The Red Knight (92 page)

‘I will challenge Thorn,’ Thurkan said.

‘You will
not
!’ Mogan replied.

Lissen Carak – Michael

Michael sat with his head propped on one hand, looking at the hastily scrawled words. He sipped the wine next to him and tried not to go to sleep over the journal.

The captain was in the hospital. His breastplate had a dent in it the size of a man’s fist. They’d lost five men-at-arms.

The archers were openly saying that it was time to ask for terms.

He turned on the wooden stool he was using. Kaitlin Lanthorn lay, fully dressed, on his bedroll. She’d come in after the sortie returned, kissed him, and stayed by his side while he saw to
little things – like having the armourer get the dent out of the captain’s breatplate.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said.

She lay, open eyed. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said. She sat up. ‘Oh, I might be wrong, but Amicia says I am. She’d know.’ Kaitlin shrugged. ‘I’m
pregnant, and the sorcerer is going to kill us all, anyway. So what’s it matter if I spend the night with you?’

Michael tried to think like the captain. To balance it all out. But he couldn’t, so he put the quill down, and took her face in his hands. ‘I love you,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘Cause I love you, too, and we’re going to have a baby.’

‘If we live through the next few days.’ He lay down next to her.

She turned to him. ‘You’ll protect me, I think.’

Michael stared into the dark.

Mag stood with her daughter Sukey and a dozen other nuns and local women, laying out the dead.

This time there was no feeling of triumph. The cost was high – the Abbess was dead, and there was a line of figures wrapped in white linen to show the losses of her community and the
losses of the captain’s company, intermingled.

And the Red Knight was gone, carried into the hospital.

The Abbess had been killed by an arrow. And no one seemed to be looking into her murder.

Mary Lanthorn smoothed a sheet over Ser Tomas Durren. ‘He was bonny,’ she said.

Fran shook her head. Sukey sobbed, and Mag pulled her daughter’s head against her chest. Sukey’s husband was dead too. Third winding sheet from the right. She held Sukey for a long
time, and then went back to wrapping Third Leg. His body had been crushed – his face almost erased – and yet Mag was gentle in wrapping the fresh white linen tight. Details mattered to
Mag.

God, let these boys come to you swiftly despite the lives they led.

‘I hear the Red Knight’s on the verge of death,’ Mary said.

Amy Carter looked up. ‘That novice will save him. Amicia.’

Kitty looked at her sister. ‘The men are saying she’s a witch.’ She looked at Sukey and Mag for a moment, and then back at her sister. ‘Ben says she killed the
Abbess.’

Amy’s eyes grew wide.

Mag put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘Best not be spreading that kind o’ talk, girls.’

‘It’s all around in the stables,’ Kitty said. ‘All the boys is saying that some of the sisters is witches.’

Sister Miram was shaking out a winding sheet. Her hearing must have been unnaturally sharp. She turned.

‘Who says we are witches?’ she asked.

Kitty blanched.

Miram frowned. ‘Child. Who is spreading this poison?’

Kitty looked around, uncertain. ‘My brother Ben says the priest said it.’

Sukey looked at her mother. ‘Bill Fuller too.’ She spat the words. ‘Fuller’s been talking crap all night.’

Miram looked around. She went and touched the first body in the row – smaller then the others. The Abbess.

‘I have been remiss,’ Sister Miram said. ‘I let loss cloud my vision of earthly iniquity.’

Kitty Carter looked at her sister. ‘I didn’t really think Amicia killed the Abbess.’

Amy rolled her eyes.

Lissen Carak – The Red Knight

It wasn’t yet morning when he came to. Noise in the corridor had awakened him. He heard armour – and he was in the wrong bed.

There was no sword by his bed.

The door opened, and Sister Miram entered his cell, in the full robes of the order; Ser Jehannes in harness, and Michael; Johne, the Bailli of one of the towns, and Master Random.

He pulled the linen sheet up over his chest.

‘The Abbess died in the enemy attack,’ Sister Miram said. Her face had aged.

The captain had scarcely heard her speak. What she had said took a moment to register, so that his mind explored the fact of Sister Miram’s speaking for heartbeats before he realised the
import of what she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. Useless, empty words.

