The Red Knight

knighting of yours-’

The captain turned to the king. Leaned over, and whispered in his ear.

The king whirled, looked at the mercenary, and the blood left his face like a tide slipping away from a white sand beach. In three beats of a man’s heart, the king aged – he looked as white as parchment. His upper lip trembled. The Queen, who had not been able to hear the words, felt his hand close on her arm like a vice and gave a little grunt of pain.

On the other side of the grave, Sister Amicia gave a start, and went as pale as the king.

The silence went on for so long that wasps could be heard droning, and the grunt of the men filling the Abbess’ grave.

The king looked at the captain, and the captain looked back at the king, and then the king inclined his head – the sort of civil motion that a gentlemen makes to a lady about to proceed him through a door.

In a hoarse voice, the king said, ‘This gentleman has the power to make a knight anywhere within the kingdom of Alba, of anyone, no matter how ignoble their birth or station. Such is my word.’

The captain bowed deeply and the captal was silent.

The king acknowledged the captain’s bow, and he took the Queen and led her on, up the hill to the fortress.

The captain caught the captal’s eye. Jean de Vrailly was afraid of nothing – so he stopped.

‘I take it I have managed to offend you?’ he said. ‘It is difficult for me to understand how a whore like you can take offence. You fight only for money.’

The captain had control of himself. He took his time. Composed his answer while the captal was pinned in place by convention like a butterfly to parchment.

‘Sometimes I fight for free,’ he said. ‘But only when it interests me.’ He paused, holding the captal with his eyes. ‘But I imagine that in the end, someone will pay me to put you down like the mad dog you are.’

Jean de Vrailly smiled – a beautiful smile that filled his face. ‘So,’ he said. And laughed. ‘I look forward to see you try.’

‘I imagine you do,’ the captain muttered. He wasn’t sure that he’d had the better of the exchange, but he walked away without falling over his feet.

Lissen Carak – Michael

The Earl of Towbray left his tail of men-at-arms and all but ran down the steps behind the Commandery to catch the captain’s squire. Former squire.

‘You are a knight!’ he said.

Michael turned. ‘Pater. So are you, I find.’

Towbray couldn’t be angry. ‘I gather you won your spurs and then some,’ he said. ‘Can you come home now?’

Michael shook his head. ‘No, Pater.’ He looked up, and found it easier to meet his father’s eye then he had expected. ‘I was glad to see our banner. With the king.’ He looked around. ‘Surprised. But glad.’

Towbray shrugged. ‘I can’t love the king. But – damn it, boy! Who are you to tell me how to play the game of court?’

Michael shook his head and then bowed. ‘A new-minted knight, who makes twenty-eight florins a month in a company of mercenaries. ‘He stepped back. ‘I must go.’

Towbray reached out a hand. ‘I admire you.’

‘You won’t admire me as much when I tell you that I’m planning to marry a farm girl from Abbington.’ Michael grinned, feeling, for once, that he was master of a conversation with his father.

His father started, but with grim determination, extended his hand. ‘So be it,’ said his father, although his face showed distaste.

Michael took the hand. ‘Then may I have my allowance back?’

Lissen Carak – The Red Knight

An hour later, the company was mounted and ready. All week the wagons had been swayed out of the cellars and re-built, rolled down the hill, and loaded. The company’s stock had been safe in the fortress, and they were hitched with the company’s usual efficiency. The valets mounted the wagons, the archers collected the spare mounts, and the camp followers got their nags and donkeys. At the head of the column, the captain mounted a strange new war horse, just given him by the Prior, and looked back to see Michael – Ser Michael – attending to the banner.

One by one, the corporals reported in, ready to march. A small crowd formed – mostly Lanthorns and Carters and a dozen guildsmen from Harndon, come to see their boys off as they marched away. And their girls. Amy and Kitty Carter, Lis the laundress, Old Mag – who hadn’t looked as young in twenty years. Her daughter Sukey, whose husband had died in the siege. The captain had noted Sukey with Bad Tom. Twice. He made a note to himself to look into that.

The captain looked repeatedly for a single face in the crowd, but it refused to be there. Many women looked – for an instant – like her. Too many women.

So when all his people were ready, and the sun was so high in the sky that it made a mockery of his intention to march away, he raised a hand. ‘March!’ he said.

Whips cracked, men shouted, and wagons rolled.

Gerald Random waved from the walls, and Jean de Vrailly watched silently. The Prior saluted and women cried.

The king stood alone in the north tower, watching the convoy begin to roll east. His hands shook. And the Queen watched him from the courtyard and wondered what was amiss.

A young nun knelt, her back straight, at the high altar of the chapel.

A mile from the fortress, the captain came upon his huntsman, sitting his horse silently at a bend in the road. It took him a long moment to recognise where they were.

‘We still never caught the man who killed that nun,’ Gelfred said. ‘It sticks in my craw. I want justice.’

‘It was the priest,’ the captain said. ‘Sister Amicia and I figured it out – far too late to punish him for it. He’s off to the Wild, I suspect.’

Gelfred crossed himself. ‘He will go to Hell!’ Gelfred said. ‘God will punish him.’

He captain shrugged. ‘God doesn’t give a fuck, Gelfred,’ he said. He touched his heels to his magnificent new charger. ‘But I do, Gelfred, and I promise you, the priest will die.’

And with that, he put his horse’s head to the east, and rode away.

Far to the west, Thorn paused at the top of a ridge. He could see fifty leagues in the clear air, and he breathed deep. He had twenty wounds, and his powers – greater than they had ever been – were nonetheless spent.

He looked east.

That was foolish, he thought. The further he got from the rock, the more it was like a bad dream.

I could have been killed. For ever.

But I wasn’t, and when I return-

The great creature that was Thorn could not smile, but something passed over the heavy bark and stone of his face.

On the downslope of the ridge, he thought, Or perhaps I’ll do something else. Unify the boglins, perhaps.

Chapter Eighteen