Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [249]
Nicholas said, “He didn’t cry out when I told him. As far as the money goes, the predatory eyes of Felix will be on it. You needn’t worry.”
Tobie said, “Of course. He’s proved himself, hasn’t he? I don’t suppose he really wants a life roving round battlefields. You have a certain genius, you know. To persuade Felix that home is Bruges, that he’s really running the company, and that you’re merely his mother’s manager is quite a feat. He can’t even dismiss you.”
“No. But I can dismiss other people,” said Nicholas.
“You don’t like being dissected?” saud Tobie. “But that’s my business. And you’ll have to get used to it, won’t you? I know too much.”
Nicholas said, “You know what I trusted you with. If it’s money you want, you haven’t lost by it. If it’s amusement you want, don’t cut too finely too often, or there’ll be nothing left to amuse you with.”
The next two days were unpleasant because of the turmoil in the camp, as one squadron after another squabbled over the right to take part in the coming attack, and win glory and booty. In his tent, locked in pain to his bed, the Count of Urbino tried in vain to resolve the muddle, but couldn’t overrule the command he had himself given to Alessandro Sforza. By the date of the attack, the whole camp was partially under arms, and not only the three favoured squadrons Sforza proposed to lead over the plain.
Nor had it been kept secret from the enemy. Not only the fact of the attack but its scale seemed to be known. When Sforza burst from his encampment it could be seen that Piccinino in turn had begun to move from his hill. As Sforza’s three squadrons raced forward from one side, a matching force spurred out on the other to meet it.
Waiting outside the Count’s tent Paltroni, his secretary, carried news to the Count as runners brought it. Before the Count’s instructions could come back, a group of his less intelligent officers decided on further action. The gates were opened. A fourth squadron, hurriedly mounted, streamed out and set itself, galloping, towards the heart of the battle. On the hill opposite, the gates opened in answer and horsemen began to pour out.
On the plain, the two initial forces crashed together without plan, without strategy. To the shaking thunder of hooves was added the rattling thud of shield and lance and pike and the anvil clash of steel meeting steel. The continuous shouting of men and the squeal and whinny of horses hung over the encounter, hardly travelling. Veils of red dust rose, and lingered, and falling, began to cloak the dark sparkling mass on the plain.
Through the haze it heaved, like bees swarming. Knit together, it moved from place to place, its edges shaped and reshaped by the stamping hocks and round, swinging hindquarters of the battle-chargers. The fresh squadrons, first from one side and then from the other, galloped straight up and, dividing, pressed their way into the struggle.
The mass spread, and loosened. Where the fighting had been worst, dark gaps appeared, their cause invisible. The flock of living men, swirling, formed new skeins and masses, the battle line stretching. From the hill, the stream of horsemen was now almost continuous.
Astorre, standing watching from the highest ground in the camp with the other captains, suddenly turned on his heel and spoke to Thomas. And soon after that, in common with the rest of the camp, the survivors of Sarno were armed and mounted and drawn up, watching and waiting.
Tobie was not among them. Julius was, in a cuirass and helmet with his left arm out of its strap. He saw Astorre’s eyes rest on him, but the captain said nothing. He could hold a lance or a sword, and guide his horse with his knees. If he had to.
No orders had been given for a general engagement. If any more squadrons were allowed to ride out, it would become a general engagement. But if they didn’t ride out, it might become a carnage, out there on the plain, with Piccinino’s whole army sweeping over to take them. The word up till now had been “Wait