Race of Scorpions by Dorothy Dunnett
It opened. Doors always did, for Carlotta. There was a hubbub. Then Pardo came in and said, ‘We’re secure. Madama, don’t be distressed. I’ve sent someone to Silla for help: there will be men: there’s a tavern. And meantime, the archers are ready.’ He turned to the farmer and his servants, crowded into the end of the room. He said, ‘The Queen thanks you, and will show her gratitude. The rogues outside have hackbuts, and might fire through the windows or door. Is there a secure room for the Queen and her ladies?’
They took her to a room at the back, along with the women. One of them was snuffling. The others knew better. One was missing. She knew which one that would be. She said, ‘They are brigands? How many?’
De Bon had answered. ‘There are fifty, madama. Mostly at the front, but some here at the back where the other gates are. They won’t storm the walls: there are too few of them. You are safe. And the wagons.’
The wagons. She said, ‘Ansaldo is with them?’
‘In the barn,’ said her major domo. ‘He will protect them with his life.’
He left. The Queen stayed, biting her thumb, while the farm servants snivelled and her own ladies huddled together like hens. All but Primaflora, who would be watching the barn, not her Queen, because her lover Ansaldo was there. Court women! Imbeciles! Or if they were not, it would seem that they became so. Primaflora spoke Greek, as she must, but she was a Savoyard like Luis, and a worker. She had been thrown to Ansaldo to keep Ansaldo happy: it was her duty; she knew it perfectly; she had never given trouble before. So why act like a hen when the cock struts? The Queen marched up and down the small room, kicking her skirts, hearing the shouting outside, and the increase in noise from the front of the house. It sounded ominous. She found and slapped her page and said, ‘Go! Tell me what is happening.’ She pulled her dagger out of its waist-sheath, just in case, and saw the woman nearest her flinch. Idiot.
She had seen those assailants outside. They were encased in helms and plate armour, with no markings to tell who they were. Brigands wore a patchwork of armour if they could get it, but more often jacks of light leather. Knights who could afford complete harness could afford, as a rule, to be identified. So these must be mercenaries. But paid by whom? The Genoese? The Milanese? The Venetians? She grew impatient with the snivelling page and striding to the front of the house, found and grasped Thomas Pardo. Pardo the Cypriot, whose skin was so dark that he never looked frightened. He said, ‘Go back, madama. Every now and then, they try to storm the gates, climb the walls. We will pick them off.’
‘So long as you have arrows,’ she said. ‘What then? They could set fire to the buildings.’
‘Then they would lose what we carry,’ said Pardo.
‘They could demand our goods for our lives,’ said the Queen. ‘If they know who we are, they may demand our person in return for your safety. Have you considered this?’
‘Others have made the same offer,’ said Pardo. ‘I know none of your servants who has been tempted, or ever will be. Madama, they come.’ She looked out of the window. The farm was ringed by blurs of fast-moving steel whose human outlines had faded under coifs and surcoats of snow. Their faces looked purple. She wanted to stay, but they persuaded her to return to her women.
The fools stood as she had left them, hugging each other. The candles guttered, and a brazier smoked. She eased back a shutter an inch and saw that new snow had already covered the wheel-ruts that led to the barn. There was a sledge, and a painted barrow, and a child’s spade stuck by a well. Beside the barn, the snow had been rolled into boulders and given eyes and noses and buttons. A household of brats. In two years, she and Luis had managed no children: another failure of Luis’.
It would be remedied. She would emerge scatheless from this, as she usually did. She was afraid of dying through mishap – one had always to reckon with that. She might be robbed for a second – a third time. Her women were right to fear rape. But as Queen, she was sacrosanct, unless attacked by ignorant riff-raff, and these men were not that. So who were they? That was what was important. That and saving, with God’s help, what lay in the chests on the wagons.
