The Red Knight

Chapter Seventeen

Ranald Lachlan

Lissen Carak – The Red Knight

Days passed.

Wounded men were healed, and slept.

Dead men and women were mourned, and buried.

The creatures of the Wild were burned, and their ashes spread over the fields.

The company was not entirely dead. A few men-at-arms were found wounded, and healed. Ser Jehannes and Ser Milus had not been part of the charge; Bad Tom and Sauce were untouched, although they each slept for more than thirty hours after their armour was stripped. But the archers were still alive, many of the valets and a few squires.

The captain was very difficult to find. Some said he was drunk, and some said he was with his pretty novice, and some said he was taking service of the king, or of the Knights of Saint Thomas.

None of these things were true.

The captain spent a great deal of time weeping, and when he buried his company dead, he invited no others. They lay in neat rows, sewn in white linen by Mag and her friends, who now stood silent in a light rain. Dora Candleswain stood with Kaitlin Lanthorn, and the Carter sisters stood watching their surviving brother who, with Daniel Favor, was in the ranks of the company.

And the knights of Saint Thomas appeared from the rain. The Prior came out at their head, and said the service for the dead. Bad Tom, Sauce, Ranald and the captain himself lowered the bodies. There was Carlus the Smith, smaller in death but no lighter; there was Lyliard, no longer the company’s handsomest man. They went into marked graves with headstones, each of them marked with the eight-pointed cross of the Order. It made a great difference to many of the man and women – better, in fact, than most mercenaries ever imagined.

One corpse absorbed the captain, and he wept. He wept for all of them, and he wept for his own errors, and the ill-judgement of others, and a thousand other things – but Jacques was his last tie to childhood, and was gone.

Your mother’s still alive, lad. Doesn’t she count? said the old Magus in his mind.

‘Could you shut up?’ muttered the captain to the interloper in his head.

Sauce looked at him, because he muttered to himself a great deal, lately, and because Sauce helped Dora Candleswain to stop screaming every night. She was sensitive to the other men and women in the company who were near the breaking point, or past it. Not all wounds bled.

They all stood there in the light rain – the survivors. Atcourt, and Brewes and Long Paw. Ser Alcaeus, who wore the red tabbard and stood with the knights; Johne the Bailli. Bent. No Head. Knights and squires and archers and valets, men and women, soldiers and prostitutes and laundresses and farm girls and servants. And to a man and woman, they looked at the captain and waited for him to speak.

Like a fool, he hadn’t planned anything. But their need was palpable – like a spell.

‘We won,’ he said, his young voice as harsh as the croaking of a raven. ‘We held the fortress against a Power of the Wild. But none of these men or women died to hold the fortress – did they?’

He looked at Jehannes. The older man met his glance. And gave him a small nod of agreement.

‘They died for us. We die for each other. Out there in the world, they lie, and cheat each other, and betray, and we, here, don’t do that.’ He was all too aware that sometimes, they did. But funerals are the time to speak high words. He knew that, too. ‘We do our level best to hold the line, so that the man next to us can live. We – we who are alive – we owe our lives to these, who are dead. It could have been us. It was them.’ He managed a smile. ‘No one can do more than to give his life for his friends. Every drink of wine you ever taste, every time you get laid, every time you wake and breathe the spring air, you owe that to these – who lie here in the ground.’ His eye caught the smallest bundle – Low Sym. ‘They died heroes – no matter how they lived.’ He shrugged and looked at the Prior. ‘I suspect it’s bad theology.’ He had more to say, but he was crying too hard, and he found that he was kneeling by the mound of damp earth that was Jacques.

Who had saved his life so many times.

‘Jesus said, I am the way, and the life,’ said the Prior in a calm, low voice.

The captain shut out the sound of his company praying.

And eventually, there was a hand on his shoulder. It was a light hand. But he didn’t have to open his eyes to know to whom it belonged.

He rose, and she stepped back. She smiled at the ground. ‘I thought you’d just hurt your back again, with all that kneeling,’ she said.

‘Marry me?’ he asked. His whole face ached from crying – and he knew she didn’t care how he looked, or sounded. It was the most remarkable thought.

