Then Cressida leaned in towards him and spoke so that only he could hear her words. He could feel her warm breath on his ear. “If the battle goes ill and Alonso falls, you must get the prince and me out of Maresto. I am depending upon you, Nicolo.”
Danamis gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.
She paused a moment, then leaned in again close, her lips brushing his earlobe. “Sarant... he is your son.”
Thirty-Two
DAUGHTER, DAUGHTER...
Lucinda could hear him, a voice as if it came from the bottom of a deep well, drifting and disembodied. She was near the wagon where Kodoris lay on his mattress, a canvas tilt over it to protect from prying eyes and the elements. She had to be this near to hear Berithas at all, calling out, trapped inside a dying old man.
The army was camped on both sides of the main road to Maresto and now so close that she could smell the tang of the sea upon the night breeze. She reached and lifted the edge of the canvas. What was once the High Priest of Livorna lay there as he had for four days, motionless, breathing as lightly as a sparrow. And for all her cunning, Lucinda della Rovera did not quite know what she was to do once that mortal husk succumbed, releasing the Redeemer again. Even now she was amazed that she held the powers gifted to her. The viverna shadowed her like loyal hounds, keeping to the edge of forest or copse as the army moved south. They feasted upon cattle from the homesteads and villas abandoned at the approach of the Torinian host. The Blue Boar and the White Company gave the creatures a wide berth and the troops of Federigo, Count of Naplona, distrusted them such that they would march only on the far flank.
Daughter, release...
Still distant, she thought, but more insistent than before. She dropped the flap and retreated to the edge of camp, the snarling and deep bass rumblings of the great worms sounding from the forest clearing where they dozed, not far away. She was worried despite the quiet confidence of the force that surrounded her. Her gift of the Farsight remained intact, but that afforded little against an enemy she could not seem to control—the young monk. An arrogant young monk now, she thought, daring to question her motives and her faith. But what caused her wakefulness, her wanderings in the dead of night, was the fear of what Berithas would do when he did obtain release. Would he blame her? Would he know she had worked to save Ursino from him? Would he destroy her?
“Here you are, my lady.”
Ursino emerged from the forest of tents clad in a red cioppa and barefoot, two bodyguards close behind bearing torches. He smiled at her and she thought he looked ghastly in the harshness of the flames. He had eaten little in the past two days but she could smell the wine fumes from him as he approached and took her arm. “My bed felt cold and then I saw you were gone. Are you unwell?”
“I think better in the quiet of the night... and the darkness. Nothing more.”
Ursino turned to his soldiers. “Wait here.” He took Lucinda by her hand and walked her further out from the edge of camp and under the canopy of ancient trees. The darkness increased. He folded her into his arms, pressed her frame to his chest and kissed her neck. She closed her eyes and, for a moment, let herself fall into him, returning his embrace and pushing her worries from her mind.
“All will be well,” she whispered into his ear. “The stars align for us, my love, and you will prevail.”
He relaxed his embrace and stroked her face. “Much could yet go wrong, but I have you.”
“The beasts are sworn to serve me. When the time is right.”
“We saw scouts from Maresto today, they know we are here, they know our numbers.”
Lucinda smiled. “But you know how many soldiers they have behind their walls. And you know that Saivona’s army is still many miles from here, making little progress. Because I have seen it.”
Ursino let out a small sigh. “Would that I had the power to use your little mirror...”
“You need not with me at your side. It is for you to lead your men, to rule as the uncrowned king.”
“So much to... to decide. It fills my head in all my waking hours, around and around.”
She placed both hands on his cheeks. “You will be king of Valdur. Maresto will fall and the others will follow. Will you do as I ask and command the battle from the rearguard, in the carroccio? I will be able to seek you out there upon the field when all is chaos.”
“You know I desire the vanguard, that’s where a duke who’s fighting to be king belongs. But, I will heed your counsel. I’ve decided that the Count of Naplona will treat with Maresto in my stead. He knows what an honour that is. And the Boar will take the lead—the sharpest point of my spear.”
