‘I’m just thinking of the captain. Of him being pleased.’ She shrugged. ‘You all think he’s fine, and he is
He held onto her. ‘When I was young, I wanted nothing so much as to be a knight,’ he said. ‘I wanted it, and I fought for it. And I did not get it. And after more time and some bad things, I met your husband, and we survived a bad time. And then I became a decent man in a small town. I had some dark days and some good days.’ He shrugged. ‘And now – par dieu, now it seems that I may get to be a knight. And I may have you, my lady.’ He held her tight. ‘Which is by way of saying – our little captain will take many hurts. If they break him?’ he shrugged. ‘Then they do. That is the way of it.’
She nodded. And slipped a little closer to the carpet of their tent.
The captain sat with Ser Alcaeus and his brother in the last light. The great eagle sat on a perch in the shaded end of the tent, head muffled, squawking softly. The captain went and petted the bird and calmed him, and while he was doing so, Toby poured him wine. Ser Jehannes knocked at the captain’s tent poles.
‘Come,’ said the captain.
Ser Jehannes had Ser Thomas and Ser Antigone, and Toby poured them all wine. In the distance, Oak Pew slammed a fist into Wilful Murder’s head. The archer sat suddenly. The captain shook his head.
‘It’s good to be home,’ he said.
Jehannes held out a leather wallet. ‘I know this is supposed to be a night to revel,’ he said. ‘But the messengers who brought these have been like bluebottles on horse manure, m’lord. Dispatches and letters,’ he said. He grimaced. ‘Most for our well-born recruit here.’ He motioned at Alcaeus. ‘Your uncle seems determined to hear from you.’
‘Your pardon,’ Alcaeus said, and broke the seal on a scroll tube of dark wood.
While he did so, Jehannes handed an ivory tube to the captain. He glanced at the seal and smiled.
‘The Queen, gentlemen.’
They all drank. Even Sauce.
He broke the seal while Alcaeus was still reading.
Alcaeus looked up. ‘M’lord,’ he said formally. ‘The situation has worsened. I must ask, in the Emperor’s name, that we ride with all dispatch.’
The captain was till reading his own. ‘Relax, gentles,’ he said. ‘We aren’t riding anywhere tonight.’
Alcaeus looked at white as a sheet. ‘The Emperor has been – taken. Hostage. A week and more ago.’
The captain looked up and fingered his beard. ‘All right. That
‘Ready to ride at first light it is.’ Tom grinned. ‘Never a dull moment.’
‘We live in interesting times,’ the captain said. ‘Everyone get sleep. We will be moving fast. May I assume this is part of the same – er – trouble for which your uncle is hiring us?’
Alcaeus shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ He shuffled. ‘I don’t even know if he is alive, or still Emperor.’
The captain nodded. ‘Dawn, then,’ he said. ‘We’ll pick up information as we go.’
Jehannes looked at the other parchment. ‘And the Queen?’
The captain sighed. ‘An invitation to a Deed of Arms,’ he said. ‘In the spring.’ He smiled. He looked out into the darkness. He was smiling. ‘Someone has kidnapped the Emperor, and we are going to be called on to save him,’ he said quietly. ‘I think we’ll have to miss the tournament.’
He looked around the table. ‘Remember this night, friends. Breathe the air, and savour the wine. Because tonight, it’s all in the balance. I can feel it.’
‘What is?’ Sauce asked. She raised an eyebrow at Tom, as if to say
‘Everything,’ the captain said. He laughed aloud. ‘Everything.’
Acknowledgements
This book is the culmination of thirty ears of study, chivalric martial arts, real life, and role-playing. To be fair to all my influences, I’d have to thank everyone I’ve ever known. There’s a Somali man who worked for me in Kenya in this book; a woman I met once in Marseille; a chivalric fighter I sparred with at a tournament a few years back – it’s like that.
But several groups of people deserve my special thanks.
First, the friends of my days in university. Joe and Regina Harley, Robert Sulentic, Robert Gallasch, Gail Morse, Celia Friedman, Steven Callahan, Jevon Garrett, and another dozen – who played in the original Alba campaign. I am an unashamed nerd. Without you people, there would be little life on these bones.
Second, the friends of my reenactment hobby – most especially those who attend our yearly historic trek, where we wander off into the Adirondacks with eighteenth century equipment – or fourteenth century equipment – to learn what it is like to live with the past. We pack it in on our backs and we go places that – in some instances – no person has been in fifty years. These experiences have helped me write this book and I owe you all a debt of thanks for putting up with me. And all the people with whom I spar, in and out of armour – here, and in Ottawa and in Finland and Greece.
Third, the craftsmen who recreate the items that make history and fantasy come alive. Leo Todeschini of www.todsstuff.co.uk deserves a visit online – his stuff is incredible. Magical, even. Ben Perkins at www.barebowarchery.co.uk makes long bows and war bows that look and behave like the originals, as far as we know. Mark Vickers at www.stgeorgearmouryshop.co.uk and Peter Fuller at www.medievalrepro.com reproduce armour that is as near exactly like originals as makes little difference. Comfortable, too. I wear it quite often. www.albion-swords.com make superb, non-nonsense swords. They are not ‘like’ the real thing. They are the real thing. Visit my website and you can see a dozen more craftsmen every bit as good.
Fourth, the teachers who taught me about history, about life and philosophy, about weapons, and about chivalry; Dick Kaeuper of the University of Rochester; Father William O’Malley, SJ, who may or may not forgive my theology; Guy Windsor, possibly the world’s finest swordsman (he runs a school!) and Ridgeley Davis who taught me to be a much better rider. And to use a spear on horseback.
Fifth, the many people who have helped me in the publishing world; my Agent, Shelley Power; my gallant publicist, Donna Nopper, and most of all on this book, Gillian Redfearn, who gets credit in every step from creation to actual editing.
And last, the other teachers – the hundreds, if not thousands, of writers who inspire me to write. Medieval fishing? Theology? Hermeticism? Memory palaces? Jousting? Singing Neanderthals? Neurology? Ancient Greek philosophy? I owe a debt to the authors of hundreds of books for filling in the gaps in experience, or just teaching me a dying or dead craft.
And, of course, there’s fantasy itself. I adore – nay, worship – J. R. R. Tolkien. For my taste, it is not just
I could go on. But I have to work on book two –
Well, we’ll see if we can accommodate you.
A Gollancz eBook
Copyright © Miles Cameron 2012
