Ash: The Lost History Part 2

The gunner was standing at a skinning rack. Timbers as stout as those that made up a siege machine held a chain on a pulley. Hooks hung from the chain, over a gutter dug in the earth. Ash lifted her feet out of pig's guts and walked towards Guillaume. Her clothes stuck to her. Her nose was ceasing to smell the reek of the slaughterhouse.

"Take out your sword," he said.

She had no gloves. The hilt of her weapon was bound with leather, and slippery in her palm.

"Cut," Guillaume said calmly, pointing at the cow that now hung head-down beside him, still alive, hooves trussed. "Slit her belly."

Ash had not been in a church but she knew enough to scowl at that.

"Do it," he said.

Ash's long dagger was heavy in her hand. The weight of the metal pulled on her wrist.

The cow's long-lashed eyes rolled. She groaned frantically. Her thras.h.i.+ng did no more than roll her from side to side on the hook. A stream of s.h.i.+t ran down her warm, breathing flanks.

"I can't do this," Ash protested. "I can do it. I know how. I just can't do it. It's not like she's going to do me any harm!"

"Do it!"

Ash flicked the blade clumsily and punched it forward. She leaned all her weight into the point, as she had been taught, and the sharp metal punctured the cow's brown and white pelt. The cow opened her mouth and screamed.

Blood sprayed. Sweat made the dagger grip slide in Ash's hand. The dagger slid out of the shallow wound. She stared up at the animal that was eight times her size. She got a double-handed grip on the blade and cut forward. The edge skimmed the cow's flank.

"You'd be dead by now," Guillaume rasped.

Tears began to leak out of Ash's eyes. She stepped up close to the breathing warm body. She raised the big dagger over her head and brought it down overarm with both hands.

The point of the blade punched through tough skin and the thin muscle wall and into the abdominal cavity. Ash wrenched and pulled the blade down. It felt like hacking cloth. Jerking, snagging. A mess of pink ropes fell down around her in the dawn yard, and smoked in the early chill. Ash hacked doggedly down. The blade cut into bone and stuck. A rib. She yanked. Pulled. The cow's flesh sucked shut on her blade.

"Twist. Use your foot if you have to!" Guillaume's voice directed over her harsh, effortful breathing.

Ash leaned her knee on the cow's wet neck, pressing it back against the wood frame with her tiny weight. She twisted her wrists hard right and the blade turned, breaking the vacuum that held it in the wound, and coming free of the bone. The cow's screams drowned every other sound.

"Hhaaaaah!" Both her hands on the dagger-grip, Ash swiped the blade across the stretched skin of the cow's throat. The rib bone must have nicked her blade. She felt the steel's irregularity catch on flesh. A wide gash opened. For a fraction of a second it showed a cross-section of skin, muscle sheath, muscle and artery wall. Then blood welled up and gushed out and hit her in the face. Hot. Blood heat, she thought, and giggled.

"Now cry!" Guillaume spun her around and cracked his hand across her face. The blow would have hurt another adult.

Astonished, Ash burst into loud sobs. She stood for perhaps a minute, crying. Then she wept, "I'm not old enough to go into a line-fight!"

"Not this year."

"I'm too little!"

"Crocodile tears, now." Guillaume sighed. "I thank you," he added gravely; "kill the beast now." And when she looked, he was handing the slaughterman a copper piece. "Come on, missy. Back to camp."

"My sword's dirty," she said. Suddenly she folded her legs and sat down on the earth, in animal blood and s.h.i.+t, and howled. She coughed, fighting to breathe. Great shuddering gasps wracked her chest. Her reddened hair hung down and streaked her wet, scarred cheeks. Snot trailed from her nostrils.

"Ah." Guillaume's hand caught her doublet collar and lifted her up into the air, and dropped her down on her bare feet. Hard. "Better. Enough. There."

He pointed at a trough on the far side of the yard.

Ash ripped her front lacing undone. She stripped off her doublet and hose in one, not bothering to undo the points that tied them together at her waist. She plunged the blood-soaked wool into the cold water, and used it to wash herself down. The morning sun felt hot on her bare cold skin. Guillaume stood with folded arms and watched her.

All through it she had her discarded sword-belt under her foot and her eyes on the slaughterhouse men.

The last thing she did was wash her blade clean, dry it, and beg some grease to oil the metal so that it should not rust. By then her clothing was only damp, if not dry. Her hair hung down in wet white rats' tails.

"Back to camp," the gunner said.

Ash walked out of the village gate beside Guillaume. It did not even occur to her to ask to be taken in by one of the village families.

Guillaume looked down at her with bright, bloodshot eyes. Dirt lodged in the creases of his skin, clearly apparent in the brightening sun. He said, "If that was easy, think of this. She was a beast, not a man. She had no voice to threaten. She had no voice to beg mercy. And she wasn't trying to kill you."

"I know," Ash said. "I've killed a man who was."

When she was ten, she nearly died, but not on the field of battle.

Chapter Four.