She laid her head on his chest and he stroked her hair. “We should return now,” he said, “else my guards will think you’ve devoured me.”
She lifted her head and gave a quiet laugh. And then she remembered. “Ursino, promise me... promise me you will not venture near the High Priest.”
“What? The old man is barely alive, what is there to fear of him? But if he recovers, then we might make use of him, if he should renounce the Decimali heresy or declare me rightful—”
“No!” She dug her nails into his biceps. “He is still dangerous. He... might...” She trailed off as her mind stumbled for the words to explain something that she had no wish to.
He gently prised off her grip. “What are you fearful about?”
“Just promise me... trust me. Do not go near his wagon.”
“My love, he is only a man. A dying old man.”
In the darkness, Ursino could not see the expression of heartache that came over her. The actions of Berithas the Redeemer were the one thing she could not predict.
Thirty-Three
CORONEL ARETINI’S VETERAN eye took in the lines of the enemy arrayed before him. Cavalry on their right flank down to the bank of the wide, lazy Taro. Squares of spearmen and rondelieri across the centre along the length of the city walls, several ranks deep. On the far left Maresto had placed more horsemen backed by infantry. Bowmen he could not see but he knew they were lurking in the rear.
“What do you reckon, Coronel? An easy meal for the Blue Boar?” Federigo, Count of Naplona, resplendent in his suit of shining plate armour, rode next to him as their mounts ambled slowly towards the Maresto lines under a flag of truce. Aretini grunted. “We outnumber them. And we’ll outnumber them even more once the griffons wade in.” He could make out the battle flags of the Black Rose, the Scarlet Ring, various devices of what he assumed where the Maresto militia companies.
“Do you see that carroccio wagon near their centre? What do you make of that, then? Strangest one I’ve ever seen, from the size of it looks like they have more commanders than soldiers!”
Aretini squinted and tried to puzzle out what exactly Maresto had constructed. It was nearly as high as the city wall and looked like an inverted wooden bowl. He shook his head. “Well they can hide away inside it if they want but will make little difference to me.”
Three heavy men-at-arms rode behind them, bearing the flags of Torinia and Milvorna, snapping smartly in the stiffening breeze that whipped across the open plain. It was the only sound, the two armies strangely silent, expectant as the official preliminaries of war began. Between the standard bearers, one horseman bore upon a long ash pole the dull silver and purloined Hand of Ursula.
Across the field, Aretini watched as a party made its way towards them, the Maresto line opening up to permit passage. “This will do, my lord,” he said, tugging gently on his reins. Federigo reached up and steadied the visor of his gold-encrusted sallet helm.
The Maresto men closed the distance between them at a deliberate pace. Aretini’s eyebrows raised slightly as he noticed the royal standard—twin golden rampant griffons upon red—borne by a man-at-arms. Bloody arrogant for Alonso to think he can speak for the palace at Perusia. He’ll have a different attitude by day’s end. The five horsemen approached and reined up a spear’s length away. Federigo raised a gauntleted hand in sa
lute and sat up in his velvet-clad saddle, straight as an iron rod. “I bring greetings from Ursino, rightful heir to the throne of Valdur. In his name I ask that you open your gates to us and avoid the spilling of innocent blood.”
Alonso, Duke of Maresto, leaned forward on his pommel. “And the Duke is not man enough to come here to tell me that himself?”
Federigo smiled. “You would expect a king to treat with you? To request what is his right? And I see you presume much with the royal standard at your side.”
“Not as much as the pretender who hides behind your lines.”
Aretini chuckled.
The Count of Naplona threw him an angry sidelong glance before shifting his weight in the saddle. “Your griffons are made of baize and golden thread. Ours are flesh and blood. And hungry.” He raised his arm and gestured to the holy relic behind him. “And here is the Hand of Ursula, relic of the faithful. Do not speak of royal right to us.”
Alonso’s voice was ice. “The queen of Valdur watches us from the walls, Federigo. The throne is here. Now. Watching you.”
