Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [251]
Julius lived through it, and so did Astorre. He had not spoken lightly of Astorre’s gifts in the field. It was what he did best, leading men into battle, marshalling them and keeping them in high heart, and intact.
He couldn’t keep his company intact today. No one could. The handgun men had suffered most, being less used to close fighting. They had not even brought their guns, which would have been useless. The crossbowmen on both sides, on the other hand, had inflicted slaughter. Too much slaughter. Julius had seen Abrami go down, and Lukin, the best cook and forager Astorre had ever had. The smith Manfred had lost his horse early, and had jumped clear and caught another. Later, Julius saw he had Nicholas beside him and was glad.
At one point he saw Felix with them as well, and then the boy dashed off, his helmet bobbing until Astorre called him back. All through, everyone watched out for Felix, and kept beside him when they could. He was their employer’s son, and precious and brave enough, damn him, to take quite considerable risks. Julius spent quite a large part of his time, when he wasn’t fighting, looking out for young Felix. Nicholas, he saw, did the same. Even Tobie. His greatest moment of astonishment was the sight of Tobie, with no helmet on at all, standing holding his horse with one hand and helping to heave the bandaged figure of a dismounted Count Federigo into the saddle again with the other. Then the fighting swept Julius away, and he lost the bald head to view.
In time, his arm had suffered so many blows that he couldn’t feel it, and his hand inside his glove felt like meat. Then Julius lifted his head and stretched open his dry, burning eyes and saw that the sun had started to sink, and the plain was dark with the fallen.
The riders who were left moved slowly, on stumbling horses, and blocked their enemy’s path by their bodily presence rather than by driving lances or whirling swords. The skirmishes languished, and broken companies began to gather together, merging into obstinate blocks but no longer challenging. The air, tinted with rose, was decorated with the swooping of small chiselled birds, but their twitter was lost in the groundswell of men’s voices crying.
Astorre said, “Form up. Make a line. The Count is having the retreat blown.”
Tobie was still with the Count. Manfred. Nicholas, his head turned, and beyond him, by God, Lionetto. Thomas was there. Felix? Julius craned round. A glitter caught his eye. Across the field, Piccinino also was withdrawing his men, and his trumpeters also were waiting.
The field was still full of men returning on foot, or indolently fighting, unaware as yet of the disengagement.
Among them was Felix, bare-headed and horseless. He wasn’t fighting, but appeared to be searching for something. Julius yelled. Astorre’s voice, even louder, made Felix look up just as the trumpets began, and he realised the fighting was over. He straightened, grinning, and waved. He had his helmet under his arm, the scarlet plume trailing, the eagle’s head glaring up at the sky. Julius said, “Run, you fool!”
He meant it for Felix. It was Nicholas who jabbed his spurs in his horse and launched it out into the field and across to where Felix was walking. He rode in an arc, to come between the gathering enemy line and Felix’s back. Felix, suddenly aware, gestured quickly and started to run. Nicholas turned his horse, to overtake and gallop beside him.
The retreat was not quite complete. The trumpets of Piccinino had not yet answered, although his troops were almost all back in line. It was probably the stray rider dashing out from Urbino’s section that drew the eye of some skilful crossbowman. Even in the dying light, a horseman was an easy