Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [321]
Nicholas bellowed, ‘Astorre?’ and saw the ludicrous helm, in a cloud of sparks, turn to acknowledge him. It was time. This was one of the contingencies that had not been hard to envisage. Sick and under-nourished and cold, the disillusioned survivors of the Duke’s once-great armies were not going to stand and fight against a fresh force twice their size, which would take none but valuable prisoners. Yet, while the two wings of the main army had fled and the centre was crumbling, his own company was virtually intact, and fighting still as a disciplined unit. He had watched John overwhelmed, but he could still see the serviceable helms and borrowed livery of Diniz and Julius, the battered armour of Tobie, who ought not to be there, and the prodigious plumes of Captain Astorre and Thomas. He knew Robin in his fine-cut bright steel was untouched, because he had never let him out of his sight.
Nevertheless, if they lingered, they would die or be captured. It was time to deploy them, and save them. Nicholas saw Astorre cast one wistful look ahead to where the banner of Gabriel flounced over the massed grey, white and red of Duke René’s colours. Given a chance, there might have been real Swiss to fight; and Campobasso’s renegade troops to tackle and thrash. But not today.
Through all the madness, the great nobles and the men of his own house had fought to protect Charles of Burgundy, adhering to him, matching his impetuous dashes as he flung his horse from one side to the other. Now the foot and horse of Astorre’s company swept up to join them, so that, briefly, a barrier was formed between the Burgundian centre and the host of rearing horses and driving spears that surrounded them. Then they set to engineering a fierce, fighting withdrawal alongside the Burgundian leaders, the Duke in their midst. Shortly, their rearguard covered, they were able to wrench free from the thick of the battle, dividing according to plan, so that it was not immediately clear where the Duke himself was. They carried no colours.
Escape, in that trampled ground full of half-frozen morasses, was never going to be easy. The broken army fleeing before them had only three chances: to strike north and west to the forest of Haye; or north across the tributaries of the Meurthe; or across the Meurthe itself, by the route which led to the Duke’s towns of Metz, and then Luxembourg.
That crossing, at the bridge of Bouxières-les-Dames, was the one the Duke was to take, and the honour of racing ahead to secure it fell to Astorre’s men. He took half the company with him, and Thomas, leaving Julius to lead one half of what was left, and Nicholas the other. Astorre rode up, his sewn eye scarlet with pride, his sword at the salute, to take leave of his Duke, who lifted his sword in response as he rode. Nicholas saluted the captain as well, raising his arm to the men at his back. Then the little force had spurred off like demons. The bridge was five miles away.
‘A happy man,’ Julius said, looking after Astorre. ‘They’ll give him a province to govern.’
‘He wouldn’t mind that,’ Nicholas said. ‘He might get a bit bored, once he’s trained the cooks and had all the girls.’ But there wasn’t much time to talk, because the riding was so hard and the enemy troops, now in frank pursuit, were coming up between them and the river. Shortly after that, Nicholas sent Julius’s contingent, with Tobie, to try to take the forest route. There was no sense in wasting men. And he didn’t like what was happening.
A rout is not a pleasant thing. It was no advantage to be well-mounted when overtaking hundreds of staggering men and packs of riderless horses whose fallen owners were already half drowned in their armour. The plan had been to lead the Duke back through the depleted