Federigo hesitated as he swallowed the news. Seated next to Alonso, Count Malvolio of the Black Rose, his face as red as a boiled crab, spat upon the ground. “Milvorna makes a choice today as well as Torinia. One that cannot be taken back. If you speak for your Duke, my lord Federigo, the one sitting at ease in Milvorna, than you should speak wisely.”
Aretini was now looking beyond Alonso and Malvolio, at three riders breaking out of the Maresto lines and moving towards them at a fast canter. One was out in front while the others raced behind. His hand moved to the hilt of the sword at his waist. “My lord Federigo,” he said calmly, “... some new arrivals.” He flicked his hand behind him and motioned for the men-at-arms on his flanks to move up. Alonso craned his head behind him and then swore under his breath.
The new arrival from the Maresto lines pulled back on his reins and trotted up to join Alonso. “Uncle, haven’t these men surrendered yet? This is all taking up too much time.”
Alonso smiled and kept his eyes upon the Count of Naplona. “We are just getting to that Your Highness, aren’t we, my lords?”
Aretini looked at the boy across from him and shook his head in mild astonishment. He may have doubted the tree of Sempronius in the past but this boy-prince had balls. Sarant glowered at them while sitting tall in his saddle, his filigreed armour polished to a mirror finish. “I hope you have told them, uncle, that traitors this day shall receive no mercy from the crown.” One of the prince’s minders fumbled for Sarant’s bridle but the boy twisted in his saddle and whacked the man’s arm away.
Federigo began to stutter, still thrown by the appearance of the heir to the throne of Valdur. “You should get this boy to a safe place, my lord, before he finds himself hurt.”
“Boy!” Sarant roared, his high-pitched voice echoing across the open space between the armies. His golden laméd gauntlet flew to his sword grip but Alonso reached out to stay his hand.
Sarant’s bronzed face took on a darker cast, brown eyes throwing daggers at Aretini and Federigo. As his glance settled on the commander of the Blue Boar, Aretini gave him a quick wink. If he had ever had doubts about Duke Ursino’s bold enterprise, they had been few. Until now. With the queen and the prince on the field, this was no longer a war between two dukedoms. And the boy prince knew that very well.
Duke Alonso choked up on his reins. “I expect you to turn your armies around and make for the border before an hour has passed. Otherwise, the command of the prince will be the word of the day. Traitors will not be ransomed or spared the sword.”
Federigo chuckled.
“Amused?” said Alonso. “We know you failed to take Livorna. Surprised at that? Yes, we know now since Coronel Strykar has arrived from there to tell us. With a considerable force at his disposal I might add.”
Sarant smirked as Federigo’s smile evaporated.
“Deliver that message to Ursino and think well upon it!” Alonso then nodded to Sarant and turned his horse, kicking the animal into a trot. Count Malvolio gave Federigo and Aretini one last look of perfect disdain and then flicked his reins.
“That went well,” muttered Aretini. The Duke of Naplona cursed in the lowest dialect of the northeast reaches of Valdur before twisting his horse’s head around with a jerk of his reins. Aretini followed and they made their way back to the lines but Federigo continued on to the rearguard and to Duke Ursino’s six-wheeled carroccio, festooned with red pennons. Aretini meanwhile reached the lines and made his way down to where the heavy cavalry of the Blue Boar stood ready, mounts snorting in anticipation. He carried on until he reached Captain Gheradi, their commander and his comrade-in-arms since they had been scrawny recruits too raw to know the difference between skill and blind luck.
Aretini nudged his horse close to Gheradi and leaned in to clap him on the shoulder; a jingling slap to his pauldron. “Change of plan, old friend. I want your horsemen deployed between our foot and the Naplona foot.”
Gheradi gently pushed up the brim of his barbute. “What? Not deploy on the right to take the Black Rose on their flank?”
Aretini nodded. “And you will hang back on Naplona’s right flank. No charge upon the enemy—any enemy—until I give you word.”
