The Red Knight

flowers, towards the king.

‘We are letting the enemy escape,’ de Vrailly said. ‘There was to be a great battle. Today.’ He spat. ‘My soul is in peril, because I begin to doubt my angel. When will we fight? By the five wounds of Christ, I hate this place. Too hot – too many trees, ugly people, bestial peasants-’ He suddenly reined in his horse, dismounted, and knelt to pray.

Gaston, for once, joined him. In truth, he agreed with all of his cousin’s pronouncements. He wanted to go home too.

A herald rode up – a king’s messenger, Gaston saw. He went back to his prayers. Only when his joints ached and his knees could no longer bear the pain did Gaston raise his eyes to the king’s messenger who had been patiently waiting for them.

‘The king requests your company,’ he said.

Gaston sighed, and he and his cousin rode the rest of the way to the royal council.

It was held on horseback, and all the great lords were present – every officer or lord with fifty knights or more. The Earl of Towbray, the Count of the Border, the Prior of Harndon, who commanded the military orders, and a dozen midlands lords whom Gaston didn’t know. Edward, Bishop of Lorica, armed cap a pied, and the king’s captain of the guard, Ser Richard Fitzroy, the old king’s bastard, or so men said.

The king was conferring with a small man with a grizzled beard, who rode a small palfrey and looked like a dwarf when every other man present was mounted on a charger. He was sixty years old and wore a plain harness of munition armour – the kind that armourers made for their poorer customers.

He had dark circles under his eyes, but his eyes still had fire in them.

‘They were over the outwalls and into the suburbs after three assaults,’ he said. ‘They could run up the walls.’ He looked at Ser Alcaeus. ‘But you must know the story from this good knight.’

‘You tell it,’ said the king.

‘The mayor wouldn’t send the women to the castle. So I sent out my best men to force them in.’ He shrugged. ‘And they did. And by the grace of the good Christ, I took twenty men-at-arms and held the gate to the castle.’ He shook his head. ‘We held it for an hour or so.’ He looked at Ser Alcaeus. ‘Didn’t we?’

The Morean knight nodded. ‘We did, Ser John.’

‘How many died?’ the king asked gently.

‘Townspeople? Or my people?’ the old man asked. ‘The town itself died, my lord. We saved mostly women and children – a few hundred of them. The men died fighting, or were taken.’ He grimaced as he said it. ‘We kept two posterns open the next night – a dozen pole-axes by each – and we got another fifty refugees, but they burned the town to the ground, my lord.’ He bowed his head, slipped from his nag and knelt before his king. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord. I held my castle, but I lost your town. Do with me as you will.’

Gaston looked around. The Albans were in shock.

His cousin pushed forward. ‘All the more reason to pursue the enemy now,’ he said strongly.

The old captain shook his head. ‘No, my lord. It’s a trap. This morning, we saw a big force – Outwallers, with Sossags or Abenacki, going into the woods to the east. It’s an ambush. They want you to pursue them.’

De Vrailly coughed. ‘Am I to be afeared of a few broken men?’ he asked.

No one answered him.

‘Where is the main force of the enemy?’ the king asked.

The old man shrugged. ‘We’ve had messengers from convoys headed west, and from the Abbess,’ he said. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say that Lissen Carak is besieged.’ He took the king’s stirrup. ‘They say it’s the Fallen Magus,’ he said suddenly. ‘Men claim they saw him while the walls were being stormed, smashing breeches in the wall with lightning.’

Again, the Albans muttered, and their mounts started to grow restless.

The king made a clucking sound, as if thinking aloud.

The Prior of Harndon pushed his horse forward. He wasn’t a big man and he was as old as the Captain of Albinkirk, but something shone from him – power of a sort, based on piety, humility. His black mantle contrasted sharply with the blaze of gold and colour on the other warriors, even the bishop.

‘I would like to take my knights and outriders west, my lord, to see to Lissen Carack,’ he said. ‘It is our responsibility.’

The Count of the Borders was at Gaston’s elbow. Despite the frostiness of their last meeting, he leaned over. ‘The Sisters of Saint Thomas are his people – at least at a remove or two,’ he whispered.

The Captal de Ruth stood in his stirrups. ‘I would like to accompany them,’ he declared.

The Prior regarded him with a smile. It was a weary smile, and it probably wasn’t intended to convey insult. ‘This is a matter for the knights of my order,’ he said. ‘We are trained for it.’

The captal touched his sword hilt. ‘No man tells me my men are not trained,’ he said.

The Prior shrugged. ‘I will not take you, no matter how bad your manners.’

Gaston put a hand on his cousin’s steel clad forearm. In Alba, as in Galle, a man did not threaten or challenge a knight of God. It wasn’t done.

Or perhaps his mad cousin thought himself above that law, too.

Lissen Carak – The Red Knight

A commander is seldom alone.

For the captain there was paperwork, often done with Ser Adrian. Drills to supervise, general inspections, particular inspections, and an endless host of small social duties – the expectations of a band of people bonded by ties forged in fire. A band of people who, in many cases, are rejects from other communities because they lack even the most basic social skills.

The captain needed to be alone, and his usual expedient was to ride out over the fields of whatever countryside his little army occupied, find himself a copse of trees, and sit amongst them. But the enemy occupied the countryside, and the fortress itself was full to bursting with people – people everywhere.

Harmodius had left him with a set of complex instructions – in effect, a new set of phantasms to learn, all in aid of defending himself against direct workings from their current enemy. And there was a plan, too – a careful plan – reckless in risk, but cunning in scope.

He needed time and privacy to practise. And he was never alone.

Michael came, served him chicken, and was dismissed.

Bent came to pass a request from some of the farmers that they be allowed to visit their sheep in the pens under the Lower Town walls. The captain rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said.

Sauce came in with an idea for a sortie.

‘No,’ he said.

And went somewhere else to find himself some privacy to practise thaumaturgy.

The hospital seemed like the best bet.

He climbed the stairs without meeting anyone – evening was falling outside, and he felt as if he’d fought a battle. He had to force his legs to push him up the winding stairs.

He passed the sister at the head of the stairs with a muttered word – let her assume that he was on his way to visit the wounded.

In fact, he did visit his wounded first. John Daleman, archer, lay on the bed nearest the far wall with a line of sutures from his collarbone to his waist, but by a miracle, or perhaps by the arts of the sisters, he was not infected and was now expected to live. He was also in a deeply drugged sleep, and the captain merely sat by him for a moment.

Seth Pennyman, Valet, had just come from the surgery, where they had set his broken arm and broken leg. He’d been brushed from the wall by a wyvern’s tail. Nothing had set properly, and the sisters had just reset the breaks. He was full of some drug, and muttered curses in his sleep.

Walter La Tour, gentleman man-at-arms, sat reading slowly from a beautifully illustrated psalter. Fifty-seven years old, he wore new glass spectacles on his nose. He’d received a crushing blow from the behemoth in the fight by the brook.

The captain sat down and clasped his right hand. ‘I thought I’d lost you when that thing put you down.’

Walter grinned. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Don’t make me laugh, my lord. Hurts too much.’