The Red Knight

made.’

The earl shook his head. ‘You have brought so many men. I see three hundred knights – yes? In all of Alba there might be four thousand knights.’

‘You wanted a strong force. And you wanted me,’ de Vrailly said. ‘I am here. We have common cause – and I have your letter. You said to bring all the force I could muster. Here it is.’

‘I forget how rich the East is, my friend. Three hundred lances?’ The earl shook his head. ‘I can pay them, for now, but after the spring campaign we may have to come to another arrangement.’

De Vrailly looked at his cousin. ‘Indeed. Come spring we will have another arrangement.’

The earl was distracted by the cart in the middle of the column.

‘Good Christ,’ he said suddenly. ‘You don’t mean that Ser Gawin Murien is your prisoner? Are you insane?’

De Vrailly pulled his horse around so hard Gaston saw blood on the bit.

‘You will not speak to me that way, my lord!’ De Vrailly insisted.

The earl rode down the column, heedless of his men-at-arms’ struggle to stay with him. He rode up to the wagon.

Gaston watched his cousin carefully. ‘You will not kill this earl just because he annoys you,’ he said quietly.

‘He said I was insane,’ de Vrailly countered, mouth tight and eyes glittering. ‘We can destroy his fifty knights with a morning’s work.’

‘You will end with a kingdom of corpses,’ Gaston said. ‘If the old king really lost fifty thousand men in one battle a generation ago, this kingdom must be almost empty. You cannot kill everyone you dislike.’

The earl had the Alban knight out of the cart and on horseback before he rode back, his visor closed and locked and his knights formed closely behind him.

‘Messire,’ he said, ‘I have lived in the East, and I know how this misunderstanding has sprung up. But in Alba, messire, we do not keep to The Rule of War at all times. In fact, we have something we call the The Rule of Law. Ser Gawin is the son of one of the realm’s most powerful lords – a man who is my ally – and Ser Gawin acted as any Alban would. He was not required to be in his armour at that hour – not here, and not when taking his ease at an inn. He is not in a state of war with you, messire. By our law, you attacked him perfidiously and you can be called to law for it.’

De Vrailly made a face. ‘Then your law is something that excuses weakness and devalues strength. He chose to fight and was beaten. God spoke on the matter and no more need be said.’

The earl’s eyes were just visible inside his visor and Gaston had his hand on his sword; while the earl was speaking reasonably, his hand was on the pommel of an axe at his saddle bow. His knights all had the posture – the small leaning forward, the steadying hand on a horse’s neck – of men on the edge of violence. They were one step away from a disaster of blood. He could sense it.

‘You will apologise to him for the barbaric deaths of his squires, or our agreement is at an end.’ The earl’s voice was firm, and his hand was steady on his axe. ‘Listen to me, messire. You cannot take this man to court. The king has only to hear his story and you will be arrested.’

‘There are not enough men-at-arms in this country to take me,’ de Vrailly said.

The earl’s retainers drew their swords.

Gaston raised his empty, armoured hands and interposed his horse between the two men. ‘Gentlemen! There was a misunderstanding. Ever it has been so, when East meets West. My cousin was within his rights as a knight and a seigneur. And you say this Ser Gawin was also within his rights. Must we, who have come so far to serve you, my lord Earl – must we all pay for this misunderstanding? As it pleases God, we are all men of good understanding and good will. For my part, I will apologise to the young knight.’ Gaston glared at his cousin.

The beautiful face showed understanding. ‘Ah, very well,’ he said. ‘He is the son of your ally? Then I will apologise. Although, by the good God! He needs training in arms.’

Gawin Murien had recovered enough of his wits to pack his armour onto one horse and mount another. Then he followed the earl through the column, the way a child follows his mother.

The earl raised his visor. ‘Gawin!’ he called out. ‘Lad, the foreign knights – they come from different customs. The Lord de Vrailly will apologise to you.’

The Alban was seen to nod.

De Vrailly halted his horse well out of arm’s reach, while Gaston rode closer. ‘Ser Knight,’ he said, ‘for my part, I greatly regret the deaths of your squires.’

The Alban knight nodded again. ‘Very courteous of you,’ he said. His voice was flat.

‘And for mine,’ de Vrailly said, ‘I forgive your ransom, as the earl insists that by your law of arms, I may have encountered you unfairly.’ The last word was drawn from him as if by a fish hook.

Murien looked a less-than-heroic figure in his stained cote-hardie and his hose ruined by a night of kneeling in the courtyard. He didn’t glitter. In fact, he hadn’t even put his knight’s belt back on, and his sword still lay on the bed of the wagon.

He nodded again. ‘I hear you,’ he said.

He turned his horse, and rode away.

Gaston watched him go, and wondered if it would have been better for everyone if his cousin had killed him in the yard.

Chapter Five

Ser Gawin

Harndon Palace – Harmodius

Harmodius Magus sat in a tower room entirely surrounded by books, and watched the play of the sun on the dust motes, as it shone through the high, clear glass windows. It was April – the season of rain but also the season of the first serious, warm sun – when the sunlight finally has its own colour, its own richness. Today, the sky was blue and a cat might be warm in a patch of sunshine

Harmodius had three cats.

‘Miltiades!’ he hissed, and an old grey cat glanced at him with weary insolence.

The man’s gold-shod stick licked out and prodded the cat, whose latest sleeping spot threatened the meticulously drawn pale blue chalk lines covering the dark slate floor. The cat shifted by the width of its tail and shot the Magus a disdainful look.

‘I feed you, you wretch,’ Harmodius muttered.

The light continued to pour through the high windows, and to creep down the whitewashed wall, revealing calculations in chalk, silver or lead pencil, charcoal, even scratched out in dirt. The Magus used whatever came to hand when he felt the urge to write.

And still the light crept down the wall.

In the halls below, the Magus could sense men and women – a servant bringing a tray of cold venison to his tower’s door; a gentleman and lady engaged in a ferocious tryst that burned like a small fire almost directly under his feet – where was that? It must be awfully public – and the Queen, who burned like the very sun. He smiled when he brushed over her warmth. Oftimes, he watched others to pass the time. It was the only form of phantasm he still cast regularly.

Why is that? he wondered, idly.

But this morning, well. This morning his Queen had asked him – challenged him – to do something.

Do something wonderful, Magus! she had said, clapping her hands together.

Harmodius waited until the sun crossed a chalk line he had drawn, and then raised his eyes to a particular set