can leave the infantry to clean up here, Tobias. If I take the cavalry around, will that be enough?"
Toby almost laughed aloud with relief. "You'd probably be enough all by yourself, you old scoundrel. Yes! By all means. But be as quick as you can."
Ercole opened his mouth and pealed like a thunderstorm over the noise of battle: "Fresh horses! Drummer, sound the Prepare to Advance!"
Toby went off to tell Alfredo that relief was on its way.
* * *
The Fiend's Brenner Pass army was pressing Alfredo hard when Abonio brought the Milanese knights around the city to attack on its left. Shortly after that, Gioberti fell on its rear. The Venetians took new heart and counterattacked. Even so, the fighting continued to rage under the howling demonic storm clouds. It seemed incredible that men could continue to fight for so long without dropping dead of exhaustion. Toby lost all track of time. More than once he found himself in the lines, fighting alongside Tyroleans, then mercenaries wearing Neapolitan insignia, finally Venetians. Later he discovered blood on his sword and had very little memory of how it got there. (The legends that grew up later had him fighting in a hundred places all over the battlefield, rallying defeated troops with rousing speeches, leading charges, slaying famous warriors in single combat, but the truth had to be much less that that.) Three times he was attacked by demons, but each time his demonic bodyguards drove off the assault.
The end came suddenly, when a fiery apparition in the shape of a phoenix swirled up from the knoll where Nevil's standard flew and sped away to the north. Everywhere Allied troops raised a mighty cheer, knowing that the Fiend himself had quit the field with his attendant demons. Then Maestro Fischart and his assistants were able to break the enemy forces' spiritual bindings. Their resistance collapsed at once; they threw down their weapons and fell on their knees.
* * *
"No Quarter" was the order of the day, and most of the officers made efforts to enforce it. They failed. With few exceptions, Italian rank and file flatly refused to slaughter their defeated opponents. This minor mutiny had begun even before Nevil departed, and it spread rapidly over the entire battlefield, in a strange and spontaneous demonstration of mercy. If the invaders groveled convincingly and were willing to swear loyalty to Toby Longdirk, then their lives were spared. No one knew where that second condition came from, but possibly it was simply the most obvious way to dispose of the problem. No right-thinking Italian wanted his city to undertake the expense of maintaining a defeated army, but equally he did not want any of its neighbors to own it either, so he decided to give it to that young foreigner everyone seemed to trust. Let the comandante take it far away.
By the end of the day, the nightmare Toby had foreseen had come true, and almost seventy thousand of Nevil's troops were still alive. What he had not foreseen was that they had all sworn allegiance to him. They were all going to want to eat.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The continual booms and rattling of gunfire were apparently mere celebration. All the bells of Florence had been ringing for hours, while bonfires blazed in the night, and drunken mobs teemed through the streets. Even within the Marradi Palace, the few servants still around were unsteady on their feet and inclined to leer at their betters in ways that would not normally be tolerated. No family members were in evidence. Sartaq had advised Lisa and her mother to remain in their room and keep the door locked. Whether he was doing the same, they did not know, but he at least had a bodyguard and a couple of tame shamans around to look after him. The Fiend's defeat, in other words, was turning out to be little less frightening than his success might have been. It was after midnight when Lisa, supperless but exhausted, decided she might as well go to bed. Before she could say so, a thunderous knocking on the door almost sent her mother back into hysterics.
Lisa bent to shout through the keyhole. "Who's there?"
A blurred male voice said something about a lettera.
Even she could understand that word. "Um, sotto il porta!"
Not understanding her Italian, he just pushed the letter under the door and went away. It was brief, written in a poor hand.
Sir Toby will wate upon thir magesttys within ye our.
He must have written it himself.
Blanche, reading over her shoulder, uttered a squeak like a pierced cat. "He's coming to get you!"
"Nonsense, Mother. I'm too young for..." Her voice wavered into silence. "Oh, Mother!"
The two of them fell into each other's arms.
To the victor belongs the loot. King Longdirk the First.
* * *
The summons did not come for at least two hours, far beyond the limit of time even two royal ladies could spend making each other ready for an important audience. The street racket remained as raucous as ever, but when the tap on the door came, it was more courteous than before.
"Who's there?"
"Colin McPhail, Your Majesty."
Ah! Half of Lisa shuddered in horror at the realization that Longdirk really had come for her, and the other half acknowledged that she knew Colin McPhail and he was a decent young man. She unlocked the door.
* * *
McPhail had a Marradi flunky with him as a guide, but also half a dozen pikemen, which seemed an excessive bodyguard for a journey downstairs in a palace. Perhaps he knew more than she did. By the time they reached the top of the staircase, Lisa was grateful for their support, or at least for the lanterns they carried. The great mansion was dark and deserted, even the street noises barely penetrating its walls. Statuary loomed like guardian spirits, the pictures were mysterious splodges—although she noted that the ones she liked best by daylight were still the most interesting in near darkness. She wondered if Pietro's wraith haunted his ancestral home, and quickly decided that he had not been evil, and the tutelary would cherish his soul. Lucrezia was another matter altogether. Where had she gone?
