Niccolo Rising (77 page)

“Thank you,” said Julius. He paused. “What business?”

“Making money,” said Nicholas. “If you hadn’t joined Astorre, I should have asked you to join us. It’s Charetty business, but in my hands more than the demoiselle’s. I found a notary for her. Gregorio of Asti.”

“Felix told me. I’ve heard of him. Does Felix know what you’re talking about?” Julius said. He looked surprised.

Nicholas grinned. “It’s the first secret I’ve ever known him to keep. I warned him if he told a soul about it, he’d lose all the money.”

Julius said, “It doesn’t sound as if you need me. Whatever the deal is, you’ve already carried it through?”

“Well, you were winning wars in Naples,” said Nicholas. “Now it needs running, and I
am
asking you to join us. If you’re not interested, never mind, I won’t burden you with the details. If you are, tell me. But take your time. Tobie has to put Count Federigo together before we can go. At least he doesn’t sing.”

He was glad to reach the tent, for the fever had weakened him more than he liked. Julius left him. He had been rather silent and had made no commitment, but Nicholas thought on balance that he would come back to Bruges. Lying still on his bed, he began to consider Astorre and his officers, but fell asleep almost at once.

When he woke it was dark, and Tobie was in the other bed, reading by candlelight. He stirred, and Tobie said, without looking up, “Did you convert Julius? I suppose you thought it worth it.”

“I laid a trail,” Nicholas said. “Time enough to ask him how his Turkish is. What about the Count?”

“He’ll live,” said Tobie. He tossed down his papers. “One-eyed, broken-nosed, weak-backed and thirty-eight years old. He’s laddered the inside of his back like a piece of old quilting and he can’t move an inch, but he’ll live all right. He’ll be up in two weeks.”

Nicholas said, “According to Julius, Alessandro wants to fight.”

“Alessandro,” said Tobie, “wants to march out while Urbino is sick and command a successful battle. They’ve just had a council of war at the Count’s bedside. There’s nothing wrong with my lord Federigo’s brain or his mouth. He spent half an hour pointing out that we haven’t the men for an attack, and that we’re already stirring them up with constant skirmishing. We have to hang on and wait.”

“But?” said Nicholas.

“But he’s married to Alessandro’s daughter. He had to make a concession. In two days’ time, Sforza can make a limited attack on one wing of the enemy, using three squadrons only. He might reduce their supplies and their numbers. If he loses, the whole army hasn’t gone.”

“Astorre?” said Nicholas.

Tobie said, “No, thank God. The Sarno men have done enough. It’s
the fresh squadrons he’ll use; the restless ones that haven’t been blooded.”

Nicholas said, “I want to get back to Bruges.”

Tobie said, “You could, in a few days. If you wait a bit longer, I’ll come with you. Otherwise you’ll walk off with all the money. Does Julius know I’m involved?”

Nicholas said, “He didn’t cry out when I told him. As far as the money goes, the predatory eyes of Felix will be on it. You needn’t worry.”

Tobie said, “Of course. He’s proved himself, hasn’t he? I don’t suppose he really wants a life roving round battlefields. You have a certain genius, you know. To persuade Felix that home is Bruges, that he’s really running the company, and that you’re merely his mother’s manager is quite a feat. He can’t even dismiss you.”

“No. But I can dismiss other people,” said Nicholas.

“You don’t like being dissected?” saud Tobie. “But that’s my business. And you’ll have to get used to it, won’t you? I know too much.”

Nicholas said, “You know what I trusted you with. If it’s money you want, you haven’t lost by it. If it’s amusement you want, don’t cut too finely too often, or there’ll be nothing left to amuse you with.”

The next two days were unpleasant because of the turmoil in the camp, as one squadron after another squabbled over the right to take part in the coming attack, and win glory and booty. In his tent, locked in pain to his bed, the Count of Urbino tried in vain to resolve the muddle, but couldn’t overrule the command he had himself given to Alessandro Sforza. By the date of the attack, the whole camp was partially under arms, and not only the three favoured squadrons Sforza proposed to lead over the plain.

Nor had it been kept secret from the enemy. Not only the fact of the attack but its scale seemed to be known. When Sforza burst from his encampment it could be seen that Piccinino in turn had begun to move from his hill. As Sforza’s three squadrons raced forward from one side, a matching force spurred out on the other to meet it.

