Ranald rode north with three horses – a heavy horse not much smaller than a destrier and two hackneys, the smallest not much better than a pony. He needed to make good time.
Because he needed to make good time he went hard all day and slept wherever he ended. He passed the pleasant magnificence of Lorica and her three big inns with regret, but it was just after midday and he had sun left in the sky.
He didn’t have to camp, exactly. As the last rays of the sun slanted across the fields and the river to the west, he turned down a lane and rode over damp manured fields to a small stand of trees on a ridge overlooking the road. As he approached in the last light, he smelled smoke, and then he saw the fire.
He pulled up his horses well clear of the small camp, and called out, ‘Hullo!’
He hadn’t seen anyone by the fire, and it was dark under the trees. But as soon as he called a man stepped from the shadows, almost by his horse’s head. Ranald put his hand on his sword hilt.
‘Be easy, stranger,’ said a man. An old man.
Ranald relaxed, and his horse calmed.
‘I’d share my food with a man who’d share his fire,’ Ranald said.
The man grunted. ‘I’ve plenty of food. And I came up here to get away from men, not spend the night prattling.’ The old fellow laughed. ‘But bad cess on it – come and share my fire.’
Ranald dismounted. ‘Ranald Lachlan,’ he said.
The old man grinned, his teeth white and surprisingly even in the last light. ‘Harold,’ he said. ‘Folk around here call me Harold the Forester, though its years since I was the forester.’ He slipped into the trees, leading Ranald’s packhorse.
They ate rabbit – the old man had three of them, and Ranald wasn’t so rude as to ask what warren they’d been born to. Ranald still had wine – good red wine from Galle, and the old man drank a full cup.
‘Here’s to you, my good ser,’ he said in a fair mockery of a gentleman’s accent. ‘I had many a bellyful of this red stuff when I was younger.’
Ranald lay back on his cloak. The world suddenly seemed very good to him, but he remained troubled that there were leaves piled up for two men to sleep, and that there were two blanket rolls on the edge of the fire circle, for one man. ‘You were a soldier, I suspect,’ he said.
‘Chevin year, we was all soldiers, young hillman,’ Harold said. He shrugged. ‘But aye. I was an archer, and then a master archer. And then forester, and now – just old.’ He sat back against a tree. ‘It’s cold for old bones. If you gave me your flask, I’d add my cider and heat it.’
Ranald handed over his flask without demur.
The man had a small copper pot. Like many older veterans Ranald had known, his equipment was beautifully kept, and he found it without effort, even in the dark – each thing was where it belonged. He stirred his fire, a small thing now the rabbit was cooked, made from pine cones and twigs, and yet he had the drink hot in no time.
Ranald had one hand on his knife. He took the horn cup that was offered him, and while he could see the man’s hands, he said ‘There was another man here.’
Harold didn’t flinch. ‘Aye,’ he said.
‘On the run?’ Ranald asked.
‘Mayhap,’ said Harold. ‘Or just a serf who oughtn’t to be out in the greenwood. And you with your Royal Guardsman’s badge.’
Ranald was ready to move. ‘I want no trouble. And I offer none,’ he said.
Harold relaxed visibly. ‘Well, he won’t come back. But I’ll see to it that the feeling is mutual. Have some more.’
Ranald lay under his cloak without taking off his boots and laid his dirk by his side. Whatever he thought about the old man, there were plenty of men who would cut another’s throat for three good horses. And he went to sleep.
Harndon – Edward
Thaddeus Pyel finished mixing the powder – saltpeter and charcoal and a little sulphur. Three to two to one, according to the alchemist who made the mixture for the king.
His apprentices were all around him, bringing him tools as he demanded them – a bronze pestle for grinding charcoal fine, spoons of various sizes to measure with.
He mixed the three together, carried the mixture outside into the yard, and touched a burning wick to them.
The mixture sputtered and burned, with a sulphurous smoke.
‘Like Satan cutting a fart,’ muttered his son Diccon.
Master Pyel went back into his shop and mixed more. He varied the quantities carefully, but the result was always the same – a sputtering flame.
The boys were used to the master’s little ways. He had his notions, and sometimes they worked, and other times they didn’t. So they muttered in disappointment but not in surprise. It was a beautiful evening, and they went up on the workshop roof and drank small beer. Young Edward, the shop boy and an apprentice coming up on his journeyman qualification, stared at the rising moon and tried to imagine
In all his imagings it was something to do with a weapon, because at the sign of the broken circle, that’s what they did. They made weapons.
Albinkirk – Ser John Crayford
Ser John was taking exercise. Age and weight had not prevented him from swinging his sword at his pell – or at the other four men-at-arms who were still willing enough to join him.
Since the young sprig had ridden through with his beautifully armed company, the Captain of Albinkirk had been at the pell three times. His back hurt. His wrists hurt. His hands
Master Clarkson, his youngest and best man-at-arms, backed out of range and raised his sword. ‘Well cut, Ser John,’ he said.
Ser John grinned, but only inside his visor where it wouldn’t show. Just in that moment, all younger men were the enemy.
‘Ser John, there’s a pair of farmers to see you.’ It was the duty sergeant. Tom Lickspittle, Ser John called him, if only inside his visor. The man couldn’t seem to do anything well except curry favour.
‘I’ll see them when I’m done here, Sergeant.’ Ser John was trying to control his breathing.
‘I think you’ll want to – to see them now.’
Ser John walked over to his latest squire, young Harold, and got his visor lifted and his helmet removed. He was suddenly ashamed of his armour – brown on many surfaces, or at least the mail was. His cote armour was covered in what had once been good velvet. How long ago had that been?
‘Clean that mail,’ he said to Harold. The boy winced, which suited Ser John’s mood well. ‘Clean the helmet, and find me an armourer. I want this recovered in new cloth.’
‘Yes, Ser John.’ The boy didn’t meet his eye. Lugging armour around the Lower Town would be no easy task.
Ser John got his gauntlets off and walked across the courtyard to the guard room. There were two men – prosperous men; wool cotes, proper hose; one in all the greys of local wool, one in a dark red cote.
‘Gentlemen?’ he asked. ‘Pardon my armour.’
The man in the dark red cote stood forward. ‘Ser John? I’m Will Flodden and this is my cousin John. We have farms on the Lissen Carak road.’
Ser John relaxed. This was not a complaint about one of his garrison soldiers.
‘Go on,’ he said, cheerfully.
‘I kilt an irk, m’lord,’ said the one called John. His voice shook when he said it.
Ser John had been a number of places. He knew men, and he knew the Wild. ‘Really?’ he said. He doubted it,
