Part 142 (1/2)
”Look at that.” Ash pointed. ”They couldn't resist it, could they!”
Out in the centre of the hall, Robert Anselm and Euen Huw had abandoned their exaggerated and pantomime blows and were circling each other, on the rushes. As she spoke, Anselm darted a blow forward, the Welshman whipped it round in a parry and struck; Anselm blocked- ”They had to make a genuine fight of it.” Florian sighed. She was smiling. The noise of the men-at-arms rose even higher, seeing a contest of skills beginning. ”I suppose they'll get back to the mumming eventually . . . Come on, Euen! Show them how well I sewed you up!”
Under the noise of cheering and the thwack of whalebone on plate and mail, Fernando del Guiz said, ”Is it peace between us, Ash?”
She looked up at him, standing beside her, hood drawn forward, in a hall full of his enemies, apparently unmoved. But I know him, now. He's afraid.
”It's been a long time since Neuss,” she said. ”Married, and separated, and attaindered, and annulled. And a long way from Carthage. Why did you speak up for me? In the coronation - why?”
Apparently at random, Fernando del Guiz murmured, ”You'd think I would have remembered your face. I didn't. I forgot it for seven years. It didn't occur to me that if there was a woman in armour at Neuss, it might be the one I'd -seen - at Genoa.”
”Is that an answer? Is that an apology?”
The sun slanting down from the arrow-port windows cast a silver light on the heads of the crowd. It flashed back from Anselm and Euen Huw, leaping on the rushes in a mad duel; the cheering shaking the ivy hanging from the rafters. The cold sank into her bones, and she looked down at her white, bloodless hands.
”Is it an apology?” she repeated.
”Yes.”
In the centre of the hall, Robert Anselm drove Euen Huw back across the rushes with a savage, perfectly executed series of blows, as hard and rapid as a man chopping wood. Whalebone spanged off metal. The English archers hoa.r.s.ely cheered.
”Fernando, why did you come here?”
”There has to be a truce. Then peace.” Fernando del Guiz looked down at his empty hands, and then back up at her. ”Too many people are dying here, Ash. Dijon's going to be wiped out. So are you.”
Two contradictory feelings flooded her. He's so young! she thought; and at the same time: He's right. Military logic isn't any different for me than it is for anyone else. Unless Gelimer's more frightened of the Turks than I think he is, this siege is going to end in a complete ma.s.sacre. And soon.
”Christ on a rock!” he exclaimed. ”Give in, for once in your life! Gelimer's promised me he'll keep you alive, out of amir Leofric's hands. He'll just throw you in prison for a few years-”
His voice rose. Ash was aware of Floria and Angelotti looking across her, towards the German knight.
”That's supposed to impress me?” she said.
Robert Anselm feinted and slashed the whalebone blade clear out of Euen Huw's hands. A ma.s.sive cry of ”Saint George!” shook the rafters, thundering back from the stone walls of the tower, drowning anything she might have said.
Disarmed, the weaponless Saracen knight suddenly stared past Robert Anselm's left shoulder and bellowed, ”It's behind you!”
Anselm unwarily glanced over his shoulder. Euen Huw brought his boot up smartly between Anselm's legs.
”Christ!” Fernando yelped in sympathy.
Euen Huw stood out of the way as Anselm fell forward, picked up Anselm's sword, and thumped a hefty blow down on his helmet. He straightened, panting and red-faced, and wheezed, ”Got you, you English b.a.s.t.a.r.d!”
Ash bit her lip, saw Robert Anselm writhing dramatically on the floor, realised his colour's okay; he can move - and that Euen had kicked him on the inside of the thigh, and that the two of them had planned it. She began to applaud. Either side of her, Fernando and his sister were clapping; and Angelotti laughing with tears streaming down his face.
”Ruined!” Henri Brant shouted, rus.h.i.+ng forward with his king's robes swirling, and his iron crown skewed. ”Ruined!
”Is there no doctor to save my son, And heal Prince George's deadly wound?”
A hum of expectation came from the crowd. Ash, checking by eye, saw no one of her men-at-arms and archers and gunners not either eating or drinking, or cheering on the mummers. She did not look at Fernando. The pause lengthened. In the group of mummers at the hearth, an altercation appeared to be going on.
”No-” Rickard shook the other mummers off and walked forward. Ash realised from the overlong gown that all but drowned him, and his sack of smithy-tools, that he must be supposed to play the part; but the young man didn't stop, walking forward into the crowd towards her, and the men gave way in front of him.
He reached them; bowed with adolescent awkwardness to her and then to the surgeon-d.u.c.h.ess.
”I don't have the wisdom to play the n.o.ble Doctor,” he stuttered, ”but there is one in this house who does. Messire Florian, please!”
”What?” Floria looked bewildered.
”Play the n.o.ble Doctor in the mumming!” Rickard repeated. ”Please!”
”Do it!” one of the men-at-arms yelled.
”Yeah, come on, Doc!” A shout from John Burren, and the archers standing with him.
Robert Anselm, flat and dead on the rushes, lifted up his head with a sc.r.a.pe of armour. ”Prince George is dying over here! Some b.a.s.t.a.r.d had better be the doctor!”
”Messire Florian, you better had,” Angelotti said, beaming.
”I don't know any lines!”
”You do,” Ash protested. She snuffled back laughter. ”Your face! Florian, everybody knows mumming lines. You must have done this before, some Twelfth Night. Get on out there! Boss's orders!”
”Yes, sir, boss,” Floria del Guiz said darkly. The scarecrow-tall woman hesitated, then rapidly unb.u.t.toned her demi-gown and - with the squire's help - began to struggle into the n.o.ble Doctor's over-long garment. Shaking it down on her shoulders, hair dishevelled, eyes bright, she said under her breath, ”Ash, I'll get you for this!” and strode forward.
Rickard slung her the clanking bag of tools and she caught it, pulling one out by the handle as she walked forward into the open s.p.a.ce at the centre of the hall. She put her foot thoughtfully on Robert Anselm's supine chest, and leaned her arm on her knee.
”Oof!”
”I am the Doctor ...
”f.u.c.k,” Floria said. ”Let me think: hang on-”
”My G.o.d, she's like Father!” Fernando surveyed his half-sister; then smiled down at Ash. ”Shame the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d's dead. He'd have liked to have known he had two sons.”
”f.u.c.k you too, Fernando,” Ash said amiably. ”You know I'm going to keep her alive, don't you? You can tell Gelimer that.”
In the centre of the hall, Floria was using a pair of bolt-cutters to push back the fauld of Anselm's armour. She prodded the bolt-cutters tentatively into his groin. ”This man's dead!”
”Has been for years!” Baldina shouted.
”Dead as a door-nail,” the surgeon-d.u.c.h.ess repeated. ”Oh s.h.i.+t - no, don't tell me - I'll get it in a minute-”
Ash linked her arm through Fernando's, under his cloak. She felt his robe; and then the s.h.i.+ft of his body-weight as he leaned towards her, and put his hand over hers. His warmth brought another warmth to her body. She tightened her grip on his arm.
Out in the hall, Floria moved her foot from Robert Anselm's breastplate to his codpiece. Jeers, cat-calls, and shouts of sympathy shook the tower. She declaimed: ”The Doctor am I, I cure all diseases, The pox, and the clap, and the sniffles and sneezes!
I'll bind up your bones, I'll bind up your head, I can raise up a man even though he be dead.”
”I'll bet you can!” Willem Verhaecht yelled, on a note of distinct admiration.