Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [108]
Captain Carasco jerked his head. The pyramid reformed. One man and then a second disappeared up through the trapdoor and a moment later, on his orders, a rope came down which allowed the last fortunate three to ascend. ‘Remember!’ roared Captain Carasco. ‘You are to overwhelm him with numbers. He is not to be rendered unusable.’
It was, in fact, the last thing he remembered saying, just before he received an incapacitating blow on the back of his cranium.
Outside, awaiting orders, the ring of horsemen kept their patient vigil, and the group of those dismounted stood in the yard, exchanging muted opinions. From there, the course of battle was agreeably palpable. They listened, impressed by the language before, finally, silence prevailed.
It was not clear whether it was Julian or Diego whose jubilant voice finally reported, shouting, that the prisoner was subdued, and they were about to bind and descend with him.
There followed a short wait. Since they had been told to guard the exterior of the barn, Captain Carasco’s loyal men continued to stand and guard the outside of the barn. They were still guarding it when the first of them became aware of a strong stench of burning.
The barn windows had all been close-shuttered, which was why unnoticed the burning boughs in the corner, dry as powder, could become a Catherine wheel which sparked fire into the litter. Once lit, the straw only smouldered. But the smoke it vented, thick as wool, acrid as ammonia, poured through the seams of the timber and when at last they rushed forward and dragged the doors open, rolled over the yard like the white, stifling fall of some fatal, Ionic volcano.
Figures, retching and coughing, burst from the smoke, joining other spluttering figures in the shrouded, darkening air of the yard. Inside the barn, ribbons of flame fluttered, metallic and bright in the darkness. More helmeted figures burst through them; and last of all a man without uniform: a soot-smeared gentleman with yellow hair and a torn, peasant’s shirt, whose two arms were gripped by his captors.
Diego, or perhaps Julian, took time between running to and fro from the pond to congratulate them as they disappeared into the fog. ‘You have him!’
‘Aye, we have him.’
‘Are you sure it’s the general?’
‘Yellow hair. Can you not see?’
‘And a full beard and moustache?’ yelled Diego, or Julian, choking. He threw his last helmetful of green water on the blazing barn and prepared to abandon it.
‘He admitted it.’ Smoke, billowing, closed on the speaker just as Captain Carasco himself, his hand to his head, tottered to the barn door and cried gaspingly, ‘To me! To me! There are men in the barn!’
Of the few men left who could see or hear him, five ran towards him. ‘There are none, mi capitán. All have run out.’
His breath wrestled through the smoke in his throat. ‘I tell you, our men are still upstairs. Can you not hear them? Bring water. A rope. An axe.’
‘There is nothing to hold water, mi capitán,’ said someone thickly. ‘We are using our helmets.’
‘Use them, then! We must break our way through to the hayloft. Rope … A pail … I have seen a pail …’
It had struck Lymond, too, that someone would think of the milk pail. He had run with the rest nearly as far as the horses, and seen Piero Strozzi mount, and Danny, and all the Spanish-garbed company, as well as the soldier passed off as himself. Then, merging into the smoke, he dropped back before they could miss him; for he had one responsibility which he could in fairness ask no one to share with him.
So, twisting, sprinting, avoiding the other blundering figures which came at him, black and blinded from the choking seat of the fire, Francis Crawford raced back to the farmhouse and into the parlour,