The Red Knight

who is not one of ours. Use force if you have to. Secure the exits, Jehannes!’

The old knight saluted. ‘Yes, my lord.’

Michael had his boots. He buckled them around the ankles, laced the tops to the captain’s pourpoint.

‘Full armour, gloves, war sword,’ the captain said.

Michael began to arm him. It wasn’t a quick process and some parts hurt a great deal. But wearing armour was itself a statement.

The arming doublet and mail haubergon weighed on him like a shirt of lead and a hairshirt all together. Many knights believed that the very pain of wearing armour was a penance before God.

Well.

Leg harness, starting with the cuisses, and then the greaves and the steel sabatons that buckled so neatly over his boots, right to the shaped and pointed toes. Michael pointed the cuisses into his arming doublet at an amazing speed, while Toby supported him.

He stood, flexed his legs, and Michael, aided now by Jacques, fitted his breast and back over his head and latched it shut.

‘Had a dent in it like you wouldn’t believe,’ Michael said.

‘Oh, I would,’ the captain said.

Michael snorted. ‘Carlus says taking the dent out took more strength than he’s ever had to use,’ he said. ‘Like the steel was magicked.’

Each of them took an arm harness – vambrace, elbow cop and rerebrace in a single unit on sliding rivets, a miracle of craftsmanship in gilded bronze and hardened steel – and clipped them on, buckling them to his upper arms and then to his shoulders with straps, and then his pauldrons went on, and the circular plates that strapped to the pauldrons and guarded his under arms.

The golden belt at his waist.

Golden spurs at his heels.

Gloves, and a sword, and the baton of his office.

‘There you are, my lord,’ Michael said.

The captain smiled – it was done as fast and as painlessly as it could have been done by anyone. ‘You are a fine squire,’ he said.

He walked out of the recovery ward, looked down the main corridor, and saw his brother.

Gawin had his feet over the edge of the bed.

‘Stay where you are,’ the captain said gently. ‘Michael, stay here with this man.’

Michael nodded. And saluted. He recognised his captain’s tone.

‘But-’ Gawin began.

The captain shook his head. ‘Not now, messire.’

He walked down the corridor to the other ward. Ser Jehannes had already passed. Low Sym was dressing in his gambeson.

‘Have a sword, Sym?’ the captain said.

Sym nodded wordlessly.

The captain pointed at Amicia’s elegant back, standing at the dry sink across the room. ‘She is not to leave this ward until I return,’ he said. ‘If you harm her you are a dead man. But she is not to leave this room. Understand?’

Amicia whirled on him. ‘What?’

‘For your own protection, sister,’ he said, his voice quiet. ‘Father Henry has killed the Abbess. But he will seek to blame you.’

‘Father Henry?’ she came towards him, a hand at her chest. ‘The priest?’

He was at the top of the stairs. ‘Obey. On your life.’ He ignored her outcry, and went down the steps, past the commanderies, to the courtyard. At the door, Bad Tom waited, armoured cap a pied, a pole-axe in his left hand.

‘It’s bad,’ he said.

The captain nodded. He pulled on his gloves, and took the staff of his command from his belt. ‘On me,’ he said, and Tom opened the door.

The sound hit him. Anger first – then fear.

Every farmer and tenant was in the courtyard – four hundred men and women packed into four hundred square ells. The noise was like a living thing.

The dispensary had a wooden step, and two of his men-at-arms were keeping it clear.

On the other side of the courtyard, a dozen big farmers stood together. With them were some of the merchants.

The captain turned to Carlus, and he blew his trumpet. It was loud, and shrill.

Every head turned.

The captain waved the staff over the assembly. ‘Disperse!’ he said into the sudden silence. ‘There will be no negotiation, and no surrender,’ he went on.

A dangerous murmur began.

‘Kindly disperse to your stations and your beds, and let’s have no more of this,’ the captain kept his voice level and kind.

One of the merchants raised his head. ‘Who are you, messire, to decide for us?’

The captain took a deep breath and struggled with the spark of rage that hit him. Why did good men always make him feel like this? ‘I will not debate this with you,’ he said. ‘If you wish to leave, the gate will be opened for you.’

Another farmer shouted ‘Fuck you! That’s just death! It’s our land that’s destroyed. Our farms that are burned, you sell-sword. Get out of the way, or we’ll put you out.’

Jehannes was waving to him from the portcullis winch. He had a key in his hand.

‘This fortress is under the protection of my company,’ The captain said loudly. ‘The lady Abbess charged me with its defence, and I will hold it until I am dead. The power that invests us will not hesitate to lie, deceive, or betray us to our doom – but it will not let anyone here escape alive. The only hope any of you have is to join us in resisting to the last drop of our blood. Or better yet, to the last drop of theirs.’ He looked around. ‘The king, ‘ he almost choked on the title, but he got it out. ‘The king is on his way. Do not give way to despair. Now, please disperse.’

‘You can’t fight all of us!’ shouted the farmer.

The captain sighed. ‘In fact, we can kill every one of you.’ He spoke out. ‘Look around you. Would the Abbess ever have given in? She isn’t even buried yet and look at you. Ready to surrender?’ He pushed his way into the courtyard, ignoring Tom’s protests. He pushed his way through the crowd until he was nose to nose with the big farmer.

‘Priest says she was a witch,’ the farmer said.

People were shuffling away from him.

‘Priest says all these so-called nuns is witches!’ the farmer insisted. ‘Souls black as night.’

A few men nodded. None of the women did.

The captain passed his arm through the farmer’s arm. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

‘I don’t have to – argh!’ the farmer stumbled. He was unable to resist the armoured man, and was pulled along through the crowd to the great gate.

The gate was open, and the sun was shining beyond the walls of the fortress.

‘Look out there,’ the captain said. ‘Look out there at what Thorn has done. He betrayed his king. He betrayed his people. He has made himself a construct of the Wild, a sorcerer without compare, unlimited by laws or even friends. And you think that is better than your Abbess? Because a priest told you that black is white, and white is black?’ The captain spat the words.

‘And I should trust you?’ the farmer growled.

‘Since you are so obviously a fool – yes. You’d do better trusting me, the man who fights to defend you, than trusting to the God-damned priest, who killed your Abbess.’

The crowd was backing away from him, and he had to assume his eyes were burning.