Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [313]
His fingers were travelling again: shivering now, they spread and smoothed back her robe, and then parted his own. He drew a long, steadying breath. ‘It is a leave-taking,’ he said. ‘And therefore reposeful, and a little grave, and sparing of all undue exertion until … For as long as might be.’
‘Desire with self-control,’ Gelis said. ‘As the classicists say.’ Her tight-squeezed lashes were soaked.
His hands, circling, stroking, were bringing her inside his robe. He had to lengthen his breathing to speak. ‘It should be easy,’ he said, with soft bitterness. ‘It should be easy. We have had eight years to learn.’
IN THESE, the last days of the campaign at Nancy, it was Captain Astorre’s crowning joy to find his lads collected about him again.
They were not precisely lads, except in relation to himself and elderly Thomas, his henchman. Captain Astorre was fifty-eight years old; and the oldest of them, his prized gunner John, was ten years younger than that. You could even say that the youngest, Robin, was not really his, although he had trained him for a spell on the Somme. But in the months he’d been here, the fellow had won a place in Astorre’s esteem, that was true. Deft, hard-working, steady under attack, he had a nice way about him. A nice deferential way, unlike that of his old sparring partner, Dr Tobie. By God before a certain battle in Italy, Tobias Beventini had never risked so much as a sore toe in battle. He’d made up for it since. Astorre had fought under Skanderbeg in Albania alongside Tobie.
Tobie and Robin had arrived in the cold of November. Next had come freezing December and trouble, of the kind you got when a war was petering out, and snow was threatening, and men were desperate to leave. But soon, the trouble had shrunk to its proper size, for one day the captain had been in the cookhouse, complaining, when Robin had burst through the door, bringing slush and snow and a freezing draught that nearly put out the fire in the oven. Then Robin had said, ‘It’s M. de Fleury.’ And by God, young Claes had followed him in, with Diniz, the lad who directed the Bruges business with Gelis van Borselen, and last, had come the Widow’s notary, Julius.
He still thought of them like that, even though Marian de Charetty was dead, and young Claes, who had married her, was now a broad-shouldered man in a mantle as big as a bear, who pulled off his fur cap and stared at him.
‘You’ve got smaller,’ said Claes.
‘To fit my wages,’ snapped Captain Astorre.
Then they had hammered each other on the back, and he had greeted the others.
The best of it was at night, when he had heard or deduced all their news (Claes had returned to his wife; the German Gräfin had proved the menace they took her for) and he was able to sit them down before a fire and a modified feast, and tell them about his war. It was, of course, due to end in a week or two. (Thomas had grunted.) The besieged Lorrainers in Nancy had now started to starve: the two months were up; their supplies were finished; and L’Enfant René had not returned with an army to save them, despite pawning the silver and scrounging a loan from Strasbourg and obtaining thousands of francs from the King of France on the quiet. The Swiss Confederation had authorised the young man to enroll mercenaries, but mercenaries had to be paid. No one would come. Nancy would have to surrender. (Thomas had grunted again.)
‘You sound sorry,’ said Claes.
‘Well. The Swiss are great fighters,’ had said Astorre. ‘Their skirmishing, you might say, is a treat. But what with the weather and one thing and another, I suppose you would have to call a good formal battle a luxury. We’ve had some trouble getting powder from Luxembourg, and our food’s a bit low. I’m glad you brought what you did. Mind you, I’ve seen better ducks.’
‘Complaint noted,’ Claes said. ‘What about your own men?’ He did all the speaking, Astorre noticed. Diniz was always quiet before Nicholas, and the lawyer sat looking upset. Tobie and John had said