Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [244]
He left. No one spoke. Nicholas released the doctor’s arm and moved alone to stand where the doorway canvas hung open. As Lionetto had said, the news had now reached the enemy camp. The cheering from the hillside was faint, but getting louder. “And now?” said Tobie’s voice with deliberation. “Another set of figures?”
Nicholas stood in the doorway and listened. The cheering that was getting louder was different from the cheering on the opposite hillside. You could never mistake it for a victory shout. It was a straggling, sympathetic acclaim, accorded to men who had fought well, and lost. It came from their own encampment. Under Nicholas’ grasp, the tent flap gave way. He stared at the ripped cloth in his hand, and then let it go. He said, “I was wrong. I should have hit him.”
“My God,” said Tobie. “Is that all you can think of?”
Nicholas didn’t answer. Sweat and wine seemed to be running all over his body, and his heart beat like a cannonball bounding on hide. Then he said, without turning his head, “Come and look.”
As soon as he came, Tobie stood still as he had done, listening and looking as all about them the tentless spaces filled with shouting men, half-dressed or naked. And then, as he had done, began to catch sight of riders, filing through the gates of the encampment and pushing through the crowd and one by one dismounting, among the cries and the torchlight. Weary men; wounded men. Men who had survived the rout at Sarno and who had ridden, not safely back to their homes, but here, to join the flag of their other army.
Brands clustered about them, offering glimpses of unknown faces and unknown features. Then, suddenly, something familiar: the moustache of a man called Manfred, a horse-master. The black, helmetless head of a Hungarian crossbowman with his neck wrapped in white cloth. Two men in tattered black: one sunburnt and thin, and the other straightbacked and muscular with slanting eyes and a classical nose, who slid from his horse one-handed, the other wrapped in a sling.
“Julius,” said Tobie aloud. His voice sounded odd. “And there. Behind him. Astorre. Holy Mother of God, you should have hit him. I should have killed him. I will kill him. Lionetto knew they were safe.”
The words followed Nicholas but he paid no attention to them, being already deep into the crowd with his head down, making his way to the battered file of men still stumbling in. He touched them all as he reached them and passed – Manfred, Godscalc, Abrami – the shoulder, suddenly come on, of Thomas, whose grey face turned, full of surprise. Astorre, who dismounted heavily, chin in air, eyes half-closed on each side of his nose-piece. Lukin. And black Loppe, his face empty. And then Julius, standing still and looking at him.
Beyond was Felix.
Felix said, “Oh, there you are. I said he’d be here. We’ve had quite a battle. You really should have been there. How many men did I kill? I forget.”
“Eight, you said,” said Julius. He hadn’t moved.
Nicholas stayed where he was.
Tobie’s voice said, “That’s my tent over there. They’re putting up another one beside it. I’ll help Nicholas see to the men and your horses. There’s plenty of food. Ask for what you want. Have you seen the Count?”
Astorre said, “We’ve just come from his tent.” His voice creaked.
Tobie said “Go on, then.” Nicholas saw a glance passed between him and Julius. The knot of men began to dissolve. Tobie’s voice said, “Pull yourself together. Wait for me. I’ll see to all this.”
It was dark by the carts. Nicholas sat on the baked dirt and failed to pull himself together. The voice of Julius said, from above him, “Well, idiot, what’s wrong? Were you hoping we wouldn’t come back?”
It was no use trying to answer. He could feel Julius bending over him. With broken bones, that was probably painful. Footsteps, and another voice. Tobie said, “We’re all sorry you’re back. We were going to get rich on your dead-pay. Don’t you know marsh fever when you see it? Tell Godscalc to come out.”
Nicholas