by Mary Gentle
The woman’s gaze became fixed: no other change of expression gave away her shock.
Now we shall find out, Ash thought. Now we shall find out how much she really believes of all this, how much she’s actually heard the voices of the Wild Machines talking to her.
How much this is just another war to her – and if I’ve given her Dijon. Because she can hit the city now it doesn’t have a leader. And she may just get in.
Ash watched the Faris’s expression; and missed having her sword ready for use.
The young woman in Visigoth armour put her hands out. The gesture was made slowly, so that watching men might not mistake it. Bare hands held out to Ash, palm-upwards.
“Don’t be afraid,” the Faris said.
Ash looked at the woman’s hands. Dirt was ingrained in the lines of her palms. Small white scars, from old cuts, were visible through the dirt: a peasant’s hands, or a smith’s, or the hands of someone who trains for the line-fight.
“Ash, I will extend the truce,” she said steadily. “A day: until dawn tomorrow. I swear this, here and now, before God. And God send we find an answer before then!”
Slowly, without a page, Ash undid the buckles on her right gauntlet with her gauntleted left hand, and stripped the armour off. She reached out and gripped the Faris’s bare hand in her own. She held warm, dry human flesh.
The cheer that went up from the walls of Dijon shook the snow out of the clouds.
“I don’t have any authority to do this!” Ash grinned. “But if I’ve got a truce, those motherfuckers on the council will ratify it! Can you hold your qa’ids to a truce?”
“My God, yes!”
As the noise died down, as the ranked, bored troops of the Visigoth army began to stir and talk among themselves, a shrill bell suddenly cut through the air. About to speak again to the Faris, Ash momentarily did not realise what she was hearing. Loud, hard, bitter, grieving—
A single bell rang out from the double spire of Dijon’s great abbey, within the city walls. Heart in her mouth, Ash waited for the second spire bell to join in.
Only the single bell continued to toll.
Solemn, urgent, once every ten heartbeats.
Each harsh clash of metal shook the still camp outside the walls; all men gradually falling silent in the cold air as they heard it, and realised what they were hearing.
“The passing bell.” The Faris turned her head back to Ash, staring at her. “You have the same custom here? A first bell for the beginning of the last few hours. The second bell for the moment of death?”
The repetitive single strokes of the bell went on.
“The Duke,” Ash said. “Charles the Bold has begun to die.”
The Faris’s hand, still clasped in her own, tightened. “If it is true, if I have no choice, now—!”
Ash winced at the strength of her grip, grinding the small bones of Ash’s hand together.
A complete calm came to her. As in the line of battle, when time seems to slow, she made her decision and began to move her body: clenching her left hand still in its reinforced metal gauntlet, choosing the unprotected throat of the Visigoth woman as her target, tensing arm-muscles to punch the sharp edge of the knuckleplate straight through the carotid artery.
Will I make it before the arrows? Yes. Needs to be first blow; no second chance, I’ll be skewered—
“The Burgundy Duke’s standard!” a Visigoth nazir bellowed, his deep voice cracking shrill with shock.
As if she were in no danger, the Faris dropped Ash’s hand and stepped forward, away from the table and awning. Ash thought, why am I doing nothing?, and, appalled, looked to where the nazir was pointing.
Her heart jolted.
The port in the north-west gate of Dijon stood open.
Opened while all were transfixed by the abbey bell, Ash guessed: portcullis hauled up, the great bars taken down – shit! can they close it before there’s an assault—?
The Faris’s shouted orders dinned in her ears. No Visigoth soldier moved. Ash strained her gaze to see who it was riding out. She saw a man on horseback, carrying the great blue-and-red standard of the Valois Dukes, and nobody with him: no noble, no Duke miraculously raised from his deathbed, nobody. Only a man on foot, and a dog.
At the Faris’s bemused order, the Visigoth troops parted to let the rider and footman through.
Ash began to put her right-hand gauntlet on, fumbling the buckles; glancing quickly towards Rochester and her escort, thirty yards away, pitifully outnumbered among the Visigoth legions.
