To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [264]
A pretty boy. Naturally, after all that had been said, none laid a finger on him. But the women of the camp chucked him under the chin, and pulled him close on the grass for a cuddle, and he always smiled, with that high-flushed rose-leaf skin and the glowing blue eyes. A lovely boy, who only looked sad when someone mentioned the sieur de Fleury. It began to be discussed in the tents, how he had come to be beaten so badly by the padrone. If the two had been intimate in the past, there was no sign of it now. The boy would not talk, but somehow the rumour went round that he had been asked to do unspeakable things, and at length had refused. Certainly, on the few occasions when he had to report to the sieur de Fleury’s own tent, the spring left the boy’s step and he loitered, with despair on his face, not a smile.
The rumours reached Nicholas through Astorre. He confirmed them for himself, witnessing the boy’s bright face and willing manner, and also the change that occurred if their glances happened to meet. Standing before him in his tent, Henry cut a figure both timid and brave; at times he would shiver. On his face, for Nicholas alone, there would be fixed an expression of mockery: an almost irresistible invitation to hit him. It pained Nicholas, almost, to disappoint him.
For a boy of eleven, it was clever: it was diabolically clever. But he was only eleven, and even when driven by hatred, could not deny his nature for ever. The day came when, his head turned by the rough camaraderie and the increasing show of goodwill, he volunteered shyly to share in some of their games. The fierce ones were beyond him, but his accurate eye and superb training gave him an advantage with the bow and even the crossbow that they thought at first freakish, and then greeted with good-natured praise. He should have accepted it, and returned to his tasks. Instead, day by day, he continued to vie with them, and sometimes to beat them. Then, when he sat with the women, he boasted.
At Beauvais, he received a black eye, and Astorre went to see Nicholas in his tent. ‘The brat’s in trouble.’
‘No longer everyone’s friend?’ Nicholas had guessed most of it.
‘He got tired of that. Now he’s trying to play them off one against the other. Soon they’ll realise what he’s up to and do for him. He’s disrupting the company.’
‘At eleven?’
‘I’ve seen one woman do it,’ said Astorre. He paused. ‘If you don’t care what happens, do nothing.’
‘It’s all right,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’m arranging for him to go. Meantime let’s give him to John to look after.’ He had seen Henry up at the battery, watching the fast, heavy work and the thundering roar as each cannon spoke. His face had been avid, intent. Neither gunner would care for it much, but John had more patience than d’Orson, and would stand for no nonsense. And given something to master, the boy might forget his vendetta.
It was about then, or just before, that Nicholas chose not to contradict the rumour that had spread about Henry. It had arisen, he supposed, as a result of the tales about Jordan at Hesdin. It was known that he had brought a young son to camp. Few people would remember what he was called, or his age. And thinking Henry that son, men would – perhaps – stop short of actually killing him. It might also persuade them that his tales of abuse were unreliable. There were other potential benefits.
It worked, after a fashion, during the first weeks of their investment of Beauvais. During two weeks of continuous firing, Henry learned something of the art of gunnery, and grew to treat John with a mixture of hate and respect to which John remained exasperatingly indifferent. It ended