“I don’t understand, Coronel...”
Aretini looked him square in the eye. “Captain, let’s just say I’m hedging my bets—for all our sakes. And you, old friend, are that hedge.”
Thirty-Four
FROM THE CENTRE of the lines, Strykar steadied his feet on the creaking wooden platform and watched as the parley ended, riders cantering back to their respective sides. He was in a sort of cupola, the crow’s nest of the land-ship, a tight fit for even a small man and reached by a rickety ladder that barely supported his weight in armour. Below him in the gloomy confines, six brawny servants of Master Elanordo worked to turn the great wooden wheels that propelled and turned the contraption on its axis, aided by the raw power of four oxen. The presence of the latter was an innovation that Strykar now felt sure hadn’t been thought through. The stink that wafted up to him was almost unbearable and the creatures were reluctant to pull at their yokes unless constantly prodded. And as Danamis had predicted, the land-ship moved as fast as a bored tortoise. The machine bounced through a rut on the field and Strykar cursed, grabbing for a handhold; the land-ship shuddered as badly as any carrack wracked by waves at sea.
Six Maresto gunners, chosen for their skill and coaxed by a hefty bounty, worked the orichalcum cannon into place on their new carriages, ready to poke out when the six trap-door hatches were pulled up by their ropes. Although the gunners had baskets of stone shot to fire at the enemy, they had but nine pieces of lead shot, ones impregnated with pretty much the last of his myrra haul. That was destined for the griffons alone.
Five rondelieri and the two monks were also on hand to help defend the land-ship should any Torinians have the boldness to crawl underneath on their hands and knees to try and take them. That left little room for Demerise and three of her bowmen but she had insisted on joining him and in truth he was glad of it. A good archer had saved his skin more than once in battle and he wasn’t about to trust this shaking pile of carpentry he now dubiously captained. Two of Elanordo’s men let out a cry as one of the oxen fired its own cannon and sent a stream of shit spraying out behind it.
Strykar gritted his teeth. Elded’s balls. We haven’t even met the enemy yet. He felt someone coming up the ladder underneath him and looked down to see Demerise, bow slung over shoulder, rapidly ascending the rungs.
“Can’t see a thing out of the arrow loops down here! What’s going on out there?”
Strykar reached down to give her a hand up and she squeezed next to him on the tiny platform. “Have a look for yourself.” She smelt of cloves and leather. He twisted to push his back against the sloping roof-boards to make more room, conscious of her pressing against him.
“Sweet God above,” she whispered, taking i
n the sprawling lines of Torinian soldiers. “So many...”
Strykar could see dismay writ upon her face; perhaps regret too, of her foolish promise to follow him onto the field. And for his part, his heart sank at the realization that he had let it happen. “There are plenty of us lot too, mistress,” he said, “with the promise of more from Saivona any hour now.”
She nodded, though clearly unconvinced. “Have you seen the beasts yet?”
“No, but the holy men assure me that they will come. Something about the sorceress having claimed Acquel’s head for herself. Her pets will be with her.”
“If she’s still mortal I will put a goose-feathered shaft into her heart.”
Strykar smiled softly at her. “Let us hope you get the chance.”
He felt her arm rest briefly on his shoulder before she made her way back down the creaking ladder. He turned back to the view outside, grey overcast sky blending into the lines of steel grey soldiery beyond, armour dull and banners nearly lifeless as the wind died. He watched as the van of the Torinians began to walk forward to begin the battle, lance wielding cavalry jostling on the wings as the horses picked up the sounds and smell of the impending clash. He could not rid his mind of Count Malvolio’s reprimand when he had returned from Livorna with his ridiculous little war party which included two monks.
You should have died on the field and if you had any respect for your blood you would have done so.
The worst of it was that everything the trumped up sycophant Malvolio had uttered was true. And he felt sick for it.
How many good men did you get killed at the Taro with your goddamned self-pride and arrogance? And you ask me to give you another chance by leading the defence?
The Witch of Torinia Page 38