She smiled. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow,’ she said lightly. ‘Open to me?’ she asked, and he thought he heard an immense strain in her voice. He put it down to fatigue, and he opened his door, and she entered in. She kept her distance from Harmodius, and instead she pulled him out his own door and into the green wonder of her bridge – but it was no longer a simple green. Overhead, the sky was a golden blue, and the sun shone in splendour in heaven and the water that rushed under her bridge was clear as diamonds and the spray was as white as a the brightest cloud. The leaves of the trees were green and gold, and every tree was in flower. The smell was of clean water and brilliant air and every flower scent he’d ever imagined or smelled.

‘God,’ he said, involuntarily.

She smiled at him with her slightly tilted eyes, and she passed her hands over him, and a dozen small knots were eased, and the lump at the back of his throat passed away.

‘I’m not so arrogant as to heal your sorrow,’ she said.

He caught her hands. ‘You will heal my sorrow,’ he said.

She smiled, and put her lips on his, her eyes closed.

And after a time, she pulled away. ‘Goodbye,’ she said.

‘Until tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I – I love you.’

She smiled. ‘Of course you do,’ she said with a little of her old tone. Then she softened. ‘I love you, too,’ she said.

She walked away into the rain, and he watched her until the grey of her cloak merged with the sky and the stone and the hillside.

And the captain found his services very much in demand. He accepted a contract in the east, serving among the Moreans with Ser Alcaeus. They concluded the contract just a week after the day of the battle, after an hour of loud and apparently angry bargaining that had featured several cups of wine and a warm embrace at the end.

Then he picked up the staff of his command and walked out of his tent – the company were back in their tents on the plain, so that the Royal Household could occupy the fortress – and mounted a pretty Eastern mare that had belonged to Master Random. No amount of miraculous healing could fix his partially-eaten leg, so the merchant would be bed-ridden for some time. He’d been delighted to sell the mare for a profit.

The captain rode up the familiar road to the main gate. Royal Guardsmen held the post, and he saluted them. They returned the salute.

He gave his horse to a newly minted Royal Squire – somebody’s younger son – and climbed the steps to the Commandery. No longer his office.

The Prior was at prayer.

The captain waited patiently.

Eventually, the Prior rose and put his rosary back around his waist. He smiled.

‘Your servant, Captain.’

The captain smiled back, reached into his wallet and fetched forth a pair of heavy gilt-bronze keys. ‘The keys to the fortress and the river bridge,’ he said. ‘They were placed in my keeping by the Abbess. I relinquish them to you in peace and triumph,’ he said formally. And then added, with a smile, ‘You owe me a sizeable sum of money.’

The Prior took the keys and settled into a seat. He waved the captain into another, and the captain had the oddest feeling – one of having lived this moment before, perhaps from the other side of the desk.

The Prior took a writing set, checked the pen for sharpness, used a little ink and began to write.

‘You would not consider turning to God, my son? Become a knight of my order?’ he asked, raising his eyes briefly.

‘No,’ the captain said.

The Prior smiled. ‘So proud. Amicia tells me that you see God as your enemy.’ He shook his head.

‘Amicia has misinterpreted the information with which she was provided,’ the captain said. Then he shrugged. ‘Or maybe not. Your God and I are not friends.’

‘Ahh,’ said the Prior. He shook sand over the paper, shook it, and blew on it. Then, after struggling with a candle, he managed to drip heavy black wax on the document and he affixed the great seal from the ring on his thumb. ‘Your defence here will never be forgotten by my knights.’ He shrugged. ‘Even if outside these walls men say the king won the battle, and defeated the Wild.’ He handed over the parchment. ‘My God loves you, and every other living thing, Captain. My God loves the sick, the blind, the leper, the unclean – the irk, the boglin, and the witch.’

The captain glanced at the sum, drawn on the Church – a draft redeemable at any bank, anywhere – and nodded. He even smiled.

‘This is more than I contracted for,’ he said.

‘I supposed that you contracted for the loss of men and horses, and for the usual victory bonus,’ the Prior said.

The captain shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I had no idea what I was getting into,’

The Prior nodded. ‘I don’t know what your problems are with my God,’ he said. ‘But I won’t let you add ingratitude to your list of His inadequacies. Without you and the sacrifice of your company, this place would have been lost and all humanity would have suffered for it.’

