Ash: A Secret History (46 page)

“Oh,
books.
” Ash kept a steadying hand on her clerk’s arm as she reached the bottom of the steps, and walked into the chapel of Mithras. Sunlight slanted down through the bars above, casting the stone cave into floods of light and shadow. Roman mosaics under her feet depicted the Proud Walkers and the April Rainers in tiny pastel squares. “What am I going to care about Duke Charles’s books for, Godfrey?”

“No, I don’t suppose you will. Not in the present situation.” He inclined his head, a smile partly concealed by his beard. “But he has the most wonderful Psalters. One illustrated by Rogier van der Weyden, no less. He also has all the
Chansons du Geste,
child – Tristram, Arthur. Jaques de Lalaing…”

“Oh, what! Really?”

Godfrey chuckled, mimicking her tone. “Really.”

“Now that’s what’s wrong with war,” Ash said, wistfully, as they knelt in front of the great Bull altar.

“Ehh? Jaques de Lalaing is what’s wrong with war?” Godfrey murmured, puzzled. “Good lord, child, the man’s been dead for thirty years.”

“
No.
” Ash cuffed the priest affectionately. From the altar, the Bull priest gave her a quelling glare.
¹¹
She subsided to a whisper, aware she was still born up by the intensity of her welcome back to the company. They kept up a constant chatter behind her. “I mean what
happened
to him is what’s wrong with war. There you have him, perfect gentle knight, wins all the tourney circuit matches for years, been on every field of battle of note, a real warrior chevalier – actually set up a knightly pavilion and defended a ford with his lance against all-comers
¹²
– and what happens to him?”

Godfrey searched his memory. “Killed at one of the sieges of Ghent, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah – by a cannon ball.”

The blood bowl was passed around. Ash drank, bowed her head for the blessing, and said formally, “I give thanks for my recovery and dedicate my life to continuing the battle of the Light against the Dark.” As the steaming bowl continued to the vast numbers of the company crowded into the chapel, and queued back up the steps, she murmured, “That’s what I mean, Godfrey. All the virtues of chivalric war, and what happens to him? Some damn gun-crew blows his fucking head off!”

Godfrey Maximillian reached down with a broad arm to haul her up off the flagstones. She took the necessary help without resenting it.

“Not that I ever thought war was anything but a dirty business,” she added dryly. “Why are Robert and Angelotti avoiding me, Godfrey?”

“Are they? Dear me.”

Ash pressed her lips together. The blessing concluding, she waited while the white- and green-robed boys sang, and then ascended up into the light between her lance-leaders; a mass of men in bright steel and brilliant linen, walking out into the wood with her, swatting buzzing insects away; and each of them desperate to have just one reassuring word with Ash.

“The riding horses need exercise!” The company farrier.

“Twenty carcasses of pork, and nine of them off,” Wat Rodway complained.

“Huw’s archers keep brawling with my men!” An indignant fair-haired Sergeant of Bill. Carracci, she recognised; unusually fraught.

Euen Huw swore. “Bloody Italian bum-boys messing about with my lads!”

One of the female hackbutters complained, “And half my powder is left behind at Basle—”

Ash stopped dead on the path.

“
Wait.
”

Her page, Bertrand, handed her her velvet bonnet. She heard the snort of horses and looked ahead. Beyond the brown trunks of trees and the arching green loops of briars, out in the meadow, war-horses were being held by grooms.

“Later,” she ordered.

A group of armed men stood just within the copse’s shade. Their banner hung limp and unreadable, but looked to be – she squinted – quartered squares of red and yellow, with white bars, mullets,
¹³
and either crosses or daggers. The men’s livery jackets were white and murrey-coloured.
¹⁴

A hand under her armpit lifted her out of the discussion group and several yards on down the path from the crowd of her soldiers. Robert Anselm, without looking down at her, said, “I got us a contract. He’s here. Meet your new boss.”

“‘New boss’?” Ash stopped dead.

She was no weight to stop Anselm, but the big Englishman let go of her arm and abruptly dropped to one knee in front of her.

A second man knelt on the dry leaves: Henri Brant. Antonio Angelotti thumped down beside him. Ash looked down at her steward and second-in-command and gunner. She put her hands on her hips. “Excuse me, my new
what?
Since when?”

