The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [239]
Doria, trotting on with his three young men, carefully chosen, smiled at his wife as they met at the central line, and the two teams performed the required courtesies. Vivid, glowing with confidence, the sea prince wore both the silk and the cranes’ feathers with the careless dash that had always ensured him the admiration of women. The Treasurer’s son, a big youth of whom Tobie knew nothing, had a face that was both heavy and wary. The boy Alexios was all that he remembered. The high-necked, narrow tunic with its gilded buttons and belt might have been designed to show off the fairness he had received from his Imperial father. His dead, loose-living father who had, one assumed, imprinted some of the faint lines of melancholy on the exquisite face of Maria, his mother. They lifted as Alexios rode over, and Maria smiled at her son, and then at Nicholas, who rode beside him. Genoese. Why had he forgotten in the unpleasantness over the bath house that these people were Genoese, as Doria was?
Then the trumpets produced a piercing flourish, and someone threw the ball in. Horses stamped; competing sticks clashed. With a snap, Doria’s mallet contacted the ball and it bounded forward, towards the women’s half of the field. His little horse followed, with that of Violante of Naxos scampering at its side. Faster still, the girl Anna whirled and swept ahead of them both in a long protective arc, followed by the streaming plumes and golden hair of Alexios, marking her. The widowed princess Maria, expertly wheeling, drove her horse up to support her duelling leader, while the son of Amiroutzes turned sharply to hinder her.
Nicholas, the biggest man on the field, cantered helpfully in the rear. He looked cheerful, and also unaware that Catherine de Charetty was riding towards him with her chin on her horse’s neck, glaring. Tobie said, “He’ll fall off. Are they allowed to do that?” Ahead, Doria’s horse staggered as it took the full sideways weight of another and, for a moment, the ball ran untended. Turning, Alexios wheeled and started to make for it, with the youngest princess hard in pursuit. His mother, moving swiftly, blocked her son’s passage. For a moment, their horses blundered together, as they strove with their mallets. Then there was a crack and the ball rose, a speck of gold, into the air.
Catherine, arrived with a crash at her stepfather’s flank, found the flank revolve at her side as he pulled his horse round with his knees. For two strides they chafed side by side. Then, swiftly collected, the other horse bounded off, punching the ground, at a tangent. The largest mount there, it thundered over the ground like a warhorse, flinging up gouts of woodflour and earth. After a startled moment, Catherine flung her pony after it, with the other women streaming behind. The speck of gold, knowing its business, fell precisely to the right of Nicholas’s saddle. The mallet head, already swinging, connected. Ahead, Doria suddenly laughed. As the ball rose in the air, he collected his horse and, watching it over his shoulder, began to race towards the women’s end of the field. When it fell, he was galloping smoothly beside it. With no one to interfere, he leaned just a little, his eye on the ball, his left hand lightly guiding the reins. Then his right arm rose and scooped the long mallet in a hard, graceful stroke. The impact, so far off, was soundless. But the ball flew, hard and straight as a bee, and was still travelling when it crossed the far golden line. The team of the men, Khusraw, had scored.
The trumpets blew, the drums banged, and everyone screamed. Tobie, finding himself standing, sat down again. Astorre, who had arrived behind him, sat down as well and said, “They’re allowed to do anything. When the Mamelukes play, they get out their swords. So, heh?”
Godscalc was smiling at him. “He didn’t fall off,” he said.
Astorre didn’t even treat the question as serious. “I should