First light came. Ash leaned out over the stone parapet of the bell tower. Too dark to see the ground, fifty feet of empty air below. A horse whinnied. A hundred others answered it, all down the battle-lines. A lark sang in the arch of the sky. The flat river valley began to emerge from darkness.

The air heated up fast. Ash wore a stolen s.h.i.+rt and nothing else. It was a man's linen s.h.i.+rt and still smelled of him, and it came down past her knees. She had belted it with her sword-belt. The linen protected the nape of her neck, and her arms, and most of her legs. She rubbed her goose-fleshed skin. Soon the day would be burning hot.

Light crept from the east. Shadows fell to the west. Ash caught a pinp.r.i.c.k of light two miles away.

One. Fifty. A thousand? The sun glinted back from helmets and breastplates, from poleaxes and warhammers and the bodkin points of clothyard arrows.

"They're arrayed and moving! They've got the sun at their backs!" She hopped from one bare foot to the other. " Why won't the Captain let us fight?"

"I don't want to!" The blackrhaired boy, Richard, now her particular friend, whimpered beside her.

Ash looked at him in complete bewilderment. "Are you afraid?" She darted to the other side of the tower, leaning over and looking down at the company's wagon-fort. Washerwomen and wh.o.r.es and cooks were fixing the chains that bound the carts together. Most of them carried twelve-foot pikes, razor-edged bills. She leaned out further. She couldn't see Guillaume.

Day brightened quickly. Ash craned to look down the slope towards the river's edge. A few horses galloping, their riders in bright colours. A flag: the company ensign. Then men of the company walking, weapons in hand.

"Ash, why are we so slow?" Richard quavered. "They'll be here before we're ready!"

Ash had started to be strong in the last half-year or so, in the way that terriers and mountain ponies are strong, but she still did not look older than eight. Malnutrition had a lot to do with it.

She put her arm around him. "There's trouble. We can't get through. Look."

All down by the river showed red in the rising sun. Vast cornfields, so thick with poppies that she couldn't see the grain. Corn and poppies together - the crops so thick and tangled that they slowed down the mercenaries walking with bills and swords and halberds. The armoured men on horseback drew ahead, into the scarlet distance, under the banner.

Richard bundled his arms around Ash, pale enough for his birthmark to stand out like a banner on his face. "Will they all die?"

"No. Not everybody. Not if some of the other lot come over to us when the fighting starts. The Captain buys them if he can. Oh." Ash's guts contracted. She reached down and put her hand between her legs and took her fingers out b.l.o.o.d.y.

"Sweet Green Christ!" Ash wiped her hand on her linen s.h.i.+rt, with a glance around the bell tower to see if anyone had overheard her swear. They were alone.

"Are you wounded?" Richard stepped back.

"Oh. No." Far more bewildered than she sounded, Ash said, "I'm a woman. They told me, in the wagons, it could happen."

Richard forgot the armed men moving. His smile was sweet. "It's the first time, isn't it? I'm so happy for you, Ashy! Will you have a baby?"

"Not right now ..."

She made him laugh, his fear gone. That done, she turned back to the red river fields that stretched away from the tower. Dew burned off in bright mist. Not dawn, now, but full early morning.

"Oh, look ..."

Half a mile away now, the enemy.

The Bride of the Sea's men moving over a slope, small and glittering. Banners of red and blue and gold and yellow gleamed above the packed ma.s.s of their helmets. Too far away to see faces, even the inverted V that disclosed mouth and chin when, in the heat, they left off falling-buffs and bevors4.

"Ashy, there are so many-!" Richard whined.

The Serene Bride of the Sea's host drew up into three. The vaward or advance unit was big enough on its own. Behind it, offset to one side, was the mainward, with the Bride of the Sea's banners and their commander's own standard. Offset again, the rearward was only just in sight as a moving thicket of pikes and lances.

The first rows came on slowly. Billmen in padded linen jacks, their steel war-hats gleaming, bright hook-bladed bills over their shoulders. Ash knew billhooks had some agricultural use, but not what it might be. You could hook an armoured knight off his horse with one, and use it to crack his protective metal plates open. Men-at-arms in foot armour, with axes over their shoulders like peasants going out to cut wood . . . And archers. Far too many archers.

"Three battles." Ash pointed Richard bodily, holding him by his narrow shoulders. The little boy trembled. "Look, d.i.c.kon. In the front battle. There's billmen, then archers, then men-at-arms, then archers, then billmen, then more archers - all down the line."

A hoa.r.s.e voice, audible across the whole distance, shouted, "Nock! Loose!"

Ash scratched at her stained s.h.i.+rt. Everything laid itself out suddenly plain in her head. For the first time, what had been an implicit sense of a pattern found words.

She stuttered into speech, almost too fast and excited to be understood. "Their archers are safe because of their men with hand-weapons! They can shoot into us, loose an arrow every six heartbeats, and we can't do anything about it! Because if we do try to get up close, their billmen or foot knights will kill us. Then their archers will draw their falchions and get stuck in too, or move out to the flanks and carry on shooting us up. That's why they've put them like that. What can we do?"