The captain rose and bowed. ‘You do me too much honour. For my company-’ He found himself unable to speak. When he was master of himself, he said, ‘I will recruit more.’

‘Easily, I predict,’ the Prior said. ‘Listen, young man. You have interests beyond the mundane. You will not turn to God. So be it. But you have a brain, and it’s a keen one. Did we win here?’

The captain hadn’t expected this turn of conversation. He stood in the doorway with his payment in his hand.

The Prior rose and poured two cups of wine. ‘Sit.’

He sat and drank. ‘No?’

The Prior shook his head. ‘Of course we did. Had we lost the king would be dead, the Alban border would be south of Albinkirk and the Royal Host would be shattered.’ He crossed himself. ‘But of course, we didn’t win either, did we?’

‘Thorn burned every house and barn from here to Albinkirk,’ the captain said. ‘And hit the population hard.’

The Prior nodded.

‘Most of the survivors will leave. Move south.’ The captain sipped some more wine. ‘That’s why – I’m guessing – there was no fight at the wall first. Thorn never intended to fight there. He went deep-’

‘Stop saying his name,’ the prior said. ‘He still lives, licking his wounds.’

‘He still lives, and nothing died out there but this year’s crop of boglins,’ the captain said bitterly. ‘Sixteen trolls, a dozen wyverns and some daemons.’ He rubbed his beard. ‘We’re losing the exchange.’

‘We’re losing, period,’ said the Prior. ‘In our order we have records that go back six hundred years. We are not winning this war.’ He shrugged. ‘If the Wild were not so utterly divided against itself, they’d have swept over us a thousand years ago.’

In his head, Harmodius said, Exactly. Who knew the Prior was a kindred spirit?

‘What can we do?’ the captain asked.

The Prior bent forward. ‘Well, at least you are interested. Where is your next contract?’

The captain leaned back. ‘Morea. A rebellion and a magus gone bad.’ He looked out the window. ‘What will you do with this place?’

‘Put a garrison into it, for a while. I don’t quit easily – I’ll offer a sizeable benefit and a total remission of tithes to any family who will stay here and rebuild. And I, too, will recruit – there must be younger sons south of the river looking for farms. I’ll find them.’

‘That will cost a fortune,’ the captain said.

‘I have a fortune,’ said the Prior. He leaned forward. ‘You have power.’

The captain shrugged.

The Prior shook his head. ‘Your power comes from the Wild. I’ve seen it.’

Again, the captain shrugged.

The Prior nodded. ‘Very well. But if you ever choose to talk about it there are many knights of the order who channel the Wild. We know more about it than you might think.’

The captain finished his wine, rose, accepted the Prior’s embrace and even stayed still while the man blessed him.

‘Will you not tell me why you turn your back on God?’ the Prior asked.

The captain looked at him, smiled and shook his head. ‘When you offered to make me a knight of the order, just now-’ he said.

‘The offer remains open,’ said the Prior.

‘-I’ll treasure that,’ he finished.

‘Your brother turned me down, as well,’ the Prior said.

The captain nodded. ‘Gawin is riding east with me,’ he said.

He walked out of the Commandery, and down the stone steps. A valet in de Vrailly’s arms stood by the steps up to the Hall, holding a beautiful destrier – tall and grey as steel. The captain didn’t feel the slightest need to take leave of the king. Or the Queen. Or, for that matter, their new favourite the Captal de Ruth, already known as the Victor of Lissen.

Instead, he walked to the hospital, up the steps, and to Master Random’s bedside. A trio of local farmers stood by his bed, with Master Johne the Bailli.

‘A moment, good sirs!’ cried Master Random. ‘This worthy knight must always have first call on my time. Damn my foot,’ he said, trying to twist in the bed. ‘How can it hurt so much when it isn’t there?’

The captain embraced the merchant. ‘You look better.’

‘I am better, my friend. That wonderful young lady poured her spirit into me, and I feel twenty years younger for it.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘Though if I was home, I daresay the goodwife might tell you that the deal just struck with these worthies was part to my joy. Eh?’

