The Red Knight

by Miles Cameron

  Gaston raised an eyebrow.

  ‘The old king was victorious in the main, but eventually, he sent to the East for more knights. His losses were fearsome.’ De Vrailly looked as if he could see it happening. ‘His son – now the king – has fought well to hold what his father gained, but he takes no new land from the Wild. My angel will change that. We will throw the Wild back beyond the wall. I have seen it.’

  Gaston released a long-held breath. ‘Cousin, just how fearsome were these losses?’

  ‘Oh, heavy, I suppose. At the Battle of Chevin, King Hawthor is said to have lost fifty thousand men.’ De Vrailly shrugged.

  Gaston shook his head. ‘Numbers that large make my head ache. That’s the population of a large city. Have they replaced their losses?’

  ‘By the good Saviour, no! If they had, do you think we could challenge for the rulership of this land with three hundred lances?’

  Gaston spat. ‘Good Christ—’

  ‘Do not blaspheme!’

  ‘Your angel wants us to take this realm with three hundred lances so that he can launch a war against the Wild?’ Gaston stepped close to his cousin. ‘Should I slap you to wake you up?’

  De Vrailly rose to his feet. With a gesture, he dismissed his squires. ‘It is not seemly that you question me on these matters, cousin. It is enough that you summoned your knights and now you follow me. Obey me. That is all you need to know.’

  Gaston made a face like a man who has discovered a bad smell. ‘I have always followed you,’ he said.

  De Vrailly nodded his head.

  ‘I have also saved you from a number of mistakes,’ Gaston added.

  ‘Gaston,’ de Vrailly’s voice suddenly softened. ‘Let us not disagree. I am advised by heaven. Do not be jealous!’

  ‘Then I should like to meet your angel,’ Gaston said.

  De Vrailly narrowed his eyes. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘perhaps my angel is only for me. After all – I alone am the greatest knight.’

  Gaston sighed and moved to the window where he looked down at the lone figure kneeling on the smooth stones of the courtyard. The bodies had been taken, laid out and wrapped in linen ready for burial, but still the Alban knight knelt in the courtyard.

  ‘What do you plan to do with that man?’ Gaston asked.

  ‘Take him to court to prove my prowess. Then I’ll ransom him.’

  Gaston nodded. ‘We should offer him a cup of wine.’

  De Vrailly shook his head. ‘He does penance for his weakness – for the sin of pride, in daring to face me, and for his failure as a man-at-arms. He should kneel there in shame for the rest of his life.’

  Gaston looked at his cousin, his face half turned away. He fingered his short beard. Whatever he might have said was interrupted by a knock on the door. Johan put his head in.

  ‘An officer of the town, monsieur. To see you.’

  ‘Send him away.’

  After a pause in which Gaston poured himself wine, Johan reappeared. ‘He says he must insist. He is not a knight. Merely a well-born man. He is not in armour. He says he is the sheriff.’

  ‘So? Send him away.’

  Gaston put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. ‘Their sheriff’s are king’s officers, are they not? Ask him what he wants.’

  Johan could be heard speaking, and then shouting, and then the door slammed open. Gaston drew his sword, as did de Vrailly. Their gentlemen poured in from adjoining rooms, some still fully armed.

  ‘You are Jean de Vrailly?’ asked the newcomer, who didn’t seem to care that he was surrounded by armed foreigners who topped him by a head or more. He was in doublet and hose, with high boots and a long sword belted at his waist. He was fiftyish and running to fat, and only the fur on his hood, his bearing and the sword at his hip suggested he was a man of any consequence. But he glowered.

  ‘I am,’ de Vrailly answered.

  ‘I arrest you in the name of the king for the murder of—’

  The sheriff was knocked unconscious with a single blow from Raymond St David, who let the body fall to the floor. ‘Bah,’ he said.

  ‘They are soft,’ de Vrailly said. ‘Did he bring men-at-arms?’

  ‘Not one,’ Raymond said. He grinned. ‘He came alone!’

  ‘What kind of a country is this?’ Gaston asked. ‘Are they all insane?’

  In the morning, Gaston’s retainers collected the dull-eyed Alban knight from the courtyard and packed him onto a cart with his armour; his horses were tethered behind. He tried to engage the Alban in conversation and was repelled by the man’s look of hatred.

  ‘Destriers,’ his cousin commanded. There was a lot of grumbling at the order – no knight liked to ride his war horse when the occasion didn’t demand it. A good war horse, fully trained, was worth the value of several suits of armour – and a single pulled muscle, a strain, a cut, or a bad shoe was an expensive injury.

  ‘We must impress the earl.’

  De Vrailly’s household knights formed up in the inn’s great courtyard while the lesser men-at-arms prepared in the field outside the town. They had almost a thousand spears, as well as three hundred lances. Gaston had already been out the gate, seen to the lesser men, and was back.

  The innkeeper – a surly, sharp faced fellow – came out and spoke to the Alban knight on the cart.

  De Vrailly grinned at him, and Gaston knew there would be trouble.

  ‘You!’ de Vrailly shouted. His clear voice rang across the courtyard. ‘I take issue with your measure of hospitality, Ser Innkeeper! Your service was poor, the wine bad, and you attempted to interfere in a gentleman’s private matter. What have you to say for yourself?’

  The rat-faced innkeeper put his hands on his hips. Gaston shook his head. He was actually going to discuss it with a knight.

  ‘I—!’ he began, and one of de Vrailly’s squires, already mounted, reached out and kicked him. The kick caught him in the side of the head and he fell without a sound.