Anselm and Angelotti exchanged glances.

“Two days ago?” Robert Anselm ventured.

“New
employer,
” Henri Brant spoke up. “I had difficulty getting credit in Dijon. Prices are going up, now there’s an army at their border. And I can’t supply eight-score horses and a whole company on what there is left from Frederick!”

So how much
were
we forced to abandon at Basle? Shit.

Ash surveyed Henri’s broad face. He still favoured his right side a little, she noted, where he knelt. “Stand up, you idiot. You mean no food-merchant would give you credit unless the company had a formal contract with someone?”

Henri, getting to his feet, nodded agreement.

That’s just about time for the news to get out that our last contract was with the Visigoths… Whoever it is, Ash thought, he didn’t waste any time making his move.

Ash tapped the toe of her boot on the leaf mulch floor of the copse. “Roberto.”

The two men, kneeling before her, could not have been more different: Anselm still in his blue woollen doublet, face unshaven; Angelotti with his mass of gold hair falling below his shoulders, and his gather-necked shirt spotless and of the finest linen. What they had in common were identical expressions of shifty apprehension.

“You said go run the company. I’ve run it.” Robert shrugged where he knelt. “We
need
money! This is a good contract…”

“With a man that we know.” Angelotti uncharacteristically stumbled over his words. “That Roberto knows, knew, knew his
father,
that is—”

“Oh, Christ, don’t tell me it’s one of your goddams!”
¹⁵
Ash glared. “There’s a country I’m never going back to! Nothing but barbarians and rain. Roberto, I’m going to nail your ears to the pillory for this one.”

“He’s here. You better meet him.” Robert Anselm got up, untangling his scabbard from a thorn bush. Angelotti followed suit.

“He’s one of your fucking Lancastrians, isn’t he? Oh, sweet Christ! On top of everything else, you want me to go and fight English King Edward for his throne. I don’t
think
so.” Ash stopped, scowled, suddenly realising,
That would put me a hundred leagues and a good chunk of sea north of the Faris and her army.

Maybe there’s something in this. If I go to England, at the worst I die on the field of battle. Who knows what might happen in Carthage, if they ever found out that I hear— no!

She muttered, “Now, who’s white-and-murrey?” and began to ransack her memory of the heraldry of dispossessed Lancastrian lords in exile from Yorkist England.

Robert Anselm coughed. “John de Vere. The Earl of Oxford.”

Ash absently took her sword as Bertrand brought it, and let the boy belt it around her waist. Dapples of sunlight shone on its battered red leather scabbard. Her green and silver doublet was still quite obviously an expensive garment: equally obviously, it had not been washed or brushed for nearly a week. And no armour, not so much as a jack of plates.

“The fucking Earl of fucking Oxford, and I look like I’m worth ten shillings a year. Thank you, Robert. Thank you.” She gave the wriggle of her hips that settled her sword-belt comfortably at her waist. She looked keenly at him. “You fought in his household, didn’t you?”

“His father’s. His older brother, too. Then him, in ’71.” Robert shrugged uncomfortably. “I got us what I could. He needs an escort here, he says.”

Ash glanced around for Godfrey, and saw the priest in conversation with a man-at-arms in a murrey livery jacket with a white mullet on it. She could not very well approach her clerk at this point to ask him why a Lancastrian lord might be at the court of Charles of Burgundy, what he might want with a hefty contingent of armed mercenaries, and what, she ended in her own mind, he thinks of the Visigoth forces about forty miles away from here!

“His father, your old boss – he died in battle?”

“No. His father and Sir Aubrey – that’s his brother – they were executed.”

“Oh yippee,” Ash said sourly. “Now I’m being employed by attainted nobility – he is under attainder, I suppose?”

Antonio Angelotti quietly put in, “Madonna, here he is.”

Ash straightened her shoulders quite unconsciously. The annoying insects still buzzed, gold motes in the light under the trees. A horse snorted. The men with the de Vere banner jingled as they approached, their surcoats tied over light mail. There were a few burned-red faces under the helmets. Ash guessed the escort largely consisted of those who had recently displeased a sergeant. The man at the centre of the group she could not see clearly, but she nonetheless hauled off her hat and went down on one knee as the escort parted and made way for him. Her officers knelt with her.