The captain looked around. Master Johne had acquitted himself very well against the enemy, every farmer present had carried a spear or an axe. The captain knew them by name – Raimond, Jaques, Ben Carter and young Bartholemew Lanthorn, a rogue, a scoundrel, and despite that, a very successful farmer.

‘He’s bought the whole grain crop,’ Johne the Bailli said. He smiled.

The captain glanced around. ‘Of course – it’s all in the cellars.’

‘A little messed about,’ Random noted. ‘But grain’s grain, and the need downriver – the price, when they hear of the battle and the burning of farms!’

‘How will you ship it?’ the captain asked, to be polite.

‘Boats!’ Random said. ‘All those boats which brought the Queen? Mine.’

The captain shook his head. ‘A coup, my friend. You will be rich.’

‘I’ll break even or a little better,’ Master Random said with a smile. ‘Drink with me,’ he said.

The captain nodded. ‘May I broach a small item of business, myself?’ he asked.

Random nodded. ‘Always open.’

The captain took the Prior’s note from the breast of his jupon. ‘You are a bank, are you not?’

Random sniffed. ‘Not of the size of the Etruscan banks, perhaps. But I do my – Gracious God!’ he said. His eyes snapped to the captain’s.

‘I’m investing in you,’ the captain said. ‘I may have to make some pay outs, and buy some horses, but three-quarters of this sum is at your service for at least a year.’

The captain had a cup of wine, embraced all concerned, and met the Bailli’s eye. The man nodded.

He went back through the ward, to the bed where his brother lay reading. He had his feet up, but he was fully dressed and his kit was neatly packed in wicker hampers. ‘She’s not here,’ he said. ‘Don’t even pretend you are here to see me.’

‘I won’t, then,’ the captain said. ‘Where is she?’

Gawin shrugged. ‘I need out of here, Gabriel. I’ll kill the foreigner if I stay.’

‘I’ll have another cot put in my pavilion. We ride tomorrow.’ He turned to go. ‘Where is she, Gawin?’

Gawin met his brother’s eye. ‘I’d tell you if I knew,’ he said.

Their eyes locked, and Gawin motioned with a finger. A woman’s form was outlined in the curtain of the courtyard window.

The captain raised an eyebrow.

‘He’s not the enemy, Mary,’ Gawin said, and the Queen’s Lady in Waiting emerged. She was blushing.

‘You have other things to take up your time,’ the captain said.

Gawin laughed. ‘I really don’t know where she is,’ he admitted.

The captain turned with a wave, and headed out. He peeked into the dispensary and the apothecary, and he climbed the steps in the dormitory. No one had seen her. The smiles he left in his wake pained him.

Finally, in the courtyard, he met Sister Miram. She smiled at him, and took him by the hand to her cell in the chapel. ‘You are going,’ she said, pouring him wine.

He tried to refuse the wine but she was a forceful woman, and a pleasant one, and her silence intimidated him. She waited him out. Finally, he drank it. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘We will celebrate the feast of Mary Magdalene tomorrow,’ she said. She smiled. ‘We will inter the old Abbess.’ Sister Miram looked at her hands. ‘I will be ordained Abbess in her place.’

‘Congratulations,’ the captain said.

‘There is talk that the whole convent is to be moved south to Harndon,’ Sister Miram said. She looked the captain firmly in the eye. ‘I won’t have it.’

The captain nodded.

‘We will also accept the vows of novices advancing to the sisterhood of Christ tomorrow,’ she said.

Ice formed in the captain’s stomach.

‘She is performing her vigil at the moment,’ the sister said. ‘Drink your wine, Captain. No one is forcing her to.’

The captain took a breath.

‘We owe you so much,’ Sister Miram said. ‘Do you think we do not know it? But she is not for you, Captain. She is to be the bride of Christ; it’s what she wishes.’ She rose, went to her prie-dieu, and opened the triptych. From it she drew a folded piece of parchment. ‘She left this for you. If you should come.’

The captain took it with a bow. ‘Your servant, ma soeur. May I express my congratulations on your elevation, and my-’ He stopped. Swallowed. ‘I will make a donation to the convent. Please give Sister Amicia my congratulations and my kindest regards.’

Somehow, he reached the courtyard.

Toby was holding his horse.

