To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [265]
Had it been launched in the first two days of the siege, the attack might have succeeded. As it was, six score Burgundians were killed and a thousand more injured before the Duke’s men were flung back by the solid force of seasoned defenders within. During the assault, the heavy artillery was directed away from the walls and the bridges, and latterly was unable to fire, for fear of killing men in retreat. It was late that evening when, resuming his post at the gun-battery, John le Grant noticed that something was wrong.
The aftermath of any battle is a chaotic affair. The garrison of Beauvais, firing steadily from the walls, had made the withdrawal as dangerous as the assault had been, and the retrieval of the dead and the wounded went on for some hours. Nicholas, who with Julius had taken his share, and had seen his own men drop around him, stayed in the field with Astorre until all the company had been returned or were accounted for. It had been a wasted effort. Everyone knew it. Astorre, bending over this pallet and that, spoke in tones that were heartily cheerful, but walking back to the tents he cursed under his breath and his shoulders were bowed. Nicholas felt the same weight of anger and weariness and parted from him without speech. He had almost reached his pavilion when John le Grant came running up in the half-light and, shouting, pulled him aside.
Nicholas, hitting the ground, thought at first that John had lost his mind and attacked him. Then the roar of an explosion cracked through the air, and his shadow lay black on the dust which everywhere else had turned a flickering red. He rolled over and turned. Behind stood a column of fire where his pavilion had been. The screaming came from his horses, and descending fragments of cloth were already setting light to the tents next in line. After the first shock, men had begun running with water. Julius raced calling among them. ‘Oh my God. Is he dead?’
‘No, I’m not dead,’ Nicholas said, and stood up, his eyes fixed on John’s. ‘You knew.’
‘He’s in my tent,’ le Grant said. ‘I found the culverin covered with gunpowder, but managed to put out the fuse. He couldn’t help bragging about what else he’d done.’
‘Who?’ said Julius.
‘No one,’ said Nicholas. ‘It was an accident. Spread the news. I don’t suppose anything can be saved?’
‘What do you think?’ Julius said. ‘Both your horses have gone. No men – your servants were lucky. What else did you have?’
‘Papers. Nothing,’ said Nicholas.
Papers. A poem. A drawing. He did not need to ask whom John le Grant had caught and confined in his tent. In a moment, he was confronting him.
Henry was not now the shivering assassin of seven who, seized with mindless horror and joy, had stood with a bloody knife in his hand, waiting for this same man to denounce him, to drop. Now Henry knew what he was doing, and was ready to answer for what he had done. He remembered his father’s face, Simon’s face, smiling on him that day, caressing, praising him for killing his enemies. Sitting there, with his arms bound behind him, Henry looked Nicholas in the face with the same insolence he had managed to show ever since Veere.
He said, ‘Next time, I shall time the fuse better.’
‘Leave us,’ said Nicholas. He heard John hesitate, and then go. He found John’s campaign bed and let himself down on it. His sleeve was sodden with blood not his own.
The boy said, ‘You don’t want witnesses.’ He was jeering again.
Nicholas said, ‘You planned to blow up the battery?’
‘All the guns,’ Henry said. ‘It would have destroyed half the camp. It would have ended the war. We should have won.’
‘We?’
‘Us. The Scots and the French.’
‘John le Grant is Scots,’ Nicholas said. ‘Perhaps he beat you while he was teaching you?’
‘He was fighting for the enemy,’ Henry said. ‘He is a traitor, like you.’
‘And like you,’ Nicholas said. ‘You had