‘There’s open talk of negotiation. Of surrendering the fortress for free passage away,’ Ser Jehannes said. The others flinched at his tone.

‘No,’ The captain said. ‘There will be neither surrender nor negotiation.’ He was noticing that he’d been bandaged around the ribs, and that all the hair had been
shaved away – well. Lots of hair. He winced. The Abbess was dead and he realised that he had, in his way, loved her.

Always looking for a better mother
, he thought. ‘If you all will leave Michael to dress me,’ he said quietly.

‘Dress quickly,’ Ser Jehannes said. ‘It’s happening right now.’ He was quiet. ‘All the local people. Some of the men.’

Sister Miram withdrew to the door. ‘She would never have surrendered,’ she said quietly. ‘The men in the courtyard are saying Amicia did it,’ she added.

The captain winced and met her eye. ‘I’ll see to it.’

The nun closed the door.

The captain got himself out of bed, despite a touch of vertigo. He had a feeling he knew from childhood – the feeling of having tapped his Hermetical powers utterly. An emptiness, but also
a good feeling, like a well-exercised body.

Prudentia is dead.

It was not the first time that good people had died to keep him alive.

Toby appeared with his old black doublet and his old black hose and his fine gold belt. He looked terrified.

Hose took time to get on – he tried to quiet his own pulse. To think about something besides the Abbess and his tutor.

‘She was murdered,’ Ser Jehannes said. ‘Someone shot the Abbess in the back.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Gelfred says it was Witch Bane.’

The thought of it made him physically sick.

‘And no one saw this?’ he asked wearily.

‘Everyone was watching the fight outside the walls,’ Ser Jehannes said.

The captain sighed. ‘Secure the gates and all the passages. There is a passage under the main donjon which leads out of the fortress. Right now, it’s blocked by our wagon-bodies, but
put a pair of archers – good archers – on the stairs. Give me a nod when this is done.’

‘When you say I should secure—’ Jehannes paused.

‘As if we were taking the fortress for ourselves,’ the captain said harshly. ‘As if we were in Galle. Trust no one who is not one of ours. Use force if you have to.
Secure
the exits, Jehannes!’

The old knight saluted. ‘Yes, my lord.’

Michael had his boots. He buckled them around the ankles, laced the tops to the captain’s pourpoint.

‘Full armour, gloves, war sword,’ the captain said.

Michael began to arm him. It wasn’t a quick process and some parts hurt a great deal. But wearing armour was itself a statement.

The arming doublet and mail haubergon weighed on him like a shirt of lead and a hairshirt all together. Many knights believed that the very pain of wearing armour was a penance before God.

Well.

Leg harness, starting with the cuisses, and then the greaves and the steel sabatons that buckled so neatly over his boots, right to the shaped and pointed toes. Michael pointed the cuisses into
his arming doublet at an amazing speed, while Toby supported him.

He stood, flexed his legs, and Michael, aided now by Jacques, fitted his breast and back over his head and latched it shut.

‘Had a dent in it like you wouldn’t believe,’ Michael said.

‘Oh, I would,’ the captain said.

Michael snorted. ‘Carlus says taking the dent out took more strength than he’s ever had to use,’ he said. ‘Like the steel was magicked.’

Each of them took an arm harness – vambrace, elbow cop and rerebrace in a single unit on sliding rivets, a miracle of craftsmanship in gilded bronze and hardened steel – and clipped
them on, buckling them to his upper arms and then to his shoulders with straps, and then his pauldrons went on, and the circular plates that strapped to the pauldrons and guarded his under
arms.

The golden belt at his waist.

Golden spurs at his heels.

Gloves, and a sword, and the baton of his office.

‘There you are, my lord,’ Michael said.

The captain smiled – it was done as fast and as painlessly as it could have been done by anyone. ‘You are a fine squire,’ he said.

He walked out of the recovery ward, looked down the main corridor, and saw his brother.

Gawin had his feet over the edge of the bed.

‘Stay where you are,’ the captain said gently. ‘Michael, stay here with this man.’

Michael nodded. And saluted. He recognised his captain’s tone.

