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By Root 2152 0

— Marian, whose company was with him tonight, and to whom he owed everything. And who else from the past? Bessarion; and in his odd way Ludovico da Bologna, whom he now understood. The lecturers, the orators he had listened to, travelling through Germany, in Trebizond, at Louvain. The great men of Africa: Katib Musa, and latterly, the imam Ibrahiim, who had taught him to think about death. Umar, the gentle jurist whose loss he was learning to bear. Brother Lorenzo. Callimaco in Poland, and Gregory. The essential wisdom of Josaphat Barbaro, and of women like Clémence, and Bel, and Eleanor of the Tyrol. The perception of Willie Roger, who had introduced him to music. The strange dominion of Nicholai de’ Acciajuoli, who had presented him with the gift of his life. The men around him.

The woman he had just taken again, to where she had always belonged. And the other extraordinary spirit, whom he must not think of, but whose husband was his to keep safe, if he could.

He felt Tobie’s gaze, from his pallet, but the doctor did not speak. Instead, Nicholas turned his head in the dark, with a half-smile. ‘Thank you. Everything is all right.’

Then it was morning.

JOAN OF ARC had once prayed in the basilica where Duke René heard Grand Mass that Sunday. By eight, the trumpets had blown, and the young Duke, in cloth of gold over his armour, rode his grey mare La Dame through the soiled snow towards Nancy at the head of twenty thousand armed men: foot and cavalry; lances, halberdiers and hackbutters; gunners with their artillery pieces. His banner, representing the Annunciation, was painted with the figure of Gabriel. The snow had stopped, and the cold had lifted a trifle with the coming of day.

There were only eleven miles to cover to Nancy. As they marched, René’s men picked off the enemy scouts and dispatched their own to view the Burgundian dispositions. Two hours before noon, the army drew to a halt while the commanders conferred, deferring naturally to René, who was the grandson of that other René, and no fool. The strategy for the day was drawn up.

Just after noon, in the course of a light shower of snow, the Duke of Burgundy’s artillery perceived a strong detachment of the enemy advancing towards the double hedges of the Jarville gulley before them. The Burgundian artillery fired, but were unable to align their guns to the greatest effect, and most of the balls flew too high. They began to reload, while the centre and wings of the Burgundian army swung to the right, preparing for orders to wheel.

If any were given, they were not heard. The wood of Saurupt, on the right, emitted two long, mournful bellows and, stretching, flung off its snow. The cries, three times repeated, were from the brazen throats of the bull and cow of Uri and Unterwalden, the two gross Swiss horns which had already shaken the air at the battles of Grandson and Morat. And from the trees which had screened them plunged a yelling horde of enemy horsemen, borne on a cloud of smoke sparkling with hackbut fire. Their own momentum took them shearing into the right flank of the Burgundians, killing Josse de Lalaing; and although his men stood the shock and even fought back, it was not for long, and the Burgundian flank gave way to flight, opening the way to the centre.

There, Astorre’s company had already seen the frontal attack under Duke René himself surging over the guns, destroying them, and taking the gunners, John le Grant among them. Another Jarville detachment hurtled into the left Burgundian wing under Galeotto, which held, fighting furiously, until thrown back by superior numbers. Led by Galeotto, now wounded, his company ranged the half-frozen Meurthe until they could cross at Tomblaine and fly north.

Astorre, beset from the front and the side and whacking furiously with his sword, could be heard to shriek that he didn’t blame him. The cry Sauve qui peut! had gone up, and three-quarters of Charles of Burgundy’s force was in flight. The only section still furiously engaged was that which surrounded Duke Charles himself, a frenzied figure on a frenzied