Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [81]
The companies who did well – the really great companies who gave themselves a grand label, and could name their own price in a big war – these were companies with their own chancery, like a lord would have, and a council, and a treasurer and pension funds and everything, just like a city state. And these companies were good because they stayed together, and their men knew each other, and often never went home at all, but stayed in winter quarters (paid for) when the fighting died down, and were all there and ready to begin again the following year.
That was what Astorre was aiming at. He wasn’t born a soldier-prince. He hadn’t had the chances that made a Hawkwood or a Carmagnola. He didn’t expect to be courted by monarchs. But with Marian de Charetty’s backing, he could get himself noticed. The ducal leaders would ask his advice. He would become known, not just as he was, as a good man with a small company who could be relied on. He would be the man they thought of when they wanted a spearhead for a special siege, a special battle. Men would come to his banner, and there would be money to pay them. And finally, some prince might buy the company from the Widow and give them a permanent home. These sorts of men could be generous. He knew captains who had been given towns in lieu of pay, and then got to keep them. That was what Astorre wanted. That was what Lionetto wanted too. But Astorre was going to be first to get the men and the money and the backing and the conquests. For the first time, this year, it seemed possible. And Lionetto had better not get in his way, or he’d smash him.
Of course, it wasn’t an easy life, on the big campaigns. No wives and no homes – or else several, like a sailor. But camp followers – yes, you had to have those. He would have to have those even with the smaller numbers he expected to join him from Flanders and Switzerland and Burgundy. Women to cook and wash and make homes of the tents and the huts and keep the men happy. There were times when he wished, himself, he were back in the days when he was just part of a lance, with his cronies about him, and not a care in the world but to think up a worse name for the old bastard up there who was leading them.
Then he remembered how good it was, being first with no one to stop him. Good, at any rate when you weren’t crossing the Alps in a snowstorm with your slitted eyes streaming. They were on a single-track now, between towering snow-cliffs which were only the foothills to higher and steeper snow-mountains behind them. His horse didn’t like it. Astorre was pressing it on when he realised that Tobias the doctor was trying to attract his attention. Astorre slowed and looked back to where the doctor was pointing.
Behind the bobbing snow-capped helms of his company, and the nodding shapes of the packhorses, was a long interval of untenanted white. Beyond that was a horse, standing riderless. And beyond that was a trough in the snow, partly filled by a low chequered form which stirred feebly.
“Who?” said Astorre angrily. He would have to stop. Anyone left in this snow would perish. He halted, and the caravan crowded up and then came to a halt at his back. He scanned the faces behind him, noting all his officers, and the boy Claes and the negro Loppe. One of the soldiers, then, curse him.
The doctor said, “He must be hurt. I’ll go back, if you can pass me. No. Look. There’s another party of horsemen behind him. They’ll pick him up for us.”
The notary Julius had edged forward. “If they don’t slit his throat and take his armour.”
“He hasn’t got any. It’s Brother Gilles. It’s captain Astorre’s monk that’s fallen off,” said Claes the apprentice. His face was raw but quite cheerful, and his hat was plumed with white snow like a Janissary’s. He added, “I think it’s the Lancastrians. The English party. They wouldn’t harm him. But I’ll make sure it’s them, shall I?” And kicking the horse,