The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [181]
His men had the advantage of the weight of their horses, and their shields, and their mail. His men, but not those of Julius. He suddenly realised it, and began driving through to where Astorre’s notary, using the last wave of drained energy, was defending himself. One of his men had gone. Nicholas sent him a smile from the dyeshop and, settling beside him, used his shield and his sword to hit and parry and stab. The noise was deafening: like a hall full of ravenous men eating off pewter and shouting. Red sparks powdered the air and steel slipped about steel, making elderly, querulous noises. His horse went down.
It was not until then that he fully realised that fifteen against twenty were bad odds, even throwing in Julius; and especially when against men and horses who belonged to the country. For they did. This he was now sure of. Just as he realised he had seen nothing at all of Doria. He had heard his voice. For the rest, there was a mounted shadow he had glimpsed on the edge of the light, simply watching. But he had never been able to break through to reach it.
Most of them, he saw, were dismounted now, and the fighting men had split into groups, which swayed and staggered up and down the invisible turf. To fall was to disappear below a circle of swinging arms holding steel or maces that came upwards red. He could no longer see Julius and his head rang from the last blow he had taken, half on his head and half on his shoulder from behind. He steadied and turned, but saw two other men turning to measure him, one with steel already uplifted. Then the voice of Julius said, “I’ll take this one,” and he was able to put his shield up in time, and take the other blow on his sword. The swordsman, expecting a kill, was disconcerted: it allowed Nicholas to swing back his blade and run him through. He twisted as he did so to stand half between his other assailant and Julius. But where two men had been, there were now six others running towards him. He thought blearily that Doria must be growing men somewhere out there in the darkness. He was irritated enough to lift his voice and shout: “Messer Pagano! There is a boy here who would like to meet you in person!”
He saw the shadow in the roadway move, and caught the gleam of white teeth. Then the shadow, the camp, the blustering fire were all extinguished by an immense and broad-shouldered form, rank as a bear, with a mace held aloft in both its brawny arms. Nicholas saw Julius turn and, shouting, try to come to his aid. Then the mace fell. Watching it come, he felt no special fear; just the beginning of sadness. I have failed. I have failed you. And then the blow fell, and he heard and saw nothing more.
He thought at first he was dead; and then decided he felt altogether too poorly. After a long while, during which he kept losing his senses, he distinguished that he was travelling, face down and brutally lashed to one of the same shaggy horses whose riders had fought for Doria. From the trampling before and behind, it was one horse among many. Below him was a broad unmade track like the one he had been following to Bayburt, but much steeper. The horse strove beneath him and, but for the severity of his bonds, he would have rolled from its back. As it was, his own weight and the jolting had driven the rope like a cheesecutter into his arms and his thighs, taking the cloth of his shirt and cloak with it, and macerating his flesh with the rings of his armour. His clothes were stiff with old blood and gummy with fresh blood and urine. He stank. It was one of the normal results of shock and cold, blows and long spells of unconsciousness. John le Grant was not the only one who had to learn to relegate its importance to its proper place.
At this point, he remembered Julius and shouted, and was beaten for it—but not before he heard a wavering answer, and then other voices raised in greeting. Instead of obliterating them on the spot, Doria was taking them somewhere. Those who were still alive. He thought