The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [180]
Even then, it was redeemable. Silence them before Doria comes. Julius had seen him and was pelting towards him, shouting at the pitch of his voice. “Doria! Doria’s behind me!” He had his sword out. Nicholas saw it flash. He saw other swords flash as well. Those of his own men who had jumped into the road at the back of the small party were proceeding to round them up according to plan, unaware of their identity. There was no point in silence now. Nicholas roared, “Stop!” and threw his horse towards Julius. In the moment before he reached him, he saw one of the men with Julius go down, and another man shout in surprise as he recognised who was attacking him. Then he was there, in the milling group, speaking only to Julius.
“We know. We have an ambush. Quickly, up to the huts,” he heard his captain telling the others. But they were slower to grasp what had happened. Two of them had dismounted and were trying to heave the fallen man to his feet. The frosty ground rang and shook as the approaching horsemen came nearer. Nicholas said, “It’s too late. High ground, everyone. Take them as they make for the tents.” He could see, from the way he was sitting, that Julius was exhausted. He took his reins and drove both horses up the embankment. He said, “The tents are empty, a decoy. What about Doria?”
“He means to kill you this time,” Julius said. “Blaming the brigands. Paraskeuas says. Paraskeuas…”
“Never mind,” Nicholas said. “Here they come.”
It was too dark to see the sea prince. The handsome face from Florence, from the Bailie’s table at Modon; the handsome body from the Emperor’s baths. Something about the compact group of horsemen thundering towards him was odd. He registered that; and the sound of Doria’s voice issuing orders. Without pausing, the oncoming horsemen divided: ten making for the high ground where they stood, and ten for the low, where the tents were. If anything, the riders had increased their pace. This was not a party about to join him or overtake him. Julius had been right, and his instinct. It was an expedition to destroy.
They were experts too. They allowed only two of their number to be picked off before turning away from the tents and riding slashing through the scrub, hunting his archers. Another fell to an arrow shot from above, but they got one at least of his men: he heard the scream. Then he had no more time for what was happening below the road, for the other file of riders was among them.
There was just enough light to tell friend from enemy and soon more, because someone tossed a brand in their hay. He had fought before, once, in a pitched battle, in sunlight. He had been trained by Astorre, and by the Duke of Milan’s master-at-arms. He was powerfully built, and had a good eye, and almost no experience. In anything. But he was damned if he was going to lose this battle.
His men were good. They tried the time-honoured strategy of opening to let the oncomers plunge through, and then turning inwards to divide and cut up. The newcomers had never heard of the strategy and had ponies that could stop on a groat and spin and dart like housemartins. Their riders were as shaggy as they were. His shoulder throbbing with the bows on his steel, Nicholas saw that they were bearded, and dressed in leather and fleeces, and using small wicked blades with a curl to them. He saw a man’s arm fly off,