The captain took the reins, and vaulted into the saddle, aware, in that cursed part of him that was always awake, that he was on the stage of chivalry, and that half of the knights of Alba were watching him.

Then he rode down the hill to his camp. He paused at the guard fire.

Don’t be a fool. Read it.

The Red Knight took the parchment from his breast, and threw it in the fire unread.

You idiot.

Michael was sitting in his tent. He leaped to his feet, obviously guilty about something. ‘Master Ranald is waiting for you,’ he said. ‘I was entertaining him!’

Ranald Lachlan sat with a mug of beer, and his cousin Tom sat across the captain’s camp table with another. They had dice on the table, and cards.

‘It’d be a pity to stop him playing,’ Tom said. ‘Especially as I’m taking all his money,’ he added.

‘I’m so pleased you two feel free to make use of my tent and table,’ the captain spat.

Tom raised an eyebrow. ‘Brother’s got something to say,’ he said.

Ranald rose. ‘I – need to make a great deal of money,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you’ll have me as a man-at-arms.’ He looked embarrassed to ask.

‘I’d have thought the king would’ve knighted you,’ the captain said.

Ranald shrugged.

‘All right,’ said the captain, sitting and pouring wine for himself. ‘Now deal me a hand.’

‘But first,’ Ranald said, ‘I have to pay a visit to the Wyrm of Erch.’

The captain gagged on his wine. ‘The Wyrm?’

‘Our liege lord in the hills, or so we call him,’ Ranald said, and Tom nodded.

The captain shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’ He frowned. ‘Possibly because I’m drunk.’

Tom shrugged. ‘The ways of the hills are easier on a man with drink in him. Tis like this, my lord: the Wyrm guarantees us peace for a tithe of the flocks. Tis been that way for twenty generations of men or more. These Outwallers that killed Hector – the Sossag – they were serving a Power of the Wild called Thorn. Aye?’

‘Naming calls. But yes.’ The captain drank.

‘So I call him and he comes and I gut him,’ said Tom. ‘So?’

‘Excellent point,’ the captain said. ‘Go on.’

‘The Wyrm owes us for our loss,’ Ranald said.

The captain sat back. ‘I’m not drunk enough to believe that,’ he said.

Tom and Ranald sat with set faces.

The captain finished his cup. Michael poured him more, and he didn’t say no. And then he said, ‘She’s taking orders as a nun, Tom.’

Tom shrugged as if all women were one and the same. ‘Best find another one then,’ he said. And then, as if the collapse of the captain’s hopes was not the most important thing in the world, he said, ‘So we want leave to go to the Wyrm.’

The captain shook his head. ‘I have a better idea,’ he said. ‘Let’s all go.’

Ranald looked at him and raised an eyebrow at his brother.

‘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.

Three, three, the lily white boys, clothed all in green, oh,

Two, two the rivals.

And one is one and all alone, and ever more shall be, oh.

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.

On the other side of the grave, Sister Amicia gave a start, and went as pale as the king.

The silence went on for so long that wasps could be heard droning, and the grunt of the men filling the Abbess’ grave.

The king looked at the captain, and the captain looked back at the king, and then the king inclined his head – the sort of civil motion that a gentlemen makes to a lady about to proceed him through a door.

In a hoarse voice, the king said, ‘This gentleman has the power to make a knight anywhere within the kingdom of Alba, of anyone, no matter how ignoble their birth or station. Such is my word.’

The captain bowed deeply and the captal was silent.

The king acknowledged the captain’s bow, and he took the Queen and led her on, up the hill to the fortress.

The captain caught the captal’s eye. Jean de Vrailly was afraid of nothing – so he stopped.

‘I take it I have managed to offend you?’ he said. ‘It is difficult for me to understand how a whore like you can take offence. You fight only for money.’

The captain had control of himself. He took his time. Composed his answer while the captal was pinned in place by convention like a butterfly to parchment.

‘Sometimes I fight for free,’ he said. ‘But only when it interests me.’ He paused, holding the captal with his eyes. ‘But I imagine that in the end, someone will pay me to put you down like the mad dog you are.’

Jean de Vrailly smiled – a beautiful smile that filled his face. ‘So,’ he said. And laughed. ‘I look forward to see you try.’