They brought her a chair, and time passed. She sat with her chin in her fists, hearing the whine and whicker of arrows and the explosion of hackbuts; the thud of metal and wood, and the barking voices of men. She heard fighting orders from her own men in Greek and Italian and French, and thought – but she must be mistaken – that she heard the enemy respond in much the same languages. The snow fell. A door opened and shut and Primaflora knelt at her side.
She had been out of doors. Her cloak was soaked, its hood fallen back from the immaculate golden hair inside its immaculate coif. A wisp plastered her cheek, her tinted cheek, below the pellucid eyes and the winged nostrils and the rosebud mouth with its dimple, above and below. It was natural that Ansaldo should have been mesmerised. Primaflora said, ‘Forgive me, madama. It is the chests they are after. Ansaldo says they are cutting a ram for the gates. To make an assault, they will require all their men. He says that when they begin their attack on the front, he will try to drive the wagons out of the barn, across the yard and out the back gate, and make his escape to the woods. The enemy may force their way in, but you will be safe, madama. In the field, an arrow might kill you. And if the carts are secure, you have something. When they discover their loss, they might give up.’
‘When they discover their loss, they will follow him,’ Carlotta said. ‘Where could he hide? And does he think they are deaf, even when fighting?’
‘The snow will muffle the sound,’ said the girl. ‘The snow will cover his tracks. He is willing to try. And if he fails, he will have drawn them off, and the illustrious lady can fly.’ She hesitated. ‘Madama, time has passed. It may be that no rescue is coming. And we have few arrows left.’
Under the paint, the girl’s face was pale. The Queen paused. She said, ‘You have said what you were told to say, but I see what it is. He makes of himself a decoy, and allows us a chance to escape. He is a brave man. I agree. Go and tell my lord de Bon and my lord Pardo. Then come back to me.’
The girl did what she was told and, coming back, stationed herself at the window, her eyes on the barn, her hand tight on the shutter. Even in anguish, she kept her courtesan’s grace. The Queen wondered whether, impelled by true love, she had offered to ride with Ansaldo. If so, he had not agreed. The Queen understood the advantages of what Ansaldo was doing, but it seemed very likely that she was going to lose him, and his men, and the boxes, and get herself taken for ransom. This was going to cost money. Holy Bones of God, her uncle the Duke would be furious. She promised herself, blackly, to tell the lord Sante precisely what she thought of his absent troop of escorting cavalry. The Queen rose, and walked through to the front room.
There was daylight here, for the windows were torn and the shutters broken and hanging. There were also two or three fewer than there had been; and in a corner a man lay on a cloak, groaning. They were apportioning the last of the arrows and passing orders, low-voiced. She didn’t interrupt them. The archers were in the room above: she could hear their footsteps. Through the window, she saw the bodies of men lying now in the yard, and beyond the gates a cluster of snow-coated helms, white as pebbles. As she watched, they moved backwards, and the noise of their voices increased. Then they began rushing forward.
Before the ram struck the gate, Primaflora called. ‘Madama! The wagons are leaving!’
The ram crashed into the gate. Pardo smiled, and gave her a salute with his sword. He said, ‘Courage!’ and opened the door, his men round about him. The ram withdrew. A flight of arrows from over her head arched down over the wall and fell on the shields of the assailants. The ram faltered, then its bearers closed up again. Pardo dashed into the yard. Ahead, a bugle blew somewhere. Behind, a whistle shrilled. The Queen found her arm grasped by Primaflora. The girl said, ‘They’ve seen the wagons. They left a watcher. They’ll follow them.’
‘Wait!’ said the Queen. The trumpet flo
And Primaflora said to her fiercely, ‘But Ansaldo is not! Or the boxes! They are following him!’
Acute annoyance crossed the Queen’s face. ‘Then we must save them!’ she said. ‘Tell the Bentivoglio! The Queen’s favour to all who assist her!’
She watched the girl run, and wondered what quality of men Sante of Bologna employed, and whether they were sober. She had no great hopes. She had long ago concluded that the world would be a more efficient place if managed by women.
Chapter 2
IT WAS QUITE a while since Nicholas had fought anybody. Leaving the inn, there hadn’t been time for full armour, but he was satisfied with the weight of the jack on his shoulders, and an ordinary steel helmet without face-guards, and his Milanese shield and an extremely good sword, in a plain scabbard. His horse had no special protection, and neither had that of Thomas; but for a skirmish, they were dressed well enough. The Bentivoglio troop, encased in steel with vizors and plumes, looked fit to roll back Ghengis Khan, if you didn’t know they were pickled in liquor.
They had not far to go. The royal train had been ambushed near the river; had fought off the attack and had taken refuge, as the man had said, in a farmhouse. From the tavern-keeper they knew the farmer was there, and his servants, but his wife and eight children, thank God, had gone to Bologna. ‘They’ll drive the wagons into the barn,’ the man had said. ‘Ansaldo will. It’s the wagons they’re after.’ What was in the wagons, however, he could not be brought to disclose.
They had meant to stop short of the farm and send scouts ahead, but on nearing heard the clatter of battle. Not the sporadic noise of a siege, but the insistent clamour of hand-to-hand fighting. The lieutenant laid a hand to his trumpet and gulped. It was Thomas who removed it from his fingers and blew the good, healthy fanfare that sent the whole motley force galloping forward.
Considering the state of the Bentivoglio men, it was an excellent fight. The men assaulting the farmhouse were found to be fully armed, which was unusual. They not only fought more than competently, but had been on the verge, it was clear, of storming the gates and the building. They were, however, both surprised and outnumbered, and the Bentivoglio troop at least were properly armed. Nicholas dashed back and forth, wielding his sword and parrying with his shield until the fighting started to slacken. By then, the farm gates had opened and the Queen’s men had come out to help them.
The extra numbers made all the difference. The marauding troop began to fall back. Some had fallen. Some had been forced to surrender. Quite a number had broken off and galloped away. The cavalry troop of the lord of Bentivoglio began to complete the rounding up of the rest. Nicholas noticed a woman.
It was two months since he had noticed any woman, and he felt nothing for this one, except that he saw she was handsome. She stood at the gate, her hair soaked, her cloak clutched about her and said, ‘My lord Pardo! De Bon! They have gone after the wagons! Save them! Save Captain Ansaldo!’
The man beside Nicholas appeared to be Pardo. Nicholas said, ‘The Queen’s wagons?’
The dark-faced man said, ‘We drove them out from the back as a decoy. They were seen. Some of these brigands broke away and are chasing them.’ He said, panting, ‘I have to stay with the Queen.’
‘I don’t,’ said Nicholas happily. He swept a knot of Poles and traders and Bolognese with him and raced round to the back of the farmhouse. The tracks of the wagons were there, and the tracks of the pursuers. Far across the snowfields he could see the riders themselves in the distance. He hallooed, echoed by Thomas, and they hurled themselves into the hunt.
To his own surprise, Nicholas felt some excitement. For the first time in weeks, he had nothing to think of but his sword and his seat on a horse. He lifted his blade and brandished it over his head, roaring wordlessly. The fair-haired Poles, clustering about him, raised their feathered caps and screamed in chorus. The group of armoured horsemen in front, racing across the white fields to the river, turned, floundered, and then redoubled their efforts. Ahead of them was their quarry; three Cypriot carts and a group of seven or eight men with a captain. It was hard to count, through the fleece of dashed snow. Nicholas said, ‘Have we an archer?’
Two of the angelic Poles had short bows. One man had a sling. They shot from the saddle, and saw two men fall, far ahead, and thought they had injured another. They went on shooting, but the snow, the uneven ground, and the distance were all against them. Nicholas bellowed, talking in snatches. ‘We’re not going to catch them in time. First thing, let’s warn this Ansaldo. He’s got to abandon the wagons and run, or he’ll be killed before we can help him. If he sees us, he’ll do it. Come on. Spread out, and start shouting.’