The standard-bearer rode across the trodden earth. He reined in a few yards in front of the Faris. Ash did not recognise the man from the small part of his face she could see under his raised visor; wondered Olivier de la Marche? and read from the livery that it was not, was no great Burgundian noble at all. Only a mounted archer.
While she and the Faris continued to stare, the man on foot walked forward. He pulled off his hat.
His leashed hound, a great square-muzzled dog with a head that seemed too big for its body, gave Ash’s leg a cursory sniff.
“It’s a lymer,”16 she said, startled into speech.
The man – white-haired, elderly, his cheeks red with the broken veins of a man who has been outdoors much of his life – smiled with a slow pleasure. “He is, Demoiselle-Captain Ash, and one of the best. He can find you any day a hart of ten, or a great-toothed boar, or even the unicorn, I swear it by Christ and all His Saints.”
A glance at the Faris showed Ash the Visigoth woman staring in total bewilderment.
“Demoiselle Captain-General Faris?” The man bowed. He spoke respectfully, and a little slowly. “I have come to ask your permission for the hunt to pass, undisturbed.”
“The hunt?” The Faris turned an expression of complete bewilderment first to Ash, and then to the thirty or more of her qa’ids who now walked up to surround her. “The hunt?”
This is lunacy! Ash, open-mouthed, could only stare. If I give the order now and we go straight for the gate, will we make it?
The elderly, bearded man lowered his gaze and mumbled something, abashed at seeing the commanders of all the Visigoth legions as well as their army commander. The lymer shook its head, drooping round ears flapping, and wagged a rat-like tail with urgent excitement.
The Faris’s dark gaze flicked once to Ash as she said gently, “Grandfather, you are in no danger. We are taught to revere the old and wise. Tell me what message you bring from the Duke.”
The red-cheeked man looked up. More loudly, he said, “No message, missy. Nor there won’t be one, neither. Duke Charles will be dead before noon, the priests say. I am sent to ask you, will you let the hunt pass?”
“What hunt?”
Yeah, you and me both! Ash thought, not about to interrupt the Visigoth woman. What hunt!
“It’s custom,” the man said. “The Dukes of Burgundy are chosen by the hunt, the hunting of the hart.”
When the Faris merely stared at him, in complete silence, he said gently, “It’s always been so, Demoiselle Captain-General. Now that Duke Charles is near death, the hart must be hunted to find his successor. The one who takes the quarry takes the Duke’s title. I’m bidden to ask you free passage through your camp. If you give it, then me and Jombart here will go and quest for quarry.”
The Faris held up her hands to quieten her officers. “Qa’ids!”
“But this is insanity—” A man whom Ash recognised, now, to be Sancho Lebrija, subsided at the Faris’s look.
The Visigoth woman said, “Captain Ash, have you knowledge of this?”
Ash regarded the white-haired hunter. If the Visigoth commanders intimidated him, he was still standing with a serene confidence in his trade.
“I don’t know a damn thing about it!” she confessed. “It’s not even the season now for hunting the hart. That ended on the last feast of the Holy Cross.”17
“Demoiselle, it must happen when it happens; when the old Duke dies.”
; “It is a trick, to remove their nobles from the besieged city!” Sancho Lebrija burst out.
“And go where?” the Faris challenged. “War has passed over this land. The castles and towns are sacked. Unless you think they will cut through our forces, march hundreds of miles to the north and famine, and to Flanders – and then there is nothing for them there but more war. Qa’id Lebrija, with their Duke dead, they will be leaderless; what can they do?”
The hunter interrupted an exchange that, in Carthaginian Gothic, it was doubtful he understood. “Demoiselle, there isn’t much time. Will you let the hunt pass out, and then back into the city, unmolested?”
Ash’s gaze went absently, and automatically, to the sky. In the south-east, the white sun hung above the horizon. Veils of cloud covered and uncovered it, and a thin powder of snow flurried in the air. The stench of wood-smoke was strong in her nostrils. She thought, The weakness of the light may be nothing more than autumn.