‘I imagine you do,’ the captain muttered. He wasn’t sure that he’d had the better of the exchange, but he walked away without falling over his feet.

Lissen Carak – Michael

The Earl of Towbray left his tail of men-at-arms and all but ran down the steps behind the Commandery to catch the captain’s squire. Former squire.

‘You are a knight!’ he said.

Michael turned. ‘Pater. So are you, I find.’

Towbray couldn’t be angry. ‘I gather you won your spurs and then some,’ he said. ‘Can you come home now?’

Michael shook his head. ‘No, Pater.’ He looked up, and found it easier to meet his father’s eye then he had expected. ‘I was glad to see our banner. With the king.’ He looked around. ‘Surprised. But glad.’

Towbray shrugged. ‘I can’t love the king. But – damn it, boy! Who are you to tell me how to play the game of court?’

Michael shook his head and then bowed. ‘A new-minted knight, who makes twenty-eight florins a month in a company of mercenaries. ‘He stepped back. ‘I must go.’

Towbray reached out a hand. ‘I admire you.’

‘You won’t admire me as much when I tell you that I’m planning to marry a farm girl from Abbington.’ Michael grinned, feeling, for once, that he was master of a conversation with his father.

His father started, but with grim determination, extended his hand. ‘So be it,’ said his father, although his face showed distaste.

Michael took the hand. ‘Then may I have my allowance back?’

Lissen Carak – The Red Knight

An hour later, the company was mounted and ready. All week the wagons had been swayed out of the cellars and re-built, rolled down the hill, and loaded. The company’s stock had been safe in the fortress, and they were hitched with the company’s usual efficiency. The valets mounted the wagons, the archers collected the spare mounts, and the camp followers got their nags and donkeys. At the head of the column, the captain mounted a strange new war horse, just given him by the Prior, and looked back to see Michael – Ser Michael – attending to the banner.

One by one, the corporals reported in, ready to march. A small crowd formed – mostly Lanthorns and Carters and a dozen guildsmen from Harndon, come to see their boys off as they marched away. And their girls. Amy and Kitty Carter, Lis the laundress, Old Mag – who hadn’t looked as young in twenty years. Her daughter Sukey, whose husband had died in the siege. The captain had noted Sukey with Bad Tom. Twice. He made a note to himself to look into that.

The captain looked repeatedly for a single face in the crowd, but it refused to be there. Many women looked – for an instant – like her. Too many women.

So when all his people were ready, and the sun was so high in the sky that it made a mockery of his intention to march away, he raised a hand. ‘March!’ he said.

Whips cracked, men shouted, and wagons rolled.

Gerald Random waved from the walls, and Jean de Vrailly watched silently. The Prior saluted and women cried.

The king stood alone in the north tower, watching the convoy begin to roll east. His hands shook. And the Queen watched him from the courtyard and wondered what was amiss.

A young nun knelt, her back straight, at the high altar of the chapel.

A mile from the fortress, the captain came upon his huntsman, sitting his horse silently at a bend in the road. It took him a long moment to recognise where they were.

‘We still never caught the man who killed that nun,’ Gelfred said. ‘It sticks in my craw. I want justice.’

‘It was the priest,’ the captain said. ‘Sister Amicia and I figured it out – far too late to punish him for it. He’s off to the Wild, I suspect.’

Gelfred crossed himself. ‘He will go to Hell!’ Gelfred said. ‘God will punish him.’

He captain shrugged. ‘God doesn’t give a fuck, Gelfred,’ he said. He touched his heels to his magnificent new charger. ‘But I do, Gelfred, and I promise you, the priest will die.’

And with that, he put his horse’s head to the east, and rode away.

Far to the west, Thorn paused at the top of a ridge. He could see fifty leagues in the clear air, and he breathed deep. He had twenty wounds, and his powers – greater than they had ever been – were nonetheless spent.

He looked east.

That was foolish, he thought. The further he got from the rock, the more it was like a bad dream.

I could have been killed. For ever.

But I wasn’t, and when I return-

The great creature that was Thorn could not smile, but something passed over the heavy bark and stone of his face.

On the downslope of the ridge, he thought, Or perhaps I’ll do something else. Unify the boglins, perhaps.