The Red Knight (110 page)

‘I love him,’ Tom said to his brother. ‘He’s mad as an adder.’

Ranald smiled. ‘So we all go? The company?’

Yes. This is important.

The captain suddenly had a piercing pain between his eyes.

Be quiet. You’re a guest.

You are getting drunk because you’ve been spurned by a woman. How romantic of you. Of course, that note might have confessed her undying love for you and her willingness to elope
tonight to face the future as a mercenary captain’s whore. Hmm? But you burned it, so you’ll never know. Youth is wasted on the young.

Shut up. Fuck off.

Listen, young man. The Prior is right – humanity is losing. But he is also wrong – as I will endeavour to prove. The world is not as I thought it was, and your going to see the
Wyrm is the very best idea I have ever heard. You must go to the Wyrm. The stakes of this game are immense. The consequences of failure are extermination – the death of our race. Your
dalliance with some novice – albeit one imbued with power of the very highest order – is not quite in the same league.

The captain put his head in his hands.

Tom grinned at him. ‘You’re drunk, my lord.’

The captain looked around for Jacques, but of course he was dead. The last piece of his old life – the last man to connect him with—

I’m conveniently dead, too. Prince Gabriel.

The captain took a deep breath. ‘I have a headache,’ he said. ‘I find it unfair that I have the hangover before I’m done with the drunk.’

Michael leaned forward and poured more wine.

Ser Jehannes came in with Ser Milus, both of them drunk too. They were singing ‘Green Grow the Rushes’ with their arms around Sauce, who seemed to be carrying them.

Their attempt at harmony was almost as horrible as a charge of boglins.

Tom started to laugh.

Jehannes poured a cup of wine, sat on a stool, and raised his cup. ‘Absent friends,’ he said.

Tom’s laughter stopped. He rose to his feet, and so did the rest. ‘Victory and defeat are for amateurs,’ Tom said. ‘For us, there is only life and death.’

They all raised their cups, and drank. ‘Absent friends,’ they chanted, one by one.

The captain put his cup down on the table carefully, because it seemed to be a long way away and it moved slightly, and he leaned on the table to make sure he could stay on his feet. ‘They
will bury the old Abbess tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’d like every man and woman at that service in their best kit. But with the camp struck first, ready to march.’

His corporals nodded.

‘The Prior paid me today,’ he said. ‘With a success bonus and a tallage for the horses we lost. A pretty sum. I invested it. But none of you needs to fight for a living. Your
shares will be a hundred gold nobles or more. Enough to buy a knight’s fee.’

Jehannes shrugged.

Tom sneered.

Sauce looked away.

Michael laughed.

Ranald smiled. ‘Wish it was mine,’ he said.

‘It will be,’ the captain said. ‘We have a new contract, and I mean to wrap it up quickly.’ He felt a little better. ‘Sauce, come here.’

She was dressed in old hose and a well-cut man’s doublet – something of a brag, since it flattered her figure as much as any kirtle. She leered at him. ‘Any time,
Captain,’ she said, with a spark of her old sauce.

‘Kneel,’ the captain said. He held out his hand to Michael.

Michael handed him his war sword.

Sauce paused and knelt. On the edge of a double entendre, she stopped.

Tom nodded. ‘Do it.’

The captain raised his sword. ‘By the virtue of knighthood and my birth, I dub thee knight,’ he said. He didn’t slur the words. His sword pressed down hard on each of her
shoulders.

She burst into tears.

Tom smacked her, quite hard, on the shoulder. ‘Let that be the last blow you ever accept without reprisal,’ he said. He grinned.

‘Michael, kneel,’ the captain said.

Michael knelt.

‘By the virtue of knighthood and my birth, I dub thee knight,’ the captain said.

Michael accepted the slap from Tom, rocked back on his heels, and smiled.

The captain took his wine cup. ‘I meant to do it on the battlefield,’ he said. And shrugged. ‘We were busy.’

Michael stood up. ‘I’m a knight?’ he laughed. ‘A man-at-arms and not a squire?’ He laughed again.

‘I’ll need a new squire,’ the captain said.

Sauce was still crying. ‘Is it real?’ she asked.

Tom put an arm around her shoulder. ‘Of course it is, lass. He wouldn’t mock you with such.’

The captain sat back down. ‘We need twenty new men-at-arms. We need as many squires and a dozen valets and some archers.’ He shrugged. ‘My brother Gawin is one. Johne the
Bailli is another. Both have their own harness, and they’ll ride away with us. Ser Alcaeus himself, despite negotiating our contract, will be joining us. Any other prospects?’

Jehannes nodded. ‘I have half a dozen younger sons ready to sign articles – all with harness and horses.’

Ranald shrugged. ‘All my lads, too,’ he said. ‘We have no other means of employment, at least for the balance of the year.’

Tom leaned forward. ‘Daniel Favor. Likeliest man-at-arms I’ve ever seen. He signed with me. And two of the Lanthorn boys – dangerous boys. Murderous.’ He grinned.
‘Archers.’

Jehannes nodded. ‘I made out a watchbill,’ he said. ‘If we go to one man-at-arms, one squire, one valet and two archers to a lance, we have a company.’ He looked at the
captain. ‘Gelfred should start arming as a man-at-arms too.’

The captain nodded. ‘We could use twenty more lances,’ he said. ‘I wrote a contract for forty, and we only have what – twenty?’ He sat up, decided that was a
mistake, and shuffled to his feet. ‘Tomorrow night we’ll be on the road. Less wine.’ He raised his cup. ‘To the company,’ he said.

They all drank.

‘Now, since it’s my tent I’m going to bed,’ he said. And motioned to the door.

One by one they ducked under the awning and left, until it was Michael and Sauce – each seeming to want the other gone first. Finally Michael spoke.

‘Can I help you, my lord? I’m not above myself yet.’ He laughed.

‘I’m guessing you already have a nice pair of solid gold spurs to go on those heels, and you’ll have them on your boots in the morning,’ the captain said, slapping his
shoulder. ‘Just send me young Toby.’

Michael smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I—’

The captain waved his thanks away, and Michael bowed low.

That left Sauce.

‘Good night, Sauce,’ the captain said. He avoided her embrace. ‘Good night.’

She stood with her hands on her hips. ‘You need me.’

He shook his head.

‘I won’t go all soppy on you, Captain.’ She shrugged and then smiled engagingly.

‘Good night, Sauce.’

She grunted.

‘I just made you a knight,’ he said. ‘Don’t play the woman scorned part.’ Even drunk he could see his refusal hurt her. He raised a heavy hand. ‘Wait,’
he said, and stumbled through the curtain to his bed, reached into his trousseau and found his other spurs. The solid gold ones his mother had given him, which he never wore.

He came back out. ‘Take these.’

She reached out and took them. Realised they were solid gold. ‘Oh, my lord—’

‘Out!’ he said.

She sighed, and walked out of the tent, swaying her hips to brush by Toby, who came in, and silently relieved him of his clothes and accoutrements.

‘How old are you, Toby?’ he asked.

‘Rising twelve, my lord. Or perhaps thirteen?’ he said.

The captain lay his body down on clean linen sheets. ‘Would you care to be a squire, Toby?’ he asked.

He survived the protestations of joy and eternal loyalty, and waved the boy away. When he put his head down, though, the tent spun. So he put a foot on the ground. Gave sleep up as a bad job,
sat up, and drank some water.

The headache was back.

He stood by his water basin for a full watch. Staring into the dark.

It was, as such things went, pretty dark.

You make them love you, and then you tire of the energy they demand
, the voice said.

He sighed, lay down, and went to sleep.

The chapel was magnificent, with all the decoration that could be managed for an occasion that featured the King, the Queen, the Prior, and a thousand noblemen –
virtually the whole peerage of Alba.

But there wasn’t room for all of them. The chapel had been built for sixty nuns, as many novices, and perhaps another hundred worshipers.

In the end the service was held in the chapel, but only a select few were there. The rest waited in the courtyard and were served communion there. It was well-managed, and had a festive air
despite the great solemnity of the occasion. The courtyard was full to bursting, and velvet clad gentlemen stood shoulder to shoulder with farmers and farm wives.

