The Red Knight

‘He said he knew of a plot to kill me, in an ambush – and he wished the honour of taking my place.’ The king shook his head. ‘He is truly a great knight.’

Gaston swallowed his thoughts, and wondered what his mad cousin had done. And why. But the mad eyes were closed forever.

Near Lissen Carak – Thurkan

Thurkan watched the king fall. His eyesight was tremendous and from two ridges away he and his clan watched the abnethog fling themselves on the knights.

Of course, he had told them that he would support their attack.

He’d told the Jacks much the same.

But Thorn was doomed, and Thurkan had no intention of letting his people suffer any more.

He turned to his sister. ‘If the men begin fighting among themselves, well and good – we will feast.’

‘I see nothing of the sort,’ Mogan said.

‘Nor I,’ Korghan said.

Behind them stood forty of their kind – enough Qwethnethog to turn the battle. ‘Go tell the Sossag and the Abenacki that the battle is lost,’ Thurkan said to his sister.

‘It isn’t lost unless we flee,’ his sister insisted. ‘By rock and flowing water – is that your will?’

Thurkan frowned, deep creases appearing in his jaw. ‘Thorn must die – now, while he is weak. Otherwise he will hunt us down.’

Mogan poked her snout close to her brother’s. ‘Do not let me believe that this is all the rivalry of two Powers,’ she spat. ‘I have lost kin – you have lost kin. We were promised a feast, and-’

‘We had a feast at Albinkirk and another on the road.’ Thurkan shook his head. ‘I do not do what I do lightly. Thorn must go. We are being-’ he flexed the talons on his forefoot, moving each digit in an intricate arc, ‘- manipulated. By something. I can feel it.’

Mogan snorted. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I obey. Under protest.’ And ran off into the trees, as fleet as a deer.

‘West,’ Thurkan told his brother.

‘I can help you,’ his brother insisted.

‘Perhaps. But Mogan cannot lead our clan or fertilize new eggs. And you can.’ The great head turned. ‘Obey, brother.’

Korghan flicked his tongue in anger. ‘Very well, brother.’

The two clan companies started west, even as the Royal Household Knights began to climb the ridge towards them.

Bill Redmede ran, loosed an arrow from his dwindling store, and ran again. His bodkin points were all but gone, and he had only hunting arrows.

The God-damned aristocrats had more plate armour than he’d ever seen. And the monsters – he’d been a fool to ever trust them and no doubt imperiled his soul, as well. He was bitter – tired, angry, and defeated.

But he’d seen the king fall. It was some consolation, but it didn’t seem to slow the rest of the aristos any, and like all his kind, he faced an ugly death if he was caught, so he waited a heartbeat, stepped from behind his tree and put a shaft under the arm of somebody’s fucking lord and turned, and ran again.

He made it up the second ridge, where they had started the morning, where the big daemon lord had issued its orders.

All the daemons were gone. Sod them, too. Oligarchs. Bad allies for free men.

The river was close now.

There were knights in red surcotes at the base of the ridge, and he could see them coming up the hill – most of them had dismounted, and a flurry of arrows told him that his boys were still fighting back. Fighting the Royal Guard.

He was damned if he was going to lose any more Jacks.

He turned and ran diagonally across the face of the ridge.

He came up behind Nat Tyler as the man loosed his last arrow. ‘Come on, Nat – the boats!’

Tyler turned like a wild thing – but he got a hold of his wits, paused, and winded his horn and whistles sounded in response.

‘Follow me!’ Bill called, and ran back up the hill – legs labouring, lungs searching for breath.

Behind him, the Jacks loosed a last arrow and ran – the sauve qui peut had been blown.

Bill ran, and the Jacks ran behind him. He paused when he saw three of his own trying to face a knight with drawn swords and bucklers, and he put a shaft to his bow – another knight burst from the trees and crossed the crest of the ridge – raised his visor-

Too good a shot to miss.

Hawthor Veney made it to the top of the ridge on pride alone. It was his first fight, and he was a King’s Guardsman. His red surcote shouted his allegiance, and the Jacks were his enemies, and he pursued them ruthlessly. He caught one and hewed him from behind, a clumsy stroke that buried his point in the man’s neck, but the man fell hard, blood burst from the wound, and he ran on, wrenching the sword from the man’s corpse.

The next one he caught fell to his knees and begged for mercy. He was perhaps fourteen years old.

Hawthor paused, and an older guardsman beheaded the boy. ‘Nits make lice,’ he said, as he swept by, and Hawthor hardened his heart and ran on. Running in armour was hard. Running up a ridge with soft footing and tangled spring undergrowth was worse. His lungs began to labour and, as the Jacks rallied and rallied again, whipping deadly shafts at the guardsmen, Hawthor had to fight the temptation to open his visor.

He began to pass men when he could see the light through the trees that meant the crest of the ridge was coming. There was shouting to the right – he turned to look, and he heard the sound of steel on steel. He looked back and forth – it was closer, and with his faceplate closed, he couldn’t see where. There was a flicker of motion to the front – he looked, ran a few steps, stopped, and looked again.

Heard the scrape of blades. A voice called ‘Sauve Qui Peut!’

He was breathing like a horse after a race. He was afraid – he was afraid they were behind him. He popped his visor, turned his head-

And died.

Near Lissen Carak – Bill Redmede

Bill got another shaft on his bow after putting one through the knight’s face – felt better for doing it – but two more of his men were down and he knew better than to join the hand to hand fight. He ran.

They crossed the ridge, and started down the far side towards their boats. A handful of knights from the vanguard tried to stop them, and the Jacks just ran around them – exhausted men without armour have an advantage over exhausted men in armour.

Bill saw the Count of the Borders, close enough to touch, and he cursed his fate, that he should be so close to a mortal foe and be able to do nothing.

But he ran past the man, down the steep berm, into a broad field – ploughed, until recently. Nat Tyler came out of the trees to his left, and dozens more – a handful, compared to their numbers three weeks ago. But enough to start again.

Up the last dyke, and there were the boats. Fifty light bark boats – it had taken them three careful trips to get everyone over, night before last, and now . . .

Now they’d all fit in one go.

He tossed his bow into the bottom of the light boat, pushed it into the water, and stepped in, running lightly down the length of the boat to kneel in the bow. Then he rocked the stern off the muddy beach, and held his position in the current with his paddle until a young blond man in dirty white tossed his own bow into the boat and stepped clumsily into the stern. He almost swamped the light boat, and they were away into the current.

Twenty other boats were putting off behind him – the better boatmen got the boats moving. The less competent men started to die, as the Royal Guard began to close on them.