The Red Knight (112 page)

‘We all thought you were dead,’ said the Keeper.

Tom growled. ‘Not yet, ye bastard.’

He looked past the Keeper at the young woman on the porch. ‘Hello, spark. You’ll be Sarah. Last I saw you, you was smaller than a pig.’

‘Now I’m big enough to carry your brother’s seed,’ she said.

He left the Keeper’s embrace and gave her a hug.

The captain hadn’t seen Bad Tom as a man who embraced people. It shook him a little.

‘Hillmen,’ Ser Alcaeus said. ‘I’m quite fond of them.’

‘Your sound like you are talking about dogs,’ Mag said.

Alcaeus snorted. ‘Touché, madame. But they are more like us than you Albans. They burn hot.’

Ranald dismounted and kissed Sarah first. Then hugged the Keeper. He went to his malle, slung across the back of his horse, and took out a slim leather envelope, the size of a letter.

He tossed it to the Keeper.

The Keeper looked at it, frowning.

‘Six hundred silver leopards,’ Ranald said. ‘In a note of hand on a bank in Etrusca. That’s yours. And another twelve hundred for Sarah.’ He gave the girl a
lop-sided grin. ‘I sold the herd.’

She clapped her hands together.

Men in the courtyard grinned. There were two dozen hillmen – local herdsmen, small farmers, and the like – and every one of them knew in that instant that his money wasn’t
lost.

They grinned. Embraced. Gathered round Ranald and slapped his back, shook his hand.

The Red Knight laughed, to find himself so far from the centre of attention.

But the Keeper disentangled himself from the celebrations shaping in his courtyard and came forward. ‘I’m the Keeper,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing you’re the Red
Knight.’

The captain nodded. ‘Men call me the captain,’ he said. ‘Friends do, anyway.’

The Keeper nodded. ‘Ay – Red Knight’s a heavy handle to carry and no mistake. Come off your horses, now, and my people will see to you. Leave your cares here, and come and be
easy.’

Easy it was. The captain shucked off his riding armour and left it in a heap for Toby and went down the steps to the common room, where he found his brother and Ser Alcaeus sampling the ale.

Mag came and sat by herself, but the captain wasn’t having any of it. He walked to her table, and offered his hand. ‘Ma dame,’ he said. ‘Come and sit with us.’

‘Mag the seamstress with three belted knights?’ she asked. There was a wicked gleam in her eyes, but the words seemed sincere.

‘Play piquet, mistress?’ asked Gawin.

She let her eyes drop. ‘I know the rules,’ she said, ill-at-ease.

‘We’ll play for small stakes,’ Ser Gawin said.

‘Couldn’t we play for love?’ she asked.

Gawin gave her an odd look. ‘I haven’t felt cards in my hands for a month,’ he said. ‘They need a little fire.’

Mag looked down. ‘If he takes all my money—’

‘Then I’ll order a dozen more of your caps,’ the captain said.

Looking at the seamstress, the captain smiled inwardly.
How powerful is she, Magus?

Hard to say, young man. Untrained talent. She had to learn everything for herself, from first principles.

Ah.

Possibly the greatest of us all, though. She was never trained. She has no chains.

The captain sat watching Gawin deal the cards. Something about the hawkish expression on Mag’s face gave her away.

But a very limited repertoire . . .

Harmodius spluttered in the captain’s palace.
Drink some wine, so I can taste it. She may have had a limited grimmoire, but not any more – eh, young man? She has your phantasms,
and mine, and all of the Abbess’s. And Amicia’s. too

As do I. As does—

Yes.

Mag sorted her cards. A boy brought an armload of sawn oak and started to lay a fire. The smell of lamb filled the common room.

Gawin sat back. ‘Captain? I need to borrow some money.’

The captain looked at him.

Mag was grinning.

‘Doubled and rebated,’ Maggie said.

‘I’ll never be wed at this rate,’ Gawin said.

‘Wed?’ asked the captain.

Ser Alcaeus smiled politely into his ale. ‘To the Queen’s Lady Mary, if I’m not mistaken,’ he said politely.

The captain laughed and laughed, remembering her. ‘A most beautiful lady,’ he said.

‘Eldest daughter of Lord Bain.’ Gawin looked off into the distance. ‘She loves me,’ he said suddenly. He choked on the words. ‘I – I’m not worthy of her
regard.’

The captain reached out to his brother tentatively but Gawin didn’t seem to notice.

Youth. It’s wasted on the young.

Alcaeus barked a laugh. ‘Listen, messire. I have known a few knights. You cede worthiness to none.’

Gawin said nothing. He drank off the rest of his jack, and raised his cup to the tap-boy. ‘Wine, boy. And in truth—’ He rose. ‘I need to piss.’

Alcaeus cleared his throat when Gawin was gone. ‘I can’t help but note,’ he said with some diffidence, and paused. ‘He calls you brother.’

The captain laughed. ‘He does me that honour.’
Here we go.

‘I had thought – pardon me, messire—’ Ser Alcaeus sat back.

‘You thought I was some man’s bastard. And here’s the great Duke of Strathnith’s son, calling me brother.’ The captain leaned forward.

Alcaeus met his eye steadily. ‘Yes.’

The captain nodded. ‘I had thought – pardon
me
, messire – I had thought that you were a free lance, a knight on errantry, joining my company. And yet—’ He
smiled. ‘Sometimes, I might be tempted to a thought. And that thought . . .’ He sat back.

Mag looked back and forth. ‘Men,’ she said quietly.

‘What thought would that be?’ Ser Alcaeus whispered.

The captain drank some excellent ale. ‘Sometimes it seems anything I say to you will go straight to the Emperor.’ He shrugged. ‘I mean no insult. You are his liege
man.’

‘Yes,’ Ser Alcaeus admitted.

‘And his cousin,’ the captain went on.

‘Ah? You know this?’ Ser Alcaeus sighed.

‘I guessed. So as to my own parentage—’

Ser Alcaeus leaned forward. ‘Yes?’

‘It is not your business, messire. Am I clear?’ he said leaning forward.

Ser Alcaeus didn’t flinch. ‘Men will speculate,’ he said.

‘Let them,’ the captain said.

Mag put a hand on the table and picked up the cards – large squares, beautifully painted. ‘People are watching you, my lords. You look like two men about to draw daggers.’

Alcaeus finished his ale. ‘Beer makes men melancholy,’ he said. ‘Let’s have wine, and I’ll think no more about it.’

The captain nodded. ‘I don’t mean to be a touchy bastard. But I am.’

Alcaeus nodded and extended his hand. ‘For what it is worth, so am I. A bastard.’

The captain’s eyes widened. He reached out and took the hand. ‘Thanks for that.’

Alcaeus laughed. ‘No one has ever thanked me for being a by-blow before.’ He turned to Mag. ‘Would you like me to shuffle?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘You rich boys,’ she said. ‘You think bastardy matters? Look at yourselves – gold rings, fine swords, wool cotes worth fifty leopards. Fine horses. By
the Gentle Jesu, m’lords. Do you know what a poor man has?’

‘Parents?’ Ser Alcaeus said.

‘Hunger,’ Mag answered.

‘God’s blessing,’ the captain said.

Gawin came back. He had a glow on, a brittle humour. His eyes sparkled. ‘A fine inn. Maybe the best I’ve ever seen. Look at that lass – red hair. Red! I’ve never seen so
much red hair in all my life.’ He looked around. ‘Their fires burn hotter, or so men say.’

Maggie smiled, reached under her cap and teased out the end of her braids. Her hair was bright red. ‘Really, ser knight?’ she said.

Gawin sat back and laughed. The captain laughed harder, and Alcaeus caught it too. It was infectious.

As if his laughter was a signal, the Inn burst into life. Tom and Ranald came in, and joined their table, and men and women came pouring in. Local farmers and shepherds from the hills arrived as
the word spread, and the mercenaries who served the Keeper, and a tinker and his apprentices – the smith, and his apprentices too.

The common room could hold them all, well enough.

Men called for music, and Tom sang surprisingly well. Gawin turned to the captain amidst the uproar. ‘You used to play the harp,’ he said.

The captain frowned. ‘Not in years. And not here.’

But the Keeper had heard him. He took a harp down from the wall and put it in the captain’s arms. He shushed the room – something he did as easily as a magus might cast a spell.

‘There’s a man here as may be a harper,’ said the Keeper.

The captain cursed Gawin under his breath.

‘Give me some time,’ he said, when it was clear to him they wouldn’t let him off. He took the harp and his second cup of wine and walked out into the summer night of the
yard.

It was quiet out there.

Sheep baaed, and cattle lowed, and the sounds of men in the Inn were muted, like the babble of a distant brook.

He started to tune the harp. There was a plectrum in the base-board, just where he would have expected it, and a clever mechanical key for the strings.

Let me,
said Harmodius.
It’s just mathematica.

He drew power, and cast – and his power manifested in the strings.

The rule of eight, rendered in sinew,
said the dead Magus.

Thanks,
said the captain.
I always hated tuning.

He walked about the yard, plucked out a simple tune – the first he’d learned – and walked back into the Inn.

They fell quiet when he appeared, and he sat down with Gawin and played some simple stuff. He played
There Was a Squire of Great Renown
and everyone sang, and he played
Green
Sleeves
and
Lovely On the Water.
He made mistakes, but the audience was forgiving.

‘Play for dancing!’ the young widow called.

The captain was about to admit he didn’t know any dances, but Harmodius forestalled him.

Allow me.

His fingers plucked the strings slowly, and a jig peeled out – slowly at first, and then faster and faster, and then it was a reel and then it was a hillman dance tune, sad and wild and
high—

The captain watched his fingers fly over the strings, and wasn’t altogether pleased. But the music swept on, higher and higher, and the men fell out of the dance, and the women danced,
skirts kirtled up, legs flashing, heads turning and Mag jumped up and leapt into the circle.

The harp grew warm under his hands.

Sarah Lachlan leaped and flashed like a salmon. Mag gave a turn and one of the Inn’s servants twirled in billow of skirts. The men applauded wildly as the hands on the harp fell still, and
the captain seized control again.

Ahh,
said Harmodius.
I had forgotten.

Please don’t do that again, old man.
The captain went to steady his own breathing. People were crowding around him, slapping his back.

‘I swear,’ said the Keeper. ‘You play like a man possessed.’

Later when men and women had paired off, when Mag had gone, bright eyed, to her room, and Ranald had been congratulated by every man and woman there, and when Ser Alcaeus had
the Inn’s prettiest serving girl in his lap – he went back outside.

He stood under the stars, and listened to the cattle.

He played
Green Grow the Rushes
to them.

Harmodius snorted.

In the morning, they mounted for the ride north. None of the captain’s companions seemed to have a hard head and he was surprised to see the Keeper mount a fine riding
horse, as eastern in its blood as the captain’s own.

The Keeper nodded to the captain. ‘You’re a fair harper and no mistake, m’lord. And a good sport.’

The captain bowed. ‘Your house is one of the finest I’ve ever visited,’ he said. ‘I could live here.’

‘You’d need to learn some more tunes first,’ Gawin said.

‘Coming to see the Wyrm?’ Ranald asked the Keeper.

He nodded. ‘This is my business as well as yours an’ Tom’s.

They rode.

There was a good path, the width of two horsemen, and it ran like a snake between the hills, and the bottoms of valleys were damp and the heights were rocky. They didn’t go fast.

Crossing the Irkill River took half a day, because the bridge was out. The Keeper begged a favour of the captain and sent Toby back to the Inn with the news.

‘This is my business,’ he said. ‘And I don’t like it.’ The bridge looked as if a battering ram had struck it – it was beaten to flinders, heavy oak beams now
splinters.

That night they slept in a cot by a quiet burn. The farmer and his family moved out into a stone barn so that the gentles could use the beds.

In the morning, the captain left a silver penny and they were away with the sun, full to bursting with fresh yogurt and honey and walnuts.

They rode higher and higher into the hills, and passed a pair of heavy wagons loaded to the tall seat with whole, straight trees – oak, maple, and walnuts, trunks bigger around than a tall
man might reach, and straight as giant arrow-shafts. The wagoners allowed as there were lumbermen working in the vales.

Gawin sneered. ‘It must be all they can do to move these monsters.’

The wagoners shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

Ser Alcaeus waited until they were past. ‘They float the larger logs on the water.’

The Keeper nodded grimly. ‘That’s what happened to my bridge.’ He led them down into the dale and they found the foresters hard at work – not local men, but
easterners.

They had cut a swath through the dale, and a dam on the big stream that fed the Irkill. The leader of the woodsman stood in the new clearing, obvious in his long cloak. He had a heavy axe in his
hand, gull winged and long hafted, and his wood-cutters were tall and strong, with long beards.

The Keeper rode up to him. ‘Good day to you,’ he said.

The man nodded. His eyes were wary. He watched the troop of horsemen – more armoured power than anyone liked to see, especially far from home.