by Mary Gentle
So where’s this court’s factionalism and politics? Maybe I don’t need Godfrey to feed me details, not here.
But I need Godfrey.
An automatic check behind assured her that Joscelyn van Mander was not only present, but sober and with his ego reasonably subdued, that her men-at-arms wore clean livery jackets over polished armour – or as polished as it was reasonable to expect, a week after fleeing a hundred miles across winter country – and that Antonio Angelotti as well as Robert Anselm stood at her elbow. Robert, in respectful conversation with one of the de Vere brothers, didn’t notice her glance. Angelotti grinned out at her from between a mass of tangled, golden curls. She beckoned him to the front of the group, reflecting, We might as well look good.
A stir at the far end of the presence hall drew attention.
Ash straightened, resisting an urge to stand on tiptoe. She saw a pennant at the great oak doors, and heard the liquid accents of Carthaginian Latin. Her hand dropped to her sword-hilt for reassurance. She rested it there, standing with her weight casually back on one heel, as the chamberlain and his servants announced and brought in Sancho Lebrija, Agnus Dei and Fernando del Guiz.
The solemn grandeur of the Duke’s court looked as though it were having some effect on Fernando del Guiz. He shifted uncomfortably in the open space before the dais, his eyes flicking around from face to face. Ash clasped her shaking hands behind her back. That his physical presence dried up her mouth and confused her thoughts was something she had almost grown used to. What confused her still further was her immediate pang at seeing him now, beleaguered, turn-coat, isolated from his own.
Beside her, the Earl of Oxford stood more erect. Ash came out of her reverie. It took her several seconds to pay attention to the Duke’s voice. The early fog, still drifting in the high stone hall, cast a cool haziness over the gathered noblemen and rich merchants. The slanting eastern gold of the light fell in now through the rose windows of the palace, as the sun rose higher: warming Oxford’s face, where he stood next to her, his head bowed to catch some comment of Robert Anselm’s; bringing fire from Angelotti’s Italian beauty; colouring the armour of Jan-Jacob Clovet and Paul di Conti with an antique sheen, so that to her eyes they seemed briefly all of a piece with Mynheer van Eyck’s angels, dreaming through eternity in the presence of God.
Something tore at her heart. That feeling of their permanence, over and above earthly affairs, vanished. A feeling of fragility overtook her, as if her companions might be utterly valuable and at the same time utterly endangered.
The sun, rising higher, altered the angle of light in from the windows, and with that change the feeling was gone. Almost bereft, Ash turned her head to hear Duke Charles of Burgundy saying, “Master Lebrija, I have considered your request with my advisors. You ask us for a truce.”
Sancho Lebrija made a stiff, formal bow. “Yes, lord Prince of Burgundy, we do.”
The lugubrious face of the Duke was all but lost in the finery of rolled hat, dagged tail, puffed doublet sleeves, and golden neck-chains: a hierophantic image of courtliness. Abruptly he leaned forward on his throne, and Ash glimpsed the rich and powerful man with a keen affection for guns, who spent as many months of the year in the field as he could spare.
“Your ‘truce’ is a lie,” Duke Charles said clearly.
A burst of noise: Ash’s men around her speaking loudly enough that she signalled them to silence, and leaned forward to hear the Duke.
“Your halt at Auxonne is not for a truce, it is to spy out my lands, and receive your reinforcements. You stand at our borders in darkness, armed for war, the atrocities of this summer behind you, and you ask us to sue for peace – to surrender, in all but name. No,” Charles of Burgundy said. “If there were but one man of my people left to defend us, he would say, as I say, that right is with us, and where right is, there God must be also. For He will stand at our side in battle, and cast you down.”
Ash bit back what would have been an automatically cynical mutter to Robert Anselm. The shaven-headed man had dragged his hat off, and stood gazing open-eyed at the richness of the Duke, surrounded by bishops, cardinals and priests.
The Duke’s voice echoed back from the vaulted roof. “Right may sleep, but it does not rot in the earth as men’s bodies do, or rust as the treasures of this world, but remains unchangeable. Your war is unjust. Rather than sue for peace, I will die here on the land that my father ruled, and his fathers before him. There is not a man of Burgundy, be he never so poor a peasant, nor a man who has asked sanctuary of Burgundy, who shall not be defended with all might, all main, and all the prayers that we may raise to God.”
The hush was broken by the French ambassador stepping forward into the open space on the black-and-white tiled floor. Ash saw his left palm close around his sword-grip.
“My lord Duke,” he glanced back at Philippe de Commines in the mass of people, and went on, “Cousin of our Valois King, this is sophistry and treachery.”
No one spoke. Ash’s mouth felt dry. Her stomach twisted.
The French noble’s face went taut. “You hope, by this one threat, to make Burgundy seem a dangerous land to attack, and thus turn these invaders into my lands, and into the lands of King Louis! That is all your strategy! You wish this bitch Faris and her armies to weary themselves for the next few months fighting us. And then you’ll defeat them, and pick up what lands you can from us – Charles of Burgundy, where is your liege loyalty to your King?”
Where, indeed? Ash thought ironically.
“Your King,” Charles of Burgundy said, “will remember that I myself have bombarded Paris.9 If I desired his kingdom, I would come and take it. You will be silent now.”
Ash was aware of chamberlains and other court officials closing in around the ambassador as the Duke turned his attention back to Sancho Lebrija.
“I will not accede to your request,” Charles added, with finality.
The Visigoth qa’id observed, “This is a declaration for war, then.”
Ash, aware of her own escort’s low-voiced comments, caught sight of the face of Olivier de la Marche. The big Burgundian captain began to smile with a whole-hearted, infectious joy.
“Said we needed a fight,” Anselm growled, at her ear.
“Yeah, well, you might get one sooner than you expect.” Ash looked at Sancho Lebrija; kept her gaze from Fernando del Guiz. “I’m not going to be handed over.”
Anselm’s quick look said, plainer than words, Be real, girl! You don’t have any choice.
“No,” Ash said gently, “you don’t understand. I don’t care if I have to take on the whole of this court, and Charles’s army, and Oxford into the bargain: I am not going with them. The only way we’re going across the middle sea is fully armed and eight hundred strong.”
Anselm shifted his stance, with the air of a man settling himself into some decision. Abruptly, he muttered, “We’ll get you out. If it comes to it.”
Aware of shifting feet behind her, Ash thought You might but I’m not sure about van Mander and moved to one side as the Earl of Oxford, summoned by the Duke’s chamberlain, moved to the front of their group.
“Sire?” he said mildly.
“I am not your liege lord,” Charles of Burgundy said, leaning back on his throne and ignoring the Visigoths, “but I pray that it will please you, my lord Oxford, to bring your company of men to the field, under my banner, when we ride to Auxonne?”
Shit. So much for the raid.
“Do it ourselves?” she murmured to Anselm.
“If you can fucking pay for it!”
“We can’t pay for anything. We’re only getting credit with our suppliers in Dijon because of Oxford’s name.”
Angelotti said something blunt in Italian, on the other side of Robert Anselm, that made Agnus Dei raise his black brows where he stood with the Visigoths.
“Honoured,” the Earl of Oxford agreed curtly. “Sire.”
Sancho Lebrija moved forward, mail hauberk chinging. “
Lord Prince of Burgundy, before there is war, there is the law. Our general has asked that you return to her her property, the bondswoman there.” His gloved finger flicked out, indicating Ash. “The legal title of the House Leofric to this woman is clear. She is born of a slave mother, and a slave father.” He repeated, “She is the property of House Leofric.”
In the silence, Ash breathed deeply of the meadowsweet smell of the flowers and rushes strewing the floor of the presence chamber. A tingle of apprehension dizzied her. She put it away from herself. Clear-headed, she lifted her scarred face and stared at the Burgundian Duke.
“He’ll do it,” she murmured to Anselm and Angelotti.
For only the second time since she had met him, Ash saw a wintry small smile on Charles of Burgundy’s face.
“Ash,” he said.
She stepped forward, beside Oxford, surprised to find that her legs were weak.
Gravely, the Duke said, “It has always pleased me to hire mercenaries. For whatever reason, I would decline to let any experienced mercenary commander leave my forces. In this case, however, I do not hold your contract. That is held by an English lord. Over him, the laws of Burgundy have no jurisdiction.”
Rapidly, solemnly, the Earl of Oxford rapped out, “I couldn’t go against the wishes of the premier prince of Europe, sire, and you have requested our presence on the field of battle…”
“I hear the sound of bucks being passed,” Ash murmured. She kept a smile off her face with difficulty.
“You claimed right.” Sancho Lebrija’s harsh, battlefield voice cut through the courtliness. “You claimed right, lord Prince of Burgundy. ‘Right may sleep, but it does not rot’.”
Oxford’s stance warned Ash, changing from benevolent courtesy to alertness. She made herself look confident, aware that her men-at-arms were looking from her, to the Duke, to the Visigoths, and back to her.
“What is your point?” the Burgundian Duke asked.
“Right does not sleep. We have the right, the law, with us.” Sancho Lebrija’s pale eyes slitted, as the morning sun found the place where he and his white-robed men stood in the chamber. Light struck fire from mail, from belt-buckles, from the hilts of worn swords.
“Will you stand convicted of mere expediency, lord Prince of Burgundy? This is defying the law, for no more reason than you wish a few more hundred men for your forces. It is greed, not right. It is despotism, not the law.”
He hesitated, breathless; then nodded curtly, as Fernando del Guiz said something at his ear.
“No one could fault you, lord Prince, for saying you fight a just war against us. But where is your justice, if you set the law aside as it pleases you? She belongs to the House Leofric. You know – it is known to all, by now – she has my general’s face. She is her living image. Lord Fernando here will stand witness to it. You cannot deny her to be born of the same parentage. You cannot deny that she is a slave.”
Lebrija halted, his eyes on the Duke, who did not speak. The Visigoth finished:
“As a slave, she has no legal right to sign a condotta, so it does not matter who she has signed one with.”
Oxford’s mouth made a bitter twist. He scowled, said nothing, looked to be furiously thinking.
“He’s going to do it,” Ash whispered to the two men beside her: Anselm sweating, his head aggressively down; Angelotti’s hand on his dagger with deadly grace. “Maybe he won’t do it for political advantage – maybe he’s different from Frederick – but he’s going to listen to Lebrija. He’s going to hand me over because they are legally right.”
Behind her, the small group of her officers, men-at-arms, and archers began to shift, spread out a little; some men checking how far they were standing from the doors of the presence chamber, and where the guards were.
“You got any ideas?” she added, to Oxford.
The Earl scowled blackly, his pale eyes puzzled. “Give me a minute!”
The noise of a clarion cut through the ducal presence chamber: fine and high and clear. More knights in full harness, with axes, entered by the ornate doors, taking up their stations around the walls. Ash saw de la Marche give a satisfied nod of approval.
Charles of Burgundy spoke from his throne.
“What will your Faris-General do with the woman, Ash, when she has her?”
“Do with her?” Lebrija looked blank.
“Yes, do with her.” The Duke folded his hands in his lap, neatly. Young and grave, a little pompous, he said, “You see, it is my belief you will hurt her.”
“Harm her? Lord Prince, no.” Lebrija had the face of a man realising he sounded unconvincing. He shrugged. “Lord Prince, it is not your concern. The woman Ash is a House slave. You may as well ask if I mean harm to my horse when I ride it on to the field of battle.”
Some of the Visigoth soldiers with Lebrija laughed.
“What will you do with her?”
“My lord Prince, it is not your concern. It is for you to uphold the law. By law, she is ours.”
Charles of Burgundy said, “That, I think, is certainly true.”
The frustration that emanated from the men with her was all but tangible: they glared around at the armed Burgundians, swore; all internal dissent momentarily united. Anselm said something restraining to Angelotti.
“No!” Antonio Angelotti snapped. “I have been a slave in one of their amirs’ houses. Madonna, I will do anything to keep you out of that!”
Robert Anselm snarled, “Master gunner, be silent!”
Ash stared across the chamber at Agnus Dei as Lamb slapped Sancho Lebrija congratulatorily on the back. Behind the Italian mercenary, Fernando del Guiz listened to some comment from his escort and smiled, throwing his head back, gold in the sunlight.
Her decision crystallised.
“I’m happy to kill all of the Visigoths here.” Ash spoke steadily, loudly enough to be heard by Anselm, Angelotti, van Mander, Oxford and his brothers. “There are nine men. Take them out, now, fast; throw down our weapons – then let the Duke declare us outlaw. If they’re dead, we’ll just be thrown out of Burgundy, not handed over—”
“Let’s do it.” Anselm stepped forward; the men-at-arms in Lion livery moving as he did; Ash with them. She heard van Mander mutter something panicky about the guards – thought, in acceptance, yes, we’ll take casualties – and Carracci swear excitedly, saw Euen Huw and Rochester simultaneously grin, hard men reaching for their swords with reckless aggression.
“Wait!” the Earl of Oxford commanded.
The clarion rang out again. Charles, Duke of Burgundy, stood. As if there were no armed mercenaries ten yards from his throne, as if the armed guards were not moving to obey de la Marche’s abrupt signal, he spoke.
“No. I will not order the woman Ash turned over to you.”
Utterly affronted, Lebrija said, “But she is ours by law.”
“That is true. Nonetheless, I will not give her to you.”
Ash dimly felt Anselm’s hand grip her arm, with painful force.
“What?” she whispered. “What did he just say?”
The Duke looked around, at his counsellors, advisors, lawyers and subjects; a slight expression of satisfaction crossing his features as Olivier de la Marche bowed heavily, and indicated the armed men in the chamber.
“Furthermore, if you attempt to remove her by force, you will be prevented.”
“Lord Prince, you are an insane man!”
“Fuck me, he’s right,” Ash said under her breath.
De Vere laughed out loud, and cuffed Ash’s shoulder at much the same strength as he might one of his brothers. She had cause to be glad that she was wearing a brigandine: even so, she heard the riveted steel plates crunch.
Over what was an undoubted cheer from Ash’s men, Charles of Burgundy addressed the Visigoth delegation:
“It is my will that the woman Ash stays here. So be it.”
As if the Burgundian Duke, at least ten years his junior, was no more than a recalcitrant page, Sancho
Lebrija exclaimed, “But you’re breaking the law!”
“Yes. I am. Take this message to your masters – your Faris: I will continue to break the law, at all times, if the law is wrong.” Stilted, and still a little pompous, Charles of Burgundy said, “Honour is above Law. Honour and chivalry demand we protect the weak. It would be morally wrong to give the woman to you, when every man listening here knows that you will butcher her.”
Sancho Lebrija gazed up at him, utterly bemused.
“I don’t get it.” Ash shook her head, bewildered. “Where’s the advantage? What’s Charles getting out of this?”
“Nothing,” the Earl of Oxford said, beside her, clasping his hands behind his back as if he had not just been drawing sword. He glanced keenly at her. “Absolutely nothing, madam. No political advantage. His action will be thought indefensible.”
Ignoring the raucous pleasure of the Lion contingent, Ash gazed across the presence chamber at the Visigoth delegation, marching out flanked by Burgundian troops; and then at the throne, and at the Burgundian Duke.
“I don’t get it,” Ash said.
V
Ash came back to her command tent by a circuitous route. She spoke, on her way from fire-pit to fire-pit, to a hundred or more of the teenage males10 who sat around drinking, talking inaccurately about their success with women, and even more inaccurately about the capabilities of their longbows or bills.
“It’s war,” she said, outwardly cheerful. And listened, both to what they said and didn’t say; squatting by the flames that flickered invisibly in sunlight, drinking beer here, and eating a bowl of pottage there; listening to excited voices. Listening to what they had to say about war. About their surgeon. About the drum-head court’s penalties after Josse’s death.
She paid particular attention to that side of the camp that was made up of the thirteen or fourteen Flemish lances that had signed on with Joscelyn van Mander.
Arriving at her tent, she surveyed her officers’ meeting. A tiny frown dinted her silver brows. She stepped outside again, picked up her escort of six men from (this time) an English knight’s lance, and their dogs, and walked back down the straw-trodden paths between the tents and bashas.