“My lord Earl,” she said.

She was aware of the bulk of her company halted outside the chapel of Mithras watching her. She was fortunately too far ahead to hear much of what they were saying. The earth felt hard under her knee. A blink of pain went through her head. When a cool voice said in English, “Madam Captain,” she looked up.

He might have been any age between thirty and fifty-five: a fair-haired Englishman with faded blue eyes and an outdoor face, wearing tall riding boots pointed to the skirts of a faded linen doublet. He stepped forward, extending a hand. She took it. He had bony wrists. Any doubts about strength were dispelled by his effortlessly bringing her to her feet.

Ash dusted her hands, and looked shrewdly at the man. His doublet was Italian fashion, not so barbaric as she had feared; and if it looked as though he had been hunting all day across hard country in it, it had started life as an expensive garment. He was wearing a dagger but no sword. She managed not to say
Mad English!

“We’re at your command, my lord Earl,” Ash said, and also failed to add
Or
so I’m told…

“I find you recovered, madam?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Your officers have told me the strength of your company. I want to know your manner of commanding them.” The Earl of Oxford turned on his heel and began to walk towards his horses. Ash muttered a brief command to Anselm, left him to get the company back to their camp, and walked briskly off in de Vere’s tracks. His assumption that he did not have to tell anyone to follow him both amused her, and impressed her by how correct it seemed to be.

At the wood’s edge, she found her servants and the de Vere grooms vying for shade; and mounted with a minimum of fuss. Godluc shifted his great quarters under her, pushing for a gallop. She brought him up beside the Earl of Oxford’s bay gelding.

Over the jingle of tack, the Englishman said, “A woman, most unusual,” and smiled. He was missing a side tooth, and now they were out in the light she could see old white scars seaming his wrists, and vanishing under the neck of his shirt. The dimple-puncture of an arrow wound marked one cheek.

He added, “They appear devoted to you. Are you a virgin-whore?”

Ash spluttered at his English translation of
pucelle.
She said cheerfully, “I don’t see what damn business it is of yours, Sir.”

“No.” The man nodded. He leaned over in the saddle, offering his hand again. “John de Vere. You call me ‘your Grace’ or ‘my lord’.”

Manners of the camp, not the court, Ash thought. Good. It always helps if they know something about soldiering. I must have seen his father around at some point, he looks familiar.

She shook his hand. His grip was solid.

Let’s delay the questions for a bit. Until I have time to think about my answers.

“What is it you want my men to do, your Grace?”

“In the first place, I’m here to make a request of Burgundian Charles. If he refuses, you will form part of my escort to the borders, and back to England. I shall pay you off in London.”

“How strongly are we liable to be refused?” Ash asked thoughtfully. “Does your Grace want me to put the Lion Azure up against the entire Burgundian military machine? I probably can get you to the Channel ports, in that case, but I don’t particularly want to die to the last man, which is realistically what it would mean.”

John de Vere turned his pale blue eyes to her. His bay had a mettlesome look, barrel-chested and something wicked about the eye. He rode easy in the saddle. To Ash, all the signs said, this man is a soldier.

Almost demurely, the exiled Earl said, “I’m here to find a Lancastrian claimant for the English throne, Henry late of glorious memory being murdered, and his son dead on Tewkesbury field.
¹⁶
The Yorkists don’t sit so securely. A legitimate heir could de-throne them.”

Ash, knowing next to nothing about
rosbif
dynastic struggles after her own brief involvement five years before, remembered one fact. She shot John de Vere a confused glance.

Serene, he said, “Yes. I’m aware that Duke Charles is married to the sister of Edward of York.”

“Edward of York, who’s currently Edward, fourth of that name, King by the Lord’s Grace of England.”

De Vere corrected her with immense authority: “Usurping King.”

“So you’re here, in the court of a prince married to the Yorkist King’s
sister,
to find a Lancastrian claimant who’s willing to invade England and fight against the Yorkist King for his throne? Yeah. Right.”