The hall was a cube of black emptiness whose lower surface was sprinkled with a few candle flames like fallen stars. At least a score of men were standing in the middle, but the buzz of conversation ceased as she approached. She recognized Guilo Marradi, and Sartaq, and Longdirk by his size, but almost no one else. Most of the men were soldiers—all swords, boots, armored jerkins, steel helmets.
Sartaq stepped forward. She curtseyed.
"Rise, Cousin," he croaked in his harsh accent, "and Aunt, too. I am happy to tell you that comandante Longdirk has just been reporting how he destroyed the Fiend's army, as instructed. Hence I have the pleasure to assure you that your royal persons are no longer in peril. Italy is saved."
Lisa curtseyed to him again, not to Longdirk. "That is indeed wonderful news, Your Highness. Sir Tobias is large, but I assume he had some assistance?"
"Indeed he had. Allow me to present: first comandante Longdirk, the hero of the day. You know Captain-General Don Ramon..."
As each man in turn stepped forward and bowed, she noticed that the two sham
ans were standing in the gloom at the edge of the group, but so also was Maestro Fischart, who was supposed to have died in Siena. So Longdirk's gramarye probably outweighed Sartaq's, and the prince was certainly outmatched in sheer muscle and steel if all these mercenaries were on Longdirk's side.
Then she saw Hamish in the background and forgot everything else. He was standing behind a small table that bore a gold candlestick, so his face was lit from below, making his expression eerie and hard to discern, but he was certainly staring very hard at her, and she was hard put not to stare back instead of going through the necessary absurdities of acknowledging the soldiers' bows. Oh, Hamish, don't just stand there! Take me away from all this madness. Drag me onto your horse and ride for the hills.
When the stupid rigmarole was ended, she was left standing between Sartaq and her mother and could no longer deny to herself that she would not be here if she were not the subject of the meeting. Marriage? Couldn't it wait until tomorrow? Even in the dancing, uncertain candlelight she could tell that everyone there was exhausted. Longdirk looked the worst, as if he were close to unconscious on his feet. Servants were doing something at the far end of the hall, laying out a meal, perhaps.
"So what exactly is your proposal, comandante?" Sartaq said. "Start at the beginning again, for we are all very tired. Start, in fact, by explaining why the matter cannot wait a few days and must be discussed in the middle of the night."
The big man squared his shoulders with a visible effort, as if he carried an ox on them. "Logistics, Your Highness. We have sixty thousand prisoners or more outside the city and Allied armies three times that size. Tuscany will be eaten to the roots if we wait. Nevil must not be given time to raise another army. We must start moving out right away."
"Orders," said a quiet voice from the wings. A few heads turned to scowl at Hamish, who was the prompter.
"Yes, orders," Longdirk mumbled. "Orders. Someone has to be able to give the necessary orders, and I have fulfilled the mandate..." His voice tailed away.
"Two hundred thousand bodies," Sartaq said. "You need a few days to bury those... But carry on."
Longdirk seemed to sway. He turned his head. "Chancellor?"
Hamish spoke from where he stood. "These noble knights, Your Highness, your officers, petition you to appoint comandante Longdirk to the post of suzerain, replacing the deeply lamented Pietro Marradi." Hamish paused. Lisa thought he drew a deep breath. "Subject to your gracious consent to this appointment and to confirm his status, he humbly petitions the hand in marriage of your ward, Elizabeth, lawful born Queen of England and diverse other realms."
She managed not to shudder too visibly, but shudder she did. So Longdirk wanted her as a trophy of war, did he? And England, too. Not a bad prize for a ditch-born Highland bastard. He was having a good day.
Sartaq let the silence lengthen. Clearly this delegation was by way of being a mutiny. The Khan's armies were encamped all around Florence and their leaders had just given him an ultimatum. He was hunting for a way out. Lisa did not think he was going to find one.
"And you expect me to make this decision now, on the spot?"
"There is a movement afoot..." said a younger man. "It would not be seemly, but the danger is... The men are already hailing him as suzerain, Your Highness."
Pause. Then another man remarked to no one in particular, "And the liberated troops have all sworn allegiance to him personally."
This time the pause was ominous. One of the other mercenaries spoke up, a man almost as big as Longdirk, although older.
"Would it not be an appropriate and generous gesture to complete a day so magnificent, Your Highness?"
"I think this is tomorrow already, messer Abonio," Sartaq grumbled. "And we like to decide for ourselves when to demonstrate our generosity." Lisa thought he might turn his head and ask her what she thought of the match, but he didn't. Nobody cared what she thought of the match, nobody except Hamish, and he was a field mouse in a pride of lions. "If I approve this appointment, comandante, I presume you will make the usual obeisance and pledge loyalty to the Khan?"
Longdirk blinked as if his eyes would not stay open. "Is there an option? I thought obeisance was obligatory."
"So it is," Sartaq said thoughtfully. "And you will do homage for the realm of England?"
"Chancellor?"
This time Hamish left the table he was guarding and walked closer to the center. "Your Highness, English common law permits an heiress to do homage for her estate, as Queen Elizabeth already has, to Your Grace in your personification as the darughachi of His Majesty Ozberg Khan. The proposed marriage contract specifies that she will appoint her husband King Consort but will retain in her person and sole right all honors of England, Wales, Ireland, et cetera. As dowry, she brings to her husband merely a quitclaim of any rights professed by her forebears to the throne of Scotland, plus a grant of certain lands within the Duchy of Lancaster providing an income of—"
"Spare us the jackdaw chatter," Sartaq growled. "I require that he do homage for the throne of England, whether it is the throne matrimonial or not. And he will do homage as suzerain also."
"That requires no change in the marriage contract," Hamish said. "Sir Toby, you have no objections?"
"Hmm?" Longdirk seemed to focus one eye at a time, like a bird. "Objections? No objections."
Sartaq muttered something under his breath. "Aunt, it seems that we shall have to concede."
"I don't suppose," Blanche squeaked, going shrill as she always did at moments of stress, "that anyone could think of asking my daughter's opinion in this matter?"
"Ah, your quaint western customs," Sartaq said. "Very well. Cousin?"
Lisa looked in despair to Hamish.
Hamish had started back to the table. He glanced around briefly—and nodded to her, very urgently: Say yes! Then he turned his head again quickly, and continued as if that had never happened.
"Your High..." She stammered, unsure of what she had seen, unable to believe he would betray her now.
Again he glanced around and signaled, Yes! Say yes!
Was no one true to her? She heard her own voice respond. "I shall be obedient to Your Highness's wishes."
Sartaq shrugged. "Very well. Let us set the date and—"
"We have the marriage contract here," Hamish said. "The notary has advised us that the betrothal may be waived."
"Time is short, Your Highness," boomed the big Abonio man. "Sir Toby will have to lead his troops north in a day or two at the latest. Naturally he is impatient, yes? Seeing the bride, can any of us blame him?" The other men guffawed crudely.
This was obscene! Betrothed and married in ten minutes? Lisa wanted to scream a protest, but Hamish had taken up position behind his little table again and was definitely signaling to her. Beside the single candlestick stood an inkwell with a quill in it.
"If I am to be married at a gallop, then by all means let us get it over with!" Lisa declared, and swept across the floor to Hamish. She hoped he would explain.
His eyes gleamed inhumanly bright, reflecting the dancing flame. On the table, between candle and inkwell lay several pages of vellum covered in minute, cramped, handwriting. "If Your Majesty would just sign here. And here... Don't say a word," he added in a whisper, not moving his lips. "Trust me."
Tears made the vellum swim into a blur. Trust him? What was he going to do—abduct her from her husband's bed in the nick of time?
"Sign here!" Hamish insisted.
Lisa took up the quill and signed her name. Twice, three times. A tear splashed on the vellum.
"Now, Your Highness," he said loudly, "as de jure guardian, and the bride's mother as—Oops!" Clumsy Hamish had knocked over the candlestick. He stamped on it before it could damage the priceless Cathay rug. "Sign, er, here, Your Highness..."
So the contract was signed—Lisa and Longdirk, the prince and her mother, Guilo and Hamish as witnesses.
"The Magnificent Guilo," Hamish announced loudly, "has most genero
usly provided a wedding breakfast—if Your Honors would come this way."
Longdirk offered Lisa his arm to walk half the length of the room. The prince and Blanche and the mercenaries trailed after.
"You smiled at your last wedding," her husband said. He had been riding and fighting all day in the hot Tuscan sun. Horse and man and gunpowder and worse. How very romantic!
"I liked my last bridegroom."
"He had money, but he was very small."
"You have none and are far too big."
"I think we are in for a very interesting married life."
"I don't."
They reached the table the servants had spread, and the grinning guests hastily lined up to congratulate the happy couple. There were no chairs or stools. This was to be a wedding feast on the hoof. Legal rape was what this was, and yet Hamish had told her to submit, to acquiesce. Had she misjudged even Hamish? Had he betrayed her to trick her into marriage with his longtime friend?
Yesterday the banquet and then, whoops! the groom just died, wait a minute, here's another, carry on where we left off...
Longdirk offered her a goblet of wine. She noticed again that he was almost out on his feet. Whatever else her wedding night might offer, romance was not on the playbill.
CHAPTER FIFTY-54
The wedding feast lasted seven or eight minutes, while the mercenary leaders bowed to her, offered leering congratulations, and thumped her husband on the back. And made crass remarks.
Such as: "Are you sure you're capable of this tonight, Big One?"
Longdirk responded vaguely: "Capable of what?" or "I'm told it isn't difficult."
She was very hungry and managed to snatch a mouthful or two before she found herself on her husband's arm being escorted out of the hall by all the guests, carrying lanterns. Hamish was leading the way. Hamish, Hamish! Had she misjudged Hamish? What had he meant by those cryptic words and mysterious glances...?
