He shook his head, but the image of Constance d’Eveaux looking back over her naked shoulder before leaping into the lake haunted him.
There had been nothing between them. Until that moment, he hadn’t even noticed her except as a pretty face among his sister’s friends.
‘See something what you like?’ said a familiar voice.
Gaston reined in, his reverie exploded.
It was the old archer. Gaston was surprised to find that he was happy to see the low-born man.
‘You were going home,’ Gaston said.
The old man laughed. ‘Heh,’ he said. ‘Lord Edward asked me to stay. I’m a fool – I stayed. I sent my useless brother-in-law home.’ He shrugged. ‘Of the two of us, my daughter probably needs him the more.’
‘The Lord of Bain?’ Gaston asked.
‘The very same. I was his archer on the crusade, oh, ten years back.’ He shrugged. ‘Those were some hairy times.’
Gaston nodded. ‘I knew you were an man-at-arms.’
The old archer grinned. ‘Aye. Well. I meant what I said. It’s all foolishness. Why are we at war with the Wild? When I lie out at night hunting I love to have a chat with the faeries. I’ve traded with the irks more than once. They like a nice piece of cloth, and mirrors – hehe, they’d trade their mothers for a bit o’mirror.’ He nodded. ‘Admit I can’t stand boglins, but they probably feel the same about me.’
Gaston couldn’t imagine such a life. He covered his confusion by dismounting. He was surprised to find the archer holding his horse’s head.
‘Habit,’ the old man said.
Gaston held out his hand. ‘I’m Gaston d’Eu.’
‘I know,’ the old man said. ‘I’m called Killjoy. Make of it what you will. Harold Redmede, it says in the christening book.’
Gaston surprised himself by clasping the man’s arm, as if they were both knights.
‘Surely it is a crime against both the King and Church to trade mirrors to the irks.’
The old archer grinned. ‘It’s a crime to shoot Lord Edward’s deer. It’s a crime to take rabbits in his warrens. It’s a crime to leave my steading without his leave.’ The archer shrugged. ‘I live a life of crime, m’lord. Most low-born do.’
Gaston found himself smiling. The man was really very likeable. ‘But your immortal soul,’ he began softly.
The old man pursed his lips and blew out a puff of air. ‘You’re easy to talk to, foreigner. But I don’t need to debate my mortal soul with the likes of ye.’
‘But you are willing to speak with evil.’ Gaston shook his head.
The archer gave him a wry smile. ‘Are all the men you know so very good, m’lord?’
Gaston winced.
‘Stands to reason all the irks ain’t bad, don’t it?’ he went on. ‘What if none of ’em is bad? Eh? What if there’s no power on earth as bad as a bad lord?’
Gaston shook his head. ‘What bad lord? This is rebel talk.’
‘Rest easy, m’lord, I’m no Jack.’ The old man sneered. ‘Boys playing at causes. And broken men and traitors.’ He nodded. ‘Some good archers, though.’
‘Let’s say I’m coming around a little to your way of thinking,’ he said carefully. ‘I would like to confess that I want to go home.’
‘Knew you was a man of sense.’ Redmede laughed. He looked under his hand and shook his head. Pointed at an archer, asleep. ‘Swarthy, you useless sack of shit, get off your arse and work.’
Gaston turned and saw the young archer trying to hide in the ditch. He was all huddled up, as if by being very small, he could avoid the old man’s wrath.
‘Now I’m the master-archer, and I wear myself out riding these boys.’ He laughed.
Gaston didn’t think he looked worn out.
Redmede stepped closer to the ditch and bellowed, ‘Swarthy!’ at the young man.
He paused and in a moment Gaston saw what he saw.
The boy was eviscerated. And very, very dead.
‘Damn,’ the old archer said.
West of Albinkirk – Galahad Acon
Galahad Acon had never been so cold for so long, and he lay as still as he could lie, watching . . .
Well, watching nothing at all. Watching the woods. A breath of breeze stirred, moving the new leaves, and the light rain fell and fell. Despite a wool jupon and a wool cote over it, with a heavy wool cloak over all, he was soaked to his linen shirt and colder than he was when riding through heavy snow in December.
The Prior had left him to watch at the first grey light of dawn. Had said he’d be back.
He’d taken Diccon with him.
As time went by, his fancies grew darker and darker. Why would they ride off and leave him?
He had a fire kit. But the Prior had been very forceful on the subject of fires.
For the thousandth time, a twig cracked in front of him.
Galahad wondered how twigs could just crack, in the woods.
A bird fluttered in the wet leaves, and made a low thrumming sound – and then burst out of the leaves and leaped into the air.
Galahad felt his blood still in his veins.
He scanned his eyes frantically back and forth.
They were almost silent – filing along the streambed at the base of the low hill.
But there were hundreds of them.
In the lead was a willowy daemon, all black, which moved like an embodiment of shadow, flitting rather than walking. Behind him, came the hosts of hell, walking, strutting, shambling-
Galahad found he could neither watch nor turn his head away. That when he closed his eyes, he couldn’t picture exactly what they looked like.
He couldn’t make his mind work. Run? Stay? He was fear.
They moved along the watercourse, and they scarcely moved the leaves. They travelled quickly, passing from left to right before him.
Eventually, he realised they weren’t going to turn and rend him limb from limb. But that didn’t stop his breath from coming in low pants, nor the deep cold from settling into his bones.
And then they were gone, away to the north, towards the river.
It was a long time before his breathing returned to normal.
When the Prior found him, at sunset, still lying there, he burst into tears.
The Prior embraced him. ‘I’m sorry,’ the mailed knight said. ‘You did well.’
Galahad was ashamed of his tears, but he couldn’t stop them.
‘They got between us and you,’ the Prior went on. ‘I couldn’t risk my knights for you. That – that is how it is, out here.’ He patted Galahad. ‘You did very well.’
They moved camp, in the same silence that the knights did everything. They went north, and Galahad saw that the tracks made by the daemons had the shape of human feet. He looked very closely, and he couldn’t see anything but bare feet and soft shoes.
A young Thomasine nodded to him. He cleared his throat quietly and leaned close. ‘Sossag,’ he said.
Galahad knew enough to knew that the knight was honouring him by speaking.
‘I thought they were daemons.’ He looked at the knight.
The young man shook his head. Put a finger to his lips, and rode on.