‘But the wagons?’ panted one of the merchants.
‘We’ll get them anyway. Where can the thieves go with them? They’re slow; they can hardly escape us. They must know the Queen has been rescued. If they have any sense, they’ll abandon the effort and save themselves. Shout. Shout.’
They spread out and shouted. Ahead, specks in the distance, they could see the wagons lumbering on. Faces turned, but the draught horses galloped. Thomas swore. Nicholas said, ‘We’ve no banner. The captain doesn’t know we are friends. He thinks the rest of the thieves have come after him.’ Then paused, and wished he knew as many swear words as Thomas.
Far ahead, the little convoy was slowing. Outmatched as he thought, Ansaldo had done the brave thing. Instead of hopelessly running, he and his men had turned to confront their pursuers. Through the snow came the wink of their swords. They had set out to draw the attack from the Queen, and they were prepared to die, to help her to freedom. Nicholas whipped his horse, setting his teeth, but it had borne him from the inn, and through a fight, and was not going to turn into a bird for him. He saw the brigands arrive, and dismount, and fall upon the small group by the carts, and, distant as he was, could do nothing to help them.
The fighting was over in moments. The shouting stopped, the flash of blades suddenly ceased, and all that was to be seen was a mark on the snow far ahead, and three wagons being driven at speed, with outriders spurring beside them.
The young Poles beside Nicholas were silent. They reined in when they came to the spot, and looked down at the thick Turkish carpet of red and white snow, and the slashed bodies lying upon it. Nicholas wondered which of them was Ansaldo. Then they sprang off, in the wake of the wagons.
These were easy to follow, if not to catch sight of. The ruts, not yet filled, led through uneven country that denied a clear view, and human hands as well as snow had muffled untoward sounds. The brigands were riding in silence. Nicholas said, ‘We’re getting close. The ruts are clearer. I don’t like it.’
‘An ambush?’ Thomas said.
‘Wait,’ said Nicholas. They stopped. Ahead were the wagons. They were motionless. Beside them were snow-covered bushes; a copse; a ridge behind which men could be hiding. It took a long and cautious approach to discover that there was no ambush here. The copse and bushes were empty of men. And the wagons, when they reached them, contained nothing.
There were footprints everywhere. One of the Poles said, ‘Sir?’ and pointed to a trail of them, deep as a trough. It led round a thicketed mound.
Nicholas said, ‘What’s over there?’
‘The Reno. The river,’ said one of the merchants.
Thomas swore. ‘And a boat, or a barge.’ He swung into the saddle. ‘We’ll get them.’
The river was there, round the ridge. And there were the brigands, their horses beside them. The contents of the carts stood there a
There was no time, then, to examine the fate of the Queen’s possessions. But dashing over the bridge, Nicholas caught sight of the clutter of boxes below him, and conceived the impression that the barge or boat had foundered beneath them. He had the further impression that what he heard, far ahead, was the sound of men cheering. He was interested enough to be quite intent on catching them, but after fifteen minutes his horse started to founder, and two others had to drop out. After twenty minutes Thomas said, ‘They’ve got away. Their horses were fresher. They were mercenaries.’
‘Did you know them?’ Nicholas said.
‘No. But I know the second-hand shop their gear came from. Who paid them?’
‘Let’s ask the Queen,’ Nicholas said. ‘But first, let’s go back to the bridge.’
At the bridge, they had company: a dozen of the Cypriot household had come from the farm to assist them. They stood on the bank, looking downwards. Nicholas tied his horse to the bridge and looked over it. Below lay the contents of the Queen’s wagons. The exotic merchandise, to acquire which a mercenary troop had been told, it would seem, to stop at nothing. The merchandise for which Ansaldo and his brave men had perished.