The Red Knight

‘Damn,’ he said.

‘He’s telling you something,’ said Ranald.

‘The arm ring is for the drover,’ said the Keeper. ‘I know it.’

Ranald looked at it. ‘Leave it lie, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back in spring, and we’ll see.’

They rode back to the inn.

Toby unpacked his master’s portmanteau and appeared at his elbow. ‘M’lord?’ he asked.

The captain was playing piquet with Maggie. He looked up.

‘What do I do with these?’ he asked. He held up two velvet bags. They all but glowed a deep, dark red.

‘Not mine,’ the captain said.

‘Begging your pardon, m’lord, but they was in your bag.’ Toby held them out again.

The captain looked in one, and laughed. ‘Why, Toby, I’ve just discovered our host was more thoughtful than I had imagined. Come here.’ He gestured to his new squire. ‘I assume these are for you.’ He handed the bag over.

In it was a pair of silver spurs. Rich squires wore such things.

Toby gasped.

The captain shook his head. ‘He knew we were coming, but we sent Toby back.’ He looked in the other bag. And frowned.

A small, and very beautiful ring, gleamed in the bottom of the bag. It said ‘IHS’. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘This is too much,’ he said quietly, and flung the bag across the room.

It bounced off the wall.

He went back to his cards.

In the morning, when he went to pay the Keeper, he found the ring among his coins.

Give it up said the magister. He wants her, as well. You two are not done with each other, it seems.

He embraced the Keeper. ‘Got anyone going west to Lissen Carak?’ he asked.

The Keeper grinned. ‘In the autumn, maybe, and then only with twenty swords,’ he said.

The captain wrote a brief note on parchment. ‘Send this, then.’ He wrapped the ring in the parchment. It gave him the oddest feeling.

‘Go well, Captain,’ said the Keeper. ‘Stop here when you come west for the tournament.’

The captain raised his eyebrows.

‘You are a famous knight,’ the Keeper said with his child-like delight in knowing news the others didn’t know. ‘The Queen has ordained that there will be a great tournament at Lorica, at Pentecost in the New Year.’

The captain rolled his eyes. ‘Not my kind of fight, Keeper.’

The Keeper shrugged. ‘So you say.’

They spent five days riding over the mountains to Morea. They came down the pass north of Eva and the captain took them south and then east over the hills to Delf. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Gawin and Alcaeus were of the same mind, and Tom and Ranald saw the whole trip as an adventure, riding high on the hillsides, searching out caves . . .

‘Looking for a fight,’ Mag said in disgust. ‘Can we get home?’

‘Home to our company of hired killers?’ said the captain.

Mag looked at him and shook her head. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you must. Aren’t you – excited? Hopeful? Interested?’

He was watching the two hillmen ranging high above them. Alcaeus had purchased a good goshawk from a peddler and was flying him at doves. Gawin was riding ahead, feet crossed over the pintle of his saddle, reading.

He shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve just been enlisted by one mighty Power to fight another in a war not of my making, over things I don’t understand.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I swore off being a tool when I was a child.’

‘The Wyrm is good.’ Mag put a hand on his arm. ‘I can feel it.’

The captain shook his head. ‘Mag, what do my thoughts of good and evil mean to the worms in the road? I can be the most honourable knight who ever lived, and my horse’s iron-shod hooves will crush their soft bodies every step, after a rain.’ He smiled at her. ‘And I won’t even know.’

Down in the deep valley ahead of them, he could see rows of tents; a palisade; neat circles of heavy wagons, and over all, a banner, black, with lacs d’or worked in gold.

‘Damn you,’ she said. ‘Why can’t we just act? Why can’t we simply win?’

The captain sighed. ‘Men love war because it is simple,’ he said. ‘Winning is never simple. I can win a fight – together, we can win a battle.’ He rubbed his beard. Down in the valley, men were pointing and messengers were mounting horses. ‘But turning victory in battle into something that lasts is like building a place to live. So much more complicated than building a fortress.’

He pointed at the riders. ‘Luckily for me, those men are bringing me word of our contract. A nice little war.’ He forced a smile. ‘Something we can win.’

Harndon City – Edward

Edward finished his first rondel dagger – a fine weapon with a precise triangular blade and an armour-piercing point – and handed it to Master Pyle with trepidation. The older man looked it over, balanced it on the back of his hand, and threw it at the floor, where it stuck with a satisfying thunk.

‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Hand it to Danny to be hilted. I’ll have a project for you in a few days – until then, cover the shop.’

Well – shop work was clean and dull, but Edward was courting his Anne in the long summer evenings, and shop work allowed him to dress well – fine hose, a good doublet, not shop-worn linen stained in nameless chemicals and burned with a thousand sparks.

Anne was a seamstress, and her hands were always clean.

Most evenings she would dance in the square by her house, and Edward would swagger his sword and buckler against other journeymen – he was becoming a good blade.

He was designing himself a fine buckler – sketching in a sure hand with charcoal – when the shop door opened and a small man came in. He was middling. And not very memorable.

He smiled at Edward. He had odd black eyes, and he tapped a gold coin on the heavy oak table where customers examined the wares. ‘Fetch me your master, young man,’ he said.

Edward nodded. He rang a bell for another shop boy and sent him to the yard, and Master Pyle appeared a few minutes later. The dark-eyed man had spent the time looking out the window. Edward couldn’t tear his eyes away, because the man was so very difficult to look at.

He turned just a moment before the master appeared, and met him at the counter.

‘Master Pyle,’ he said. ‘I sent you some letters.’

Master Pyle looked puzzled. Then he brightened. ‘Master Smith?’

‘The very same,’ said the odd man. ‘Did you try my powder?’

‘I did. Scary stuff, and no mistake. Shot a hole in the roof of my shed.’ Master Pyle raised an eyebrow. ‘Not very consistent, though.’

The man’s dark eyes sparkled. ‘Mmm. Well, perhaps I didn’t explain entirely. Try wetting it with urine after you’ve mixed it. Dry it in the sun – far from fire, of course. And then grind it back to coarse powder, very carefully.’

‘If I was an alchemist, all this might entertain me, Master Smith. But I’m a blade smith, and I have many orders.’

Master Smith appeared confused. ‘You make weapons, though.’

‘All kinds.’ Master Pyle nodded.

‘The very best in Alba, I’ve been told,’ Master Smith said.

Master Pyle smiled. ‘I hope so.’

Master Smith rocked his head back and forth. ‘Is this a matter of more money?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid not.’ Master Pyle shook his head. ‘It’s just not my trade.’