driven into the end beams of the floor above.
‘Really?’ The captain asked. ‘How do you know?’
Harmodius shrugged and poured himself some wine. ‘We are linked to each other, for good or ill. I can feel his fear. And his anger, and his gloating. As can the Abbess.’
‘Fear?’ Tom asked. ‘Fear? Yon mighty godling is afraid o’ we?’ He laughed.
But the captain understood. ‘He must be afraid,’ he said. ‘I would be.’
‘He has a great deal to lose,’ Harmodius said. ‘But he knows he can destroy our trebuchet with one shot if he gets close enough. Of course, he has to risk himself on the plain to get it, hence his attempt to get it done with the wyverns. But they’ve failed.’
Tom shook his head. ‘You make him sound like he’s but an engine himself.’
Harmodius bobbed his head. ‘Not bad, Tom. In a way, the magi aren’t much more than siege engines, on a battlefield. Except we move much faster and we are much deadlier. But I agree, the effect is the same.’
The captain made a face. ‘Why must he get the trebuchet? So he can move his engines against the Bridge Castle?’
Harmodius nodded. ‘I suppose so. That’s not my department.’ He put his wine cup down. ‘I’ll leave you to get ready. The Abbess asked us for sunset.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘Don’t stop practising, young man. We need you.’
Tom watched him go. ‘He’s an odd one and no mistake.’
The captain smiled. ‘This from you?’ He summoned a linen towel from the door. It flew to his hand. He grinned and rose, dripping.
Tom rocked back in his seat. ‘Don’t do that again,’ he said. He had his heavy knife half out of its sheath. ‘I’ll thank ye to keep that sort o’ thing private, where it belongs.’
The captain felt himself blush. ‘I can cast magic, Tom,’ he said. ‘You know I can.’
Tom grunted. ‘Knowing and watching is different beasts.’ He shrugged and looked uncomfortable. ‘We lost five men-at-arms yesterday and three archers.’ He looked at a wax tablet. ‘Nine men-at-arms and nineteen archers since the siege began. ‘Twenty-eight, and two valets is thirty.’ He shrugged. ‘One man in four.’
The captain got his shirt over his head.
‘I’m not saying we should quit,’ Tom said. ‘But it may be time to see if we can make a deal.’
‘You, too, Tom?’ The captain got into his braes. They felt clean and crisp. He felt clean and crisp too. And very tired.
‘We’re losing ’em faster every day,’ Tom said. ‘Listen. I’m your man. You’re a fine captain, and even Jehannes is coming around to that.’ He shrugged. ‘But this ain’t what we do, lad. One monster; sure. An army of of them?’ He frowned.
The captain sat on his cot and reached for his new hose. They were rich black wool – a trifle coarse and itchy, but heavy, warm, and stretchy. He took one and pulled it carefully up his right leg.
‘We’re not losing,’ he said.
‘As to that . . .’ Tom said.
‘We’re going to hold here until the king comes.’ He grabbed the second leg.
‘What if he’s not coming?’ Tom leaned forward. ‘What if your messengers didn’t get through?’
‘What if pigs fly?’ the captain said. ‘I know the owners of this fortress were notified. I saw it, Tom. The Knights of Saint Thomas will not let this convent – the base of their wealth, the sacred trust of the old king – they will not let it fall. Nor will the king.’
Tom shrugged. ‘We could all die here.’
The captain started rooting through his clothes for a clean doublet, or at least one without a noticeable smell.
The one he found was made of fustian and two layers of heavy linen, rumpled but completely clean. He began to lace his hose to it.
‘We may all die here,’ the captain admitted. ‘But damn it, Tom, this is worth doing. This isn’t some petty border squabble in Galle. This is the North Land of Alba. You’re from the Hills. I’m from the Adnacrags.’ He raised his arms. ‘These people need us.’
Tom nodded, obviously unmoved by the needs of the peoples of the north. ‘You really think the king will come, eh?’
‘One day’s time. Perhaps two,’ the captain said.
Tom chewed his moustache. ‘Can I tell the lads that? It will help their morale . . . only once I tell them, that’s all the time you get. M’lord.’
‘Is this an ultimatum, Ser Thomas?’ the captain stood up straight, as if that would make it better. ‘Are you telling me that in two days, my troops will demand that I look for another solution?’
Bad Tom sneered. ‘Like enough there’s some as would. And more every day after that. Yes.’ He stood. Six feet and six inches of muscle. ‘Don’t you go and mistake me, Captain. I like a fight. I don’t really care who brings it. I could fight here forever.’ He shrugged. ‘But there’s some as can’t.’
‘And they might want to quit,’ the captain said, with a feeling of relief.
‘They might,’ Tom said. He grinned. ‘I swear, there’s something in the air, like a poison today. Lads are touchy. Every comment has an edge.’
The Red Knight took his scarlet cote off the stool and began to lace it. ‘I’ve felt it.’
Tom shook his head. ‘I hate your magery. Takes all the sport out of a fight.’ He shrugged his great shoulders. ‘I don’t so much mind dying, so long as I go down my way. I like a good fight. An’ if it’s to be my last, well, all I ask is it be good.’ He nodded. ‘Good enough for a song.’
The captain nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.
‘I’ll tell the lads,’ Tom said.
As soon as he passed the door, Michael and Toby came back. His scarlet jupon was brushed, and he saw that the embroidered lacs d’or on the front were repaired.
Michael helped him into it. They each laced a wrist while he stood, thinking.
He thought more while he pulled on his long boots. Toby did his garters and Michael held his cote.
Toby brushed his hair and got the water out of his beard. Michael brought out his riding sword.
‘War sword,’ said the captain. ‘Just in case.’
Michael shortened the belt and buckled it at his waist, and then stood back while the captain drew it three times, testing the hang of the belt. Toby buckled his spurs on. Michael held the heavy gold belt with a questioning air.
The Red Knight smiled. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
Michael buckled it around his waist, handed him his hat, gloves, and baton. ‘You’ll be early,’ he said, ‘but not by much.’
The captain walked down the steps to the courtyard. Men and women looked at him – clean, and, although he couldn’t see it, glowing.
He walked across the yard, nodding to all. He stopped to compliment young Daniel on his swordplay; to share a jibe with Ben Carter, and to tell the younger Lanthorn girl that he was sorry for her loss, as both of her parents had died in the night. She rose to give him a curtsy, and he smiled when he saw her eyes slide off him to Michael, who was following him.
He heard the tale of No Head’s near death experience told by a circle of archers who slapped their booted thighs in merriment, and he listened to a complaint that someone was stealing grain from Ser Adrian, who also handed him a piece of parchment rolled very tight.
‘As you asked,’ the clerk said. ‘I’ve spoken to a dozen sisters and some of the farmers.’ He shrugged. ‘If you want my opinion, Captain-’ He let the words trail off.
The captain shook his head. ‘I don’t,’ he said. He smiled to take the sting out. Tucked the scroll into his cote sleeve and bowed. ‘I have an appointment with a lady,’ he said.
Ser Adrian returned his bow. ‘Count your fingers after you eat,’ he said softly.
There was a long table, set for thirteen. In the centre was the Abbess’s throne, and he sat on her right hand. The table was empty as he was the first to arrive. He went and exchanged glares with Parcival, on his perch and was suffered, with incredible grumpiness, to stroke the bird’s head.
A sister came in, saw him, and gave an undignified squeak. He turned, bowed, and smiled. ‘Your pardon, sister.
