Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [22]
Wodman said, ‘You didn’t even fight, you. You set fifteen on two. If we die, we die with honour at least.’ He spoke in English, so that all the others could hear.
Nicholas used English also. Sitting stiff with his bound hands before him, he sustained the gaze of the invisible face with his one unbloodied eye and spoke in a clear, level voice. ‘You have planned well, but not well enough. There are men coming to meet us who will not be deterred by a fight, but will feel it their duty to stop it. Also, Andro Wodman is a royal official, Conservator of Scots Privileges in Bruges and the King’s familiar squire. The King will not rest until his killer is found.’
‘In which case,’ said the girl, ‘the deed had better be done indoors.’
‘But not by you,’ Nicholas said. ‘You devised this, but others will hang. What will you do when the bailie or the King’s men arrive? Are there horses for everyone? Look, your men are worried already.’
It was true. One man had glanced at another. Their momentum was failing. Nicholas addressed the girl evenly. ‘There is my sword. Kill me yourself.’
Wodman growled. Even the sodden ground beneath him seemed to stir with unease. The rain stuttered on the uneven group round about them, and on those who had left it, unbidden, to search out the dead and the wounded. The other girls had all gone.
One of the girl’s henchmen looked up. A single horseman was racing towards them; not by the road but crosswise, over the hillocks. He was shouting a warning.
Nicholas said, ‘The bailie’s men are coming. I told you.’ The ground was vibrating. It was obvious that he was speaking the truth, even before the outrider arrived.
The girl said, ‘Get the horses.’ So the mounts had been concealed in advance. As he had said, it had all been well enough planned. If you had resources, you could arrange matters. The men ran; the girl stayed. She had picked up the sword. She had capable hands.
Wodman said, ‘Damn you. If she kills you, she’s got to kill me as well.’
‘But that would be an injustice,’ Nicholas said. She had come to stand at his side. The sword, gripped in both hands, reflected into her face, which was swathed to the cheekbones under the hood. All he could see were her eyes, fringed, wide and lovely. All he could hear in his mind was her soft, husky voice. Nicholas said, ‘I could have killed you, but I didn’t.’
‘Because you are a coward,’ she said. ‘Which I am not.’ And slowly raised her arms holding the sword.
Nicholas kept his eyes open, upon her. Kept his single eye open. It seemed fitting that, at this, the ultimate moment of his preposterous life, he should be staring one-eyed at his killer. Like his captain, Astorre, who had died for the Duke. He was probably about to meet Astorre in Hell, and be lectured into eternity about military privies and pasties and women. She might not have time to kill Wodman.
She didn’t have time for anything. Her own hired leader, now mounted, had lingered. As she gripped and aligned the sword, the man swore and flung his horse back towards her. She turned, swinging the sword, but he avoided it. Instead, stooping, he grasped her and swept her aside, so that the sword fell and she was pulled away screeching at his flank. He bent and hauled her up into the saddle, and then spurred off, fast, after the others. They took the way towards Edinburgh. The man was not a philanthropist: he simply didn’t intend to be named by some frightened employer.
A moment later, the bailie’s horsemen breasted the rise and slowed and stared, as well they might, at the trampled mud, the cottages with their imprisoned, screaming inhabitants, and the Conservator of Scots Privileges and Nicol de Fleury trussed and half stripped and bloodstained at their feet.
The bailie said, ‘My lords! What has happened? The Abbot expects you!’
Nicholas said thinly, ‘A case of mistaken identity. You saved us. A little salve and fresh clothing, and