Waiting outside the Count’s tent Paltroni, his secretary, carried news to the Count as runners brought it. Before the Count’s instructions could come back, a group of his less intelligent officers decided on further action. The gates were opened. A fourth squadron, hurriedly mounted, streamed out and set itself, galloping, towards the heart of the battle. On the hill opposite, the gates opened in answer and horsemen began to pour out.

On the plain, the two initial forces crashed together without plan, without strategy. To the shaking thunder of hooves was added the rattling thud of shield and lance and pike and the anvil clash of steel meeting steel. The continuous shouting of men and the squeal and whinny of horses hung over the encounter, hardly travelling. Veils of red
dust rose, and lingered, and falling, began to cloak the dark sparkling mass on the plain.

Through the haze it heaved, like bees swarming. Knit together, it moved from place to place, its edges shaped and reshaped by the stamping hocks and round, swinging hindquarters of the battle-chargers. The fresh squadrons, first from one side and then from the other, galloped straight up and, dividing, pressed their way into the struggle.

The mass spread, and loosened. Where the fighting had been worst, dark gaps appeared, their cause invisible. The flock of living men, swirling, formed new skeins and masses, the battle line stretching. From the hill, the stream of horsemen was now almost continuous.

Astorre, standing watching from the highest ground in the camp with the other captains, suddenly turned on his heel and spoke to Thomas. And soon after that, in common with the rest of the camp, the survivors of Sarno were armed and mounted and drawn up, watching and waiting.

Tobie was not among them. Julius was, in a cuirass and helmet with his left arm out of its strap. He saw Astorre’s eyes rest on him, but the captain said nothing. He could hold a lance or a sword, and guide his horse with his knees. If he had to.

No orders had been given for a general engagement. If any more squadrons were allowed to ride out, it would become a general engagement. But if they didn’t ride out, it might become a carnage, out there on the plain, with Piccinino’s whole army sweeping over to take them. The word up till now had been “Wait”. But Tobie wasn’t here, which meant something else.

Felix had put his fancy helmet on. His face was white and his eyes, grey and shallow-set, shone in its shadow. Heat from his armour shimmered. They all wore gloves, and Astorre’s force carried the blue ribbons of the Charetty. Astorre himself wore his best helmet also, with the nosepiece. The plumes, so brave in Milan, hung over his bearded face, which was working with passion. He kept flinging words at Thomas on his other side, who stood without answering, his hand smoothing the hilt of his sword.

Julius kept looking round. Abrami. Manfred. A big man in good half-armour behind him said, “I don’t see Lionetto. Has he gone yet?”

Under the helmet was the familiar face of Nicholas, with the unfamiliar scar and both dimples. Julius said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“The women threw me out of the cart,” Nicholas said. “Before I could do anything, too. Tobie isn’t here.”

“I know. That means … By God, there he is,” Julius said.

No one thought he meant Tobie, although the doctor had appeared outside Urbino’s tent. What he was looking at was the figure of Count
Federigo himself being manhandled, stiff as a funerary figure, to sit his war horse.

The Count wore no armour. He had borrowed a leather jerkin and someone had laced it over Tobie’s bandaging, which encased him from neck to waist. Instead of a helmet he wore a light cap over the receding waves of his hair, still pressed flat from his pillow. Below it his great broken face jutted out, the sunken eye and gapped nose unmistakable among men.

It was not his only injury in a lifetime of wars, but it had come nearest to killing him, and that from a friendly jousting bout. Now his back was his weakness. He was grey with pain, catching his breath as he rode forward. But he made for a piece of high ground, and reined, and got their attention so that he could address them all. And then, despite the pain, he inflated his lungs, to make sure his strong voice would carry.

He laid no blame with Alessandro Sforza. Merely, the enemy had cast or was casting all his troops, bit by bit, into the field and they must therefore do the same or lose the day. Already their own troops had been forced to spread themselves too thinly for comfort. Soon, unless they were supported, the enemy would break their way through. Then the whole encampment would be taken, and their hopes of reaching Naples and assisting King Ferrante to defend his capital would be ended. He had hoped that some of those who had already fought hardest might be spared a battle, but it was not to be. God would reward them.

There was not time for much more. They mounted. To his former apprentice Julius said, “For Christ’s sake. This is your first battle?”

“It’s easy,” said Nicholas. “Stay on the horse and keep ducking. What are you doing here? You’re a notary.”

“The same reason as you. I feel safer with Astorre than I do left behind with the baggage. Keep beside him, and do what he tells you.”

Nicholas started to laugh. Before Julius could ask him why, they were out of the barriers and picking up pace as they began to trot and then canter over the plain into battle, with their banners snapping above and the trumpets braying before them.

The battle of San Fabiano, so recklessly brought into being, went on for seven hours. By the time dusk put an end to the bloodshed, it had earned its name as one of the costliest encounters of its time. Four hundred horses were killed. How many soldiers lost their lives was less easy to count, as both sides removed their own dead. With the charge of the reserve under the Count of Urbino, the immediate threat to his camp was removed. But by that time, or very soon after, the whole of Piccinino’s army had come to give battle against everything that Sforza and Urbino had, and no quarter was given.

No longer confined to one massive struggle, the fighting split and surged in one direction or another, sometimes threatening Urbino’s encampment, and sometimes pushing Piccinino’s men towards the slope of their hill. Fallen horses lay like boulders. Others, felled and
struggling, trapped and brought riders down. Men lay everywhere. Fighting, you could hardly look down to see what to avoid. Later, as the sun began to sink, you might trample on the dying or overrun dismounted men fighting or running or standing dazed, half unconscious with exertion or wounds, or the effects of the heat.

Julius lived through it, and so did Astorre. He had not spoken lightly of Astorre’s gifts in the field. It was what he did best, leading men into battle, marshalling them and keeping them in high heart, and intact.

He couldn’t keep his company intact today. No one could. The handgun men had suffered most, being less used to close fighting. They had not even brought their guns, which would have been useless. The crossbowmen on both sides, on the other hand, had inflicted slaughter. Too much slaughter. Julius had seen Abrami go down, and Lukin, the best cook and forager Astorre had ever had. The smith Manfred had lost his horse early, and had jumped clear and caught another. Later, Julius saw he had Nicholas beside him and was glad.

At one point he saw Felix with them as well, and then the boy dashed off, his helmet bobbing until Astorre called him back. All through, everyone watched out for Felix, and kept beside him when they could. He was their employer’s son, and precious and brave enough, damn him, to take quite considerable risks. Julius spent quite a large part of his time, when he wasn’t fighting, looking out for young Felix. Nicholas, he saw, did the same. Even Tobie. His greatest moment of astonishment was the sight of Tobie, with no helmet on at all, standing holding his horse with one hand and helping to heave the bandaged figure of a dismounted Count Federigo into the saddle again with the other. Then the fighting swept Julius away, and he lost the bald head to view.

In time, his arm had suffered so many blows that he couldn’t feel it, and his hand inside his glove felt like meat. Then Julius lifted his head and stretched open his dry, burning eyes and saw that the sun had started to sink, and the plain was dark with the fallen.

The riders who were left moved slowly, on stumbling horses, and blocked their enemy’s path by their bodily presence rather than by driving lances or whirling swords. The skirmishes languished, and broken companies began to gather together, merging into obstinate blocks but no longer challenging. The air, tinted with rose, was decorated with the swooping of small chiselled birds, but their twitter was lost in the groundswell of men’s voices crying.

Astorre said, “Form up. Make a line. The Count is having the retreat blown.”

Tobie was still with the Count. Manfred. Nicholas, his head turned, and beyond him, by God, Lionetto. Thomas was there. Felix? Julius craned round. A glitter caught his eye. Across the field, Piccinino also was withdrawing his men, and his trumpeters also were waiting.

The field was still full of men returning on foot, or indolently
fighting, unaware as yet of the disengagement.

Among them was Felix, bare-headed and horseless. He wasn’t fighting, but appeared to be searching for something. Julius yelled. Astorre’s voice, even louder, made Felix look up just as the trumpets began, and he realised the fighting was over. He straightened, grinning, and waved. He had his helmet under his arm, the scarlet plume trailing, the eagle’s head glaring up at the sky. Julius said, “Run, you fool!”