  The other squires laughed and looked to de Vrailly, who dropped a small purse on the unconscious man. ‘Here’s money, innkeeper.’ He laughed. ‘We will teach these people to behave like civilized people and not animals. Burn the inn!’

  Before the last wagon of their small army had pulled out onto the road, a column of smoke was rising over the town of Lorica, and high into the sky.

  An hour later, Gaston was at his cousin’s side when they met the Earl of Towbray and his retinue where the Lorica road crossed the North road. The man had fifty lances – a large force for Alba. The earl was fully armoured and wore his helmet. He sent a herald who invited The Captal de Vrailly and all those who attend him to ride forward and meet the earl under the shade of a large oak that grew alone at the crossroads.

  Gaston smiled at the earl’s caution. ‘Here is a man who understands how the world works,’ he said.

  ‘He grew up among us,’ de Vrailly agreed. ‘Let us ride to meet him. He has six lances with him – we shall take the same.’

  The earl raised his visor when they met. ‘Jean de Vrailly, Sieur de Ruth?’ he asked.

  De Vrailly nodded. ‘You do not remember me,’ he said. ‘I was quite young when you toured the east. This is my cousin Gaston, Lord of Eu.’

  Towbray clasped hands with each in turn, gauntleted hand to gauntleted hand. His knights watched them impassively, visors closed and weapons to hand.

  ‘Did you have trouble in Lorica?’ the earl asked, pointing at the column of smoke on the horizon.

  De Vrailly shook his head. ‘No trouble,’ he said. ‘I taught some lessons that needed to be learned. These people have forgotten what a sword is, and forgotten the respect due to the men of the sword. A poor knight challenged me – I defeated him, of course. I will take him to Harndon and ransom him, after I display him to the king.’

  ‘We burned the inn,’ Gaston interrupted. He thought it had been a foolish piece of bravado, and he was finding his cousin tiresome.

  The earl glared at de Vrailly. ‘Which inn?’ he
asked.

  De Vrailly glared back. ‘I do not like to be questioned in that tone, my lord.’

  ‘The sign of two lions. You know it?’ Gaston leaned past his cousin.

  ‘You burned the Two Lions?’ The earl demanded. ‘It has stood there forever. Its foundations are Archaic.’

  ‘And I imagine they are still there for some other peasant to build his sty upon.’ De Vrailly frowned. ‘They scurried like rats to put out the fire, and I did nothing to stop them. But I was offended. A lesson needed to be made.’

  The earl shook his head. ‘You have brought so many men. I see three hundred knights – yes? In all of Alba there might be four thousand knights.’

  ‘You wanted a strong force. And you wanted me,’ de Vrailly said. ‘I am here. We have common cause – and I have your letter. You said to bring all the force I could muster. Here it is.’

  ‘I forget how rich the East is, my friend. Three hundred lances?’ The earl shook his head. ‘I can pay them, for now, but after the spring campaign we may have to come to another arrangement.’

  De Vrailly looked at his cousin. ‘Indeed. Come spring we will have another arrangement.’

  The earl was distracted by the cart in the middle of the column.

  ‘Good Christ,’ he said suddenly. ‘You don’t mean that Ser Gawin Murien is your prisoner? Are you insane?’

  De Vrailly pulled his horse around so hard Gaston saw blood on the bit.

  ‘You will not speak to me that way, my lord!’ De Vrailly insisted.

  The earl rode down the column, heedless of his men-at-arms’ struggle to stay with him. He rode up to the wagon.

  Gaston watched his cousin carefully. ‘You will not kill this earl just because he annoys you,’ he said quietly.

  ‘He said I was insane,’ de Vrailly countered, mouth tight and eyes glittering. ‘We can destroy his fifty knights with a morning’s work.’

  ‘You will end with a kingdom of corpses,’ Gaston said. ‘If the old king really lost fifty thousand men in one battle a generation ago, this kingdom must be almost empty. You cannot kill everyone you dislike.’

  The earl had the Alban knight out of the cart and on horseback before he rode back, his visor closed and locked and his knights formed closely behind him.

  ‘Messire,’ he said, ‘I have lived in the East, and I know how this misunderstanding has sprung up. But in Alba, messire, we do not keep to The Rule of War at all times. In fact, we have something we call the The Rule of Law. Ser Gawin is the son of one of the realm’s most powerful lords – a man who is my ally – and Ser Gawin acted as any Alban would. He was not required to be in his armour at that hour – not here, and not when taking his ease at an inn. He is not in a state of war with you, messire. By our law, you attacked him perfidiously and you can be called to law for it.’

  De Vrailly made a face. ‘Then your law is something that excuses weakness and devalues strength. He chose to fight and was beaten. God spoke on the matter and no more need be said.’

  The earl’s eyes were just visible inside his visor and Gaston had his hand on his sword; while the earl was speaking reasonably, his hand was on the pommel of an axe at his saddle bow. His knights all had the posture – the small leaning forward, the steadying hand on a horse’s neck – of men on the edge of violence. They were one step away from a disaster of blood. He could sense it.

  ‘You will apologise to him for the barbaric deaths of his squires, or our agreement is at an end.’ The earl’s voice was firm, and his hand was steady on his axe. ‘Listen to me, messire. You cannot take this man to court. The king has only to hear his story and you will be arrested.’

  ‘There are not enough men-at-arms in this country to take me,’ de Vrailly said.

  The earl’s retainers drew their swords.

  Gaston raised his empty, armoured hands and interposed his horse between the two men. ‘Gentlemen! There was a misunderstanding. