Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [324]
On the edge of the pool, one of the bodies wore a bright yellow sash.
Robin cried ‘No!’ and dropped with a thud from his horse. Mounted, he might have been safe. But the cry and the flash of his cuirass drew the attention of the scavenging soldiers now streaming up to the far side of the ditch. One of them lifted a crossbow and fired, once at Robin, and once at the silhouetted figure of Nicholas, crashing down from his horse. Then someone lifted a handgun.
The bolts struck: the first smashing through Robin’s thigh below his half-armour, and the other throwing Nicholas back, half concussed. He saw Robin begin to fall and was struggling to reach him when the hackbut exploded. He would have taken the ball if he could, but it was not aimed at him. Robin screamed as he was hit, and again as he sank to the ground. His fair-skinned face, drenched with blood, turned once towards Nicholas, in apology, in farewell, in love. Then his shining eyes closed. The next moment, a handgun spoke again, and Nicholas knew nothing more.
AT SEVEN THAT EVENING, René, Duke of Lorraine, rode into his capital city of Nancy through the Porte de la Craffe and made his way by torchlight to the collegiate church of St George to give thanks for his victory. Behind him, on the site of the battle, lay nearly four thousand dead, not yet buried. Among the throng of his captives, he could now count the Bastard Anthony, taken in the forest of Haye, and the Comte de Chimay, the Duchess’s captain, and his son.
The one blight on the joy of the evening was the disappearance of Duke Charles himself, whom none had seen since the flight from the battle. The following day, devoted to pillage, the mystery of the Duke’s place of refuge continued: polite messengers sent even to Metz returned with negative answers. Overnight, a page produced some story of having seen the Duke slain. It seemed unlikely: one did not harm the ruler of the richest lands in the world when there were so many attractive alternatives. Nevertheless, the following morning, a search party went out, taking with it a small group of the Duke’s friends and servants who could, if called upon, confirm his identity. His physician, Master Matteo, was among them, and the young half-Portuguese fellow from the Banco di Niccolò, Diniz Vasquez.
It was again bitterly cold. Diniz, who had not felt warm for a day, rode with the others in silence. The Duke had been alive when Diniz had been captured, but he had not thought of him since. Diniz himself was safe, and would be ransomed, together with those Charetty men who were with him. He found it hard to be thankful. John had gone. No one knew the fate of Tobie and Julius. They all knew about Campobasso’s blockade at the bridge of Bouxières, and that Astorre and his company had died there. Also that Nicholas and Robin, who had gone to find them, had not returned.
They were riding past the Commanderie of St John and down to the banks of the stream that ran past it. This had frozen since Sunday, forming at one point a wide pool of ice, humped with bodies. Others lay, pale as sweetbreads, on the rimed mud and frosty meadows about them. All were naked. Some had died from the cold, some from wounds taken in battle, and some had been stripped while alive, and then killed. A man’s voice said, ‘This is my lord.’ He spoke from the edge of the pool, and others dismounted and hurried towards him. After a moment, Diniz did the same, and looked down on the same sight.
He thought he would have known Charles of Burgundy, but he saw only a thickset body in ice, whose profile, half protruding,