'If you are outnumbered, you cannot meet them in separate units. Form a wedge. A wedge-shaped formation with the point towards the enemy, then your flank archers can shoot without hitting your men in front. When their foot troops attack, they must face your weapons on each of your flanks. Send in your heavy armoured men to break their flank.'

Ash found the hard words no more difficult to decipher than discussions she had overheard, lying in the gra.s.s, back of the Captain's command tent. She puzzled it out, and said, "How can we? We don't have enough men!"

"Ashy," Richard whimpered.

She protested, "What have we got? The Great Duke's men - about half as many! And the city militia. They just about know enough not to hold a sword by the sharp end. Two more companies. And us."

"As.h.!.+" the boy protested loudly. "Ashy!"

'Then do not array your men too close together. They are a ma.s.s for the enemy to shoot into. The enemy are out of range. You must move, fast, and close-a.s.sault them.'

She dug with her bare toe in the dust between the tower's flagstones, not looking at the approaching banners. "There's too many of them!"

"Ashy, stop it. Stop it! Who are you talking to?"

'Then you must surrender and sue for peace.'

"Don't tell me! I can't do anything! I can't!"

Richard shrieked, "Tell you what? Who's telling?"

Nothing happened for long seconds. Then the ma.s.s of the company moved forward, running, the Great Duke's troops with them, cras.h.i.+ng into the first enemy battle-line, flags dipping, the red of poppies a red mist now; thunder, iron beating on iron, screams, hoa.r.s.e voices shouting orders, a pipe shrilling through the dirt rising up a bare few hundred yards away.

"You said - I heard you!" Ash stared at Richard's white and wine-coloured face. "You said - I heard someone saying - Who was that?"

The Great Duke's line of men broke up into knots. No flying wedge now, just knots of men-at-arms gathered around their standards and banners. In the dust and red sun, the main battle of the Most Serene Bride of the Sea's army began to walk forward. Sheaves of arrows thickened the air.

"But someone said-" The stone parapet smacked her in the face.

Blood smashed across her upper lip. She put one hand to her nose. Pain made her scream. Her fingers spread and shook.

The noise filled her mouth, filled her chest, shook the sky cras.h.i.+ng down. Ash touched the sides of her head. A thin, high whine filled her ears. Richard's face streamed tears and his mouth was an open square. She could just hear him bawling.

The corner of the parapet wall fell soundlessly away. Open air gaped in front of her. Dust hung hazy. She got to her hands and knees. A violent whirring whicked past her head, loud enough for her, half-deaf, to hear.

The boy stood with his hands loose at his sides. He stared over Ash's head, out from the broken bell tower. She saw his particoloured legs tremble. The front of his cod-flap wetted with urine. With a ripe, wet sound, he shat in his hose. Ash looked up at Richard without condemnation. There are times when losing control of your bowels is the only realistic response to a situation.

"That's mortars! Get down!" She hoped she was shouting. She got Richard by the wrist and pulled him towards the steps.

The sharp edge of the stone barked her knees. Her sun-blasted vision saw nothing but darkness. She fell down inside the bell tower, cracking her head against the wall of the stairwell. Richard's foot kicked her in the mouth. She bled and yelled and tumbled down to ground-level and ran.

She heard no more gunfire, but when she looked back from the wagon-fort, her chest raw inside and burning, the monastery tower was gone, only rubble and dust blackening the sky.

Forty-five minutes later the baggage train were declared prisoners.

Ash ran away, out of their sight, down to the river.

Searching.

Bodies lay so thick on the ground that the air swam with the smell. She clamped her linen sleeve over her mouth and nose. She tried not to step on the faces of the dead men and boys.

Scavengers came by to strip the bodies. She hid in the wet, red corn. Their peasant voices were rapid, inflected music.

She felt the skin across her cheeks and nose crisping in the high summer heat. The sun burned at her calves below the linen s.h.i.+rt, turning her fair skin pink. Her toes burned. She stood and put her wide-brimmed straw hat back on. The whole world smelled of s.h.i.+t and spoiling meat. She kept spitting without being able to get the taste of vomit out of her mouth. Heat made the air waver.

One of the dying men wept "Bartolomeo! Bartolomeo!" and then pleaded with the surgeon's cart, long-handled, dragged on two wheels by a man who grunted and shook his head.

No Richard. No one. The crops were burned black for a mile or more. Ravens dragged bits of two armoured horse carca.s.ses apart. If there had been anything else - bombards, bodies, salvageable armour - it had been cleared up or looted.

Ash ran, breathless, back to the company cooking fires. She saw Richard sitting with the washerwomen. He looked up, saw her, and ran away.

Her steps slowed.

Abruptly, Ash turned and tugged the sleeve of a gunner's doublet. Not realising how deaf she was, she shouted, "Where's Guillaume? Guillaume Arnisout?"