‘But—’ Gawin began.

The captain shook his head. ‘Not now, messire.’

He walked down the corridor to the other ward. Ser Jehannes had already passed. Low Sym was dressing in his gambeson.

‘Have a sword, Sym?’ the captain said.

Sym nodded wordlessly.

The captain pointed at Amicia’s elegant back, standing at the dry sink across the room. ‘She is not to leave this ward until I return,’ he said. ‘If you harm her you are
a dead man. But she is not to leave this room. Understand?’

Amicia whirled on him. ‘What?’

‘For your own protection, sister,’ he said, his voice quiet. ‘Father Henry has killed the Abbess. But he will seek to blame you.’

‘Father Henry?’ she came towards him, a hand at her chest. ‘The priest?’

He was at the top of the stairs. ‘Obey. On your life.’ He ignored her outcry, and went down the steps, past the commanderies, to the courtyard. At the door, Bad Tom waited, armoured
cap à pied, a pole-axe in his left hand.

‘It’s bad,’ he said.

The captain nodded. He pulled on his gloves, and took the staff of his command from his belt. ‘On me,’ he said, and Tom opened the door.

The sound hit him. Anger first – then fear.

Every farmer and tenant was in the courtyard – four hundred men and women packed into four hundred square ells. The noise was like a living thing.

The dispensary had a wooden step, and two of his men-at-arms were keeping it clear.

On the other side of the courtyard, a dozen big farmers stood together. With them were some of the merchants.

The captain turned to Carlus, and he blew his trumpet. It was loud, and shrill.

Every head turned.

The captain waved the staff over the assembly. ‘Disperse!’ he said into the sudden silence. ‘There will be no negotiation, and no surrender,’ he went on.

A dangerous murmur began.

‘Kindly disperse to your stations and your beds, and let’s have no more of this,’ the captain kept his voice level and kind.

One of the merchants raised his head. ‘Who are you, messire, to decide for us?’

The captain took a deep breath and struggled with the spark of rage that hit him. Why did good men always make him feel like this? ‘I will not debate this with you,’ he said.
‘If you wish to leave, the gate will be opened for you.’

Another farmer shouted ‘Fuck you! That’s just death! It’s our land that’s destroyed. Our farms that are burned, you sell-sword. Get out of the way, or we’ll put you
out.’

Jehannes was waving to him from the portcullis winch. He had a key in his hand.

‘This fortress is under the protection of my company,’ The captain said loudly. ‘The lady Abbess charged me with its defence, and I will hold it until I am dead. The power that
invests us will not hesitate to lie, deceive, or betray us to our doom – but it will not let anyone here escape alive. The only hope any of you have is to join us in resisting to the last
drop of our blood. Or better yet, to the last drop of theirs.’ He looked around. ‘The king, ‘ he almost choked on the title, but he got it out. ‘The king is on his way. Do
not give way to despair. Now, please disperse.’

‘You can’t fight all of us!’ shouted the farmer.

The captain sighed. ‘In fact, we can kill every one of you.’ He spoke out. ‘Look around you. Would the Abbess ever have given in? She isn’t even buried yet and look at
you. Ready to surrender?’ He pushed his way into the courtyard, ignoring Tom’s protests. He pushed his way through the crowd until he was nose to nose with the big farmer.

‘Priest says she was a witch,’ the farmer said.

People were shuffling away from him.

‘Priest says all these so-called nuns is witches!’ the farmer insisted. ‘Souls black as night.’

A few men nodded. None of the women did.

The captain passed his arm through the farmer’s arm. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

‘I don’t have to – argh!’ the farmer stumbled. He was unable to resist the armoured man, and was pulled along through the crowd to the great gate.

The gate was open, and the sun was shining beyond the walls of the fortress.

‘Look out there,’ the captain said. ‘Look out there at what Thorn has done.
He
betrayed his king.
He
betrayed his people.
He
has made himself a construct
of the Wild, a sorcerer without compare, unlimited by laws or even friends.
And you think that is better than your Abbess?
Because a priest told you that black is white, and white is
black?’ The captain spat the words.

‘And I should trust you?’ the farmer growled.