“Perhaps,” Ash said urgently to the Faris, on the heels of the elderly man’s words, “perhaps one Duke is as good as another.”
The qa’ids and ’arifs surrounding the Faris glanced at Ash with minor irritation, as if what she said were a frivolous comment. Only the Faris, holding Ash’s gaze, inclined her head a fraction of an inch.
“I give my authority to this,” she said, and swung around at the outburst from her officers. “Silence!”
The Visigoth commanders quietened. Ash watched them exchanging glances. She became aware that she had, unconsciously, started to hold her breath.
The Faris said, “I will let them follow their custom. We are here to conquer this land. I will not have it again as it was in Iberia, a thousand little quarrelling noblemen, and no one man able to give word to control them!”
Some of her officers nodded approvingly.
“If we are to impose an administration on a conquered country, it were better they had their Duke to obey, and we had him to obey us. Otherwise there is nothing but chaos, mob-rule, and a hundred tiny wars to tie us down here, when we should be fighting the Turk.”
More nods, and comments in low voices.
It even sounds convincing to me! Ash reflected, in grim, amazed humour. And it’s at least half true… Obviously I’m not the only good bullshitter in this family.
“Tell your masters, I will let the hunt pass,” the Faris said to the hunter. “Upon one condition. A company of my men will ride behind you, to see that you and your new Duke do return to the city.”
She raised her voice so that the group of officers could all hear:
“While you hunt, this day let God’s truce operate in this camp, and in Dijon, as if it were a holy day, with no man raising his hand to another. All fighting shall cease. Captain Ash, will you answer for that?”
Ash, her expression completely controlled, let herself look briefly at the serf army, the low-ranking officers. They don’t like this. I wonder how long before they’ll do something about it – mutiny? Hours? Minutes?
The Faris might have lost it, right here.
Better do something while she still has command.
The single bell rang out across the wet, cold air.
If one Duke isn’t as good as another, Ash thought grimly, we shall soon know.
“Yes,” Ash said aloud. “If Olivier de la Marche isn’t a complete fool, yes, I guarantee the fighting will stop, the truce will be observed today. Until Prime tomorrow?”
“Very well.” Briskly, with a sheen of sweat on her temples, the Faris turned back to the huntsman. “Go. Ride out, hunt. Choose yourselves a new Duke of Burgundy. Waste no time.”
Message: #162 (Pierce Ratcliff)
Subject: Ash
Date: 11/12/00 at 07.02 a.m.
From: Longman@
Pierce –
This is amazing. I need more!
Do I get a credit for finding it? :-)
We _must_ have the rest of your translation of the Sible Hedingham manuscript as soon as possible. You’ll need to write at least a preface, connecting it with ‘Fraxinus’. Pierce, our publication date is only four months away!
So – we have to take some decisions. Go ahead and publish ‘Fraxinus’, and then ‘Sible Hedingham’ later? Delay publication of _both_ for a few months? I’m in favour of the latter, and I’ll tell you why.
If we can bring out your translation of these manuscripts _simultaneously_ with the release of Dr Napier-Grant’s initial findings at the Carthage sea-site, and with the possible TV documentary that we’ve discussed, then I think we’re going to have the kind of academic success that only comes once in a generation.
Academic and _popular_, Pierce. You could be famous! ;-)
I’ve got to have your OK to tell my MD about the Sible Hedingham ms. He knows about academic confidentiality! This is so frustrating – he’s already desperate to continue negotiations with Dr Napier-Grant’s university board, or with her, direct; and I’m having to fudge. I don’t want office politics to take this away from me! How soon do you think Doctor Isobel will be ready to release details of the Carthage sea-site? When can I tell Jon that we’ve got a new manuscript?? When can I tell _anyone_ about the Stone Golem??
I cannot tell you how excited I am!
– Anna
* * *
Message: #304 (Anna Longman)
Subject: Ash/Sib. Hed.
Date: 11/12/00 at 04.23 p.m.
From: Ngrant@
Anna –
I can only do a translation just so fast! Mediaeval Latin is notoriously difficult, and if it weren’t for the fact that I’m used to this hand and this author, you could expect to wait for years!
From a quick-and-dirty read through of the whole ms, I can state now that the Sible Hedingham document is definitely a continuation of the ‘Fraxinus’ text, by the same hand. But it differs in almost all of its particulars from our conventional history of the events of the winter of 1476/77. I don’t recognise this history! And some of the passages towards the end of the ms are impenetrably resistant to translation!
Even towards the end of this section that I’m about to forward to you, the text becomes very difficult. The language is obscure, metaphoric: I may be mistaken – a tense, a case, an unfamiliar word-usage, can alter so many meanings! Bear in mind this is a *first* draft!
Let’s reserve our opinions. The first part of this very document – ‘Fraxinus’ – gave us a street-map accurate description of the city that we have since discovered on the bed of the Mediterranean Sea. And it may be that, reading and translating late at night, I’m getting confused. I haven’t worked at quite *this* intensity since Finals, and coffee and amphetamines will only take one so far!
I’ve been told to take a short break today, before getting back down to it. Isobel wants me to meet some of her old Cambridge friends (as a post-grad, she was apparently very friendly with the physics people) – and the helicopter’s due in an hour.
*And* the ROV team have got the Stone Golem as cleaned up _in situ_ as is desirable with our equipment, and I want to see the new images as they come through. If the new equipment passes its checks, the first divers will be going down later today. What I really want, of course, is to get my hands on the physical object. That won’t be for weeks – I’m no diver! Even if it can be lifted from the seabed, I’m considerably far down the queue. I’ll have to be content at the moment with the images coming in as the settlement is mapped.
Between this and the new manuscript, I don’t know which way to turn! I have, of course, tried to bring this new information to Isobel’s attention. Surprisingly, I found her abstracted, abrupt.
It’s useless to tell her that she’s working too hard – she has always worked far too hard, all the years that I have known her, and she is, understandably, spending all twenty-four hours of the day on this site – and as much of the time as is physiologically possible under the Mediterranean! Perhaps that’s why, when I asked her on your behalf about releasing more details of the archaeological fi
nds, she ‘bit my head off’, as they say. Perhaps it isn’t surprising at all!
I’ll show her more when I have more translated.
– Pierce
* * *
Message: #310 (Anna Longman)
Subject: Ash/golems
Date: 12/12/00 at 06.48 p.m.
From: Ngrant
Anna –
I just thought I would let you know: Isobel has given me the new report on the ‘messenger-golem’ that we found at the Carthage land-site.
Apparently, the metallurgy department are _now_ stating that materials incorporated into the bronze-work during the smelting process indicate a time period of *five to six hundred years ago*!
Isn’t it nice of them to admit their error like that?
(Yes, I do feel smug.)
When I’ve had time to read the full text of the report, I’ll ask Isobel – if I can get hold of the woman! – if I can have it to incorporate in an appendix to our book.
Back to translation and the Sible Hedingham document––
– Pierce
* * *
Message: #180 (Pierce Ratcliff)
Subject: Ash
Date: 12/12/00 at 11.00 p.m.
From: Longman@
Pierce –
I’m so pleased, Pierce! How in the world did they come to make such an error in the first place? Dr Isobel needs to use a far better metallurgy department. All that unnecessary worry!
I think we have to think about moving fast. Jon Stanley’s started to mention rumblings on the American academic publishing grapevine: apparently someone knows that you’re translating ‘something’. ‘Fraxinus’, I’d guess – I’ve kept the existence of anything else utterly confidential. But Pierce, I can’t tell William Davies what to do with the original Sible Hedingham manuscript, can I?
I expect there’s an archaeological grapevine, too, and that it’s working overtime. Can you suggest to Dr Isobel that some sort of controlled press release might be _really_ _useful_ about now?