The Red Knight (40 page)

‘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 needed a good man-at-arms – not that there seemed to be any to be found in
this near wilderness. There must be local knights – younger sons eager for glory, or for a little cash, or with a pregnancy to avoid.

The whole stack of paperwork made him tired. But he still needed men, and then there was the Wild to consider as well.

‘I need to talk to Bad Tom when he’s well enough. And to the archers from last night. Who was most senior?’ he asked.

Michael took a deep breath. The captain knew he was testing the bounds of the pain against the inside of the bandage with that breath – knew this from having broken so many ribs
himself.

‘Long Paw was the senior man. He’s awake – I saw him eating.’ Michael rose to his feet.

The captain held up a hand. ‘I’ll see him with Tom. If he can leave the infirmary.’ His hand was throbbing. He initialled the muster roll. ‘Get them, please.’

Michael paused, and the captain swallowed a sigh of irritation. ‘Yes?’

‘What – what happened last night?’ Michael shrugged. ‘I mean, all the men feel we won a great victory, but I don’t even know what we did. Beyond killing the
wyverns,’ he said, with the casual dismissiveness of youth.

The captain felt like yelling,
We killed two wyverns, you useless fop.
But he understood the boy’s attitude, albeit unspoken.

The captain sat carefully in a low backed folding chair made of a series of arches linked at the base – it was a beautiful chair with a red velvet cushion which welcomed him, and he leaned
back. ‘Are you the apprentice captain asking? Or my squire?’

Michael raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m the apprentice captain,’ he said.

The captain allowed the younger man a small smile. ‘Good. Tell me what you
think
we did.’

Michael snorted. ‘Saw that coming. Very well. All day we sent out patrols to gather in farmers. I didn’t realise it at the time, but more patrols went out than came back.’

The captain nodded. ‘Good. Yes. We’re being watched, all the time. But the creatures watching us aren’t very bright. Do you have any of the power?’

Michael shrugged. ‘I studied it but I can’t hold all the images in my mind. All the phantasms.’

‘If you capture a beast and bend it to your will, you can look through its eyes – it’s a potent phantasm but it is wasteful. Because you must first overcome the will of another
creature – a massive effort, there – and then
direct
that effort. And in this case you must do so over distance.’

Michael listened, utterly fascinated. Even Ser Adrian had stopped writing.

The captain glanced at him, and the clerk shook his head and started to get to his feet. ‘Sorry, ‘he mumbled. ‘No one ever talks about this stuff.’

The captain relented. ‘Stay. It is part of our lives and our way of war. We use scouts because we don’t have a magus to use birds. Even if we did I’d rather use scouts. They
can observe and report, can make judgments as to numbers, can tell if they see the same three horses every day. A bird can’t make those judgments, and the magus’ perceptions of whatever
the bird sees is filtered through – something.’ The captain sagged. ‘I don’t know what, but I imagine it as a pipe that’s too small for all the information to get
through, as if everything is seen through water or fog.’

Michael nodded.

‘The Wild has no scouts, so I guessed that our enemy was using animals as spies. We have trapped a lot of birds, and then I misled him.’ The captain crossed his hands behind his
head.

‘And with cook fires. You told me so.’ Michael leaned forward.

‘Gelfred isn’t down at the Bridge Castle, not much anyway. He’s out in the woods, watching their camps. He has been since we realised the bulk of the Wild army had gone around
us. Want to talk about brave? I sent patrols out with a weapon – something the Moreans make. Olive oil, ground oil, whale oil will do – bitumen, if you can get it, plus sulphur and
saltpeter. There’s dozens of mixtures and any artificer knows them. It makes sticky fire.’

Michael nodded. The clerk crossed himself.

‘Even the creatures of the Wild sleep. Even the adversarius is just a creature. And when they gather to attack men – well, it stands to reason that they must have a camp. Do they
talk? Do they gather at campfires? Play cards? Fight amongst themselves?’ The captain looked out of the window. ‘Have you ever thought, Michael, that we are locked in a war without
mercy against an enemy we don’t understand at all?’

‘So you’ve watched them, and attacked their camp,’ Michael said with satisfaction. ‘And we hit them hard.’ Now Michael was smiling.

‘Yes and no. Perhaps we didn’t touch them,’ the captain said. ‘Perhaps Bad Tom and Wilful Murder put some fire on some meaningless tents, and then they followed our boys
back and hit us harder – killing twenty-three people for the loss of just two wyverns,’ the captain said.

Michael’s smile froze. ‘But—’

‘I want you to see that victory and defeat are a question of perception, unless you are dead. You know every man and woman in the company – in this fortress – feels we won a
great victory. We fired the enemy’s camps, and then we killed a pair of his most fearsome monsters in ours.’ The captain got to his feet as Michael nodded.

‘And because of this perception, everyone will fight harder and longer, and be braver, despite my fucking mistake to allow civilians into the courtyard which cost us twenty-three lives.
Despite that, we’re
winning.
’ The captain’s eyes locked on Michael’s. ‘Do you see?’

Michael shook his head. ‘It wasn’t your fault—’

‘It was my fault,’ the captain said. ‘It’s not my moral burden – I didn’t kill them. But I could have kept them alive if I hadn’t been distracted that
evening. And keeping them alive is my duty.’ He stood up straight and picked up the baton of the command. ‘Best know this, if you want to be a captain. You have to be able to look
reality in the eye. I fucked their lives away. I can’t go to pieces about it, but neither can I forget it. That’s my job. Understand?’

Michael nodded and gulped.

The captain made a face. ‘Excellent. Here endeth the lesson about victory. Now, if it is not too much trouble, I’d like Long Paw and Bad Tom, please.’

Michael stood and saluted. ‘Immediately!’

‘Harumf,’ said the captain.

Long Paw was fifty, his once red hair mostly grey and a mere tonsure around a bald pate, with an enormous moustache and long sideburns so that he had more hair on his face than
on his head. His arms were unnaturally long and despite his status as an archer and not a man-at-arms, he was reputed the company’s best swordsman. The rumour was he had once been a monk.