The Red Knight

‘He’s very angry,’ the king said, while bowing over her hand. He sounded content with his opponent’s anger. ‘Listen, sweeting. The fortress at Lissen Carak is under attack by the Wild. Or so both these two messengers say.’

She sat up. ‘Tell me!’ she demanded.

Ser Gaston came up, approaching the king with the deference that his cousin never seemed to show even when kneeling.

‘Your Grace-’ he began.

The king raised a hand. ‘Not now. The joust is over for the day, my lord, and I thank your cousin for the sport. I will be riding north with all my knights as soon as I can gather them. One of my castles, and not the least of them, is under attack.’

Ser Gaston bowed. ‘My cousin requests that he might ride one course against you.’ He bowed. ‘And he wishes your Grace to know that he honours your Grace’s horsemanship – he sends you his war horse, in hopes your Grace might school him as well as your own is schooled.’

The king smiled like a boy who’s been well-praised by a parent. ‘Indeed, I love a horse,’ he said. ‘I do not claim the good knight’s horse and arms, you understand – but if he offers.’ The king licked his lips.

Ser Gaston nodded to where the squire was leading the now-unarmed horse. ‘He is yours, your Grace. And he asks that he be allowed to take another horse and have another course with your Grace.’

The king’s face closed like the visor of his helmet had clicked down. ‘He has ridden one,’ the king said. ‘If he wishes another chance to prove himself, he may gather his knights and ride with me to the north.’ The king seemed on the verge of saying more, and then he steadied himself. But he allowed himself a small, kingly smile and said, ‘And tell him that I’ll be happy to loan him a horse.’

But Gaston bowed. ‘We will ride with you, your Grace.’

But the king had already dismissed him, and turned to the Queen.

‘It’s bad,’ he said. ‘If the writer of this letter knows his business, it’s very bad. Jacks. Daemons. Wyverns. The might of the Wild has joined against us.’

At the names, all of her ladies crossed themselves.

The Queen rose to her feet. ‘Let us help these worthy gentlemen,’ she said to her ladies. She rose and kissed the king’s face. ‘You will need carts, provender, supplies, canteens and water casks. I have the lists to hand. You gather your knights, and I’ll have the rest ready to follow you before noon.’ In a moment, the winds of war – actual war, with all it implied about glory and honour and high deeds – blew away her fancy for the foreign knight.

And her lover was the king. Going to war with the Wild.

He looked into her eyes with adoration. ‘Bless you!’ he whispered. And her king turned, and shouted for his constable. And the Earl of Towbray, who was ready to hand.

Towbray had the grace to give the king a wry smile. ‘How convenient that I have all my armed strength to hand, your Grace. And that you have summoned your knights to a tournament.’

The king usually had no time for Towbray, but just for a moment they shared something. The king clapped the other man’s shoulder. ‘If only I had planned it,’ he said.

Towbray nodded. ‘My knights are at your service.’

The king shook his head. ‘That’s the trouble with you, Towbray. Just when I’ve found reason to despise you, there you are doing something to help. And unfortunately a year hence, you’ll do something to spoil it again.’

Towbray bowed. ‘I am what I am, your Grace. In this case, your Grace’s servant.’

He glanced at the Queen.

She didn’t see his look, already busy with a list of long-bodied wagons available in the town of Harndon.

But the king followed Towbray’s glance, and his lip curled.

Towbray had been watching the king, too. It was easy to dismiss him – he didn’t seem to have any finer feelings, or to have any purpose beyond the tilt-field and his wife’s bed.

And yet here was the Wild, launching an attack, and the king just happened to have already summoned his host. That kind of luck seemed to happen to the king all the time.

Lissen Carak – The Red Knight

The captain woke in the Abbey infirmary, his head on a feather pillow, his hands – the left heavily wrapped in bandages – laid neatly on a white wool blanket atop a fine linen sheet. The sun shone through the narrow window well over his head and the shaft of light lit Bad Tom, snoring in the opposite bed. A young boy lay with his face to the wall in the next bed, and an older man with his whole head wrapped in linen opposite him.

He lay still for a moment, oddly happy, and then it all came back to him in a rush. He shook his head, cursed God, sat and got his feet on the floor.

His movement caused the duty sister to raise her head. He hadn’t noticed her. She smiled.

Amicia.

‘Aren’t you afraid to be alone with me?’ he asked.

Her composure was palpable, like armour. ‘No,’ she answered. ‘I am not afraid of you, sweet. Should I be?’ She rose to her feet. ‘Besides, Tom is only just asleep and old Harold – who has leprosy – sleeps very lightly. I trust you not to disturb them.’

The captain winced at the word trust. He leaned towards her – she smelled of olive oil and incense and soap – and had to fight the urge to put his hands on her hips, her waist-

She cocked her head a little to one side. ‘Don’t even think it!’ she said, sharply, but without raising her voice.

His cheeks burned. ‘But you like me!’ he said. It seemed to him one of the stupidest things he’d ever said. He gathered himself, his dignity, his role as the captain. ‘Tell me why you always fend me off?’ he asked, his voice controlled, light hearted, and false. ‘You didn’t fend last night.’

She met his look, and hers was serious, even severe. ‘Tell me why you curse God on rising?’ she asked.

The silence between them lasted a long time, during which he even considered telling her.

She took his left hand and started to unwrap the bandage. That hurt. A little later, Tom opened one eye. The captain did not particularly enjoy watching him admire her hips and her breasts as she moved with her back and side to him.

He winked at the captain.

The captain did not wink back.

After she’d put a oregano poultice on his hand and wrapped it in linen, she nodded. ‘Try not to seize the sharp bits when fighting grim beasts in future, messire,’ she said.

He smiled, she smiled, their silence forgotten, and he left feeling as light as air. It lasted all the way down the steeply turning stairs, until he saw the twenty-three tight-wrapped white bundles under an awning in the otherwise empty courtyard.

In the aftermath of the battle, the Abbess had ordered all of her people to stay indoors. No one would sleep in the open air, no matter how balmy and spring-laden it was. Services were held in a side chapel – the main chapel was now sleeping quarters.

He passed under the arch to his Commandery, and found Michael, who was busy writing, with Ser Adrian, the company’s professional clerk. Michael rose stiffly and bowed. Adrian kept writing.

The captain couldn’t help but smile at his squire, who was obviously alive and not one of the bundles in the courtyard. His face asked the question.

‘Two broken ribs. Worse than when I tried to ride my father’s destrier,’ Michael said ruefully.

‘In a business where we take daring and courage for granted, yours was a brave act,’ the captain said, and Michael glowed. ‘Stupid,’ the captain continued, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, ‘and a little pointless. But brave.’

Michael continued to beam with happiness.

The captain sighed and went to his table, which was stacked high with scrolls and tubes. He found the updated roster. It was due the first of every month, and tomorrow was the first of May.

Why had he even considered telling her why he cursed God?

People were often stupid, but he wasn’t used to being one of them.

He read through the roster. Thirty-one lances – thirty, because Hugo was dead and that broke his lance. He