The Prior and the new Abbess had been very mindful of the future in their assignment of places. Only the greatest lords were in the chapel. The King and Queen sat enthroned. By the king’s
right hand stood the Captal de Ruth; by the Queen stood Lady Almspend and Lady Mary. The Count of the Borders stood with the Count D’Eu; the Earl of Towbray stood with Ser Alcaeus, as the
ambassador of the Emperor Basileus. And next to him stood the captain.

The Prior said the mass, and a thousand beeswax candles burned.

It was brutally hot.

Out in the courtyard, the company stood in full armour, four ranks deep. With them, by a curious choice of the Prior’s, stood the surviving knights of the military orders in their black.
Mag stood nearby, with the women of the company. Her home was gone, and Johne the Bailli had made her a proposal.

The Prior preached about Mary Magdalene. He spoke about sin, and forgiveness. About faith, hope, and charity, and the nuns brought forth the bier on which the Abbess lay. When her corpse entered
the chapel, the air temperature dropped, and a smell, like lilacs, wafted in through the doors.

The captain looked at her and wept.

The Captal de Ruth looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

The Queen placed a hand on the captal’s arm.

The captain looked up – he’d surprised himself – and found that he was eye to eye with Amicia. She was standing by the rightmost choir stall, near the altar screen, with six
other women in sparkling white-grey. She had, no doubt, been watching him weep.

And now, her eyes remained fixed on his.

She was knocking at the door.

He left it closed.

One is one, and all alone, and ever more shall be so.

The service went on for too long.

When the novices had been elevated; when the new Abbess had been formally invested – when the last words had been spoken over the old Abbess – then the whole
congregation rose from their knees and walked in procession from the chapel, through the gate, and down onto the plain. The company acted as guards to the bier with the knights. It was a signal
honour, subtly granted by the Prior.

She was lowered slowly into the newly turned earth by six knights.

The Prior threw a shovel of earth onto her.

The captain found that he had wandered away into a world of his own, when the king – the king himself – materialized in front of him.

‘I owe you a debt of gratitude,’ the king said. ‘You are not an easy man to find.’

The captain shrugged. ‘Your servant, my lord,’ he said dismissively.

The king was shocked by the mercenary’s rudeness, but he mastered himself. ‘The Queen has requested that she meet your company. We know what sacrifices they made for our
kingdom.’

‘Oh, as to that,’ the captain said, ‘We were well paid.’ But he turned, and led the king and Queen and a small host of their courtiers through the ranks of the
company.

The first man on the right was Bad Tom, and next to him, his brother. The king smiled. ‘Ranald!’ he said. ‘I thought that you had returned to my guard?’ He laughed.
‘I note the colour of your tabard remains the same.’

Ranald looked straight ahead. ‘Business,’ he said, seriously. ‘My lord.’

‘But this is a woman, surely?’ asked the Queen, who had taken a few more steps.

‘Ser Alison,’ the captain said. ‘Her friends call her Sauce.’

‘A woman knight?’ the Queen asked. ‘How delightful.’

By her elbow, the captal laughed. ‘Knighted by whose hand?’ he asked.

‘My own,’ the captain said.

Conversation stopped.

‘By what right do you make knights?’ demanded the captal. ‘That is reserved for the very highest nobility, members of the greatest orders, and knights of great
renown.’

‘Yes,’ the captain said. ‘Yes, I agree.’

The king cleared his throat. ‘I doubt any knight in this gathering would doubt the captain’s renown, Captal.’

The captal laughed. ‘He is a bastard – a bourc. Everyone says so. He cannot be noble, and he cannot make a knight – most especially not make a knight out of a woman.’

The captain felt the tension in his chest – not fear, but something like anticipation.

In a low voice, he said, ‘My lord, you requested to see my company. If you are done, we will take our leave.’

‘Unsay it,’ the captal insisted. ‘Unsay that this woman is a knight. Make her take that golden belt off her hips. It is unseemly.’

‘Captal!’ said the king. ‘Control yourself.’

The captal shrugged. ‘You are too easy, my liege.’ He looked at the captain and sneered. ‘I say you are a bastard, a caitiff, a low-born poseur, and I say before all these
gentlemen that you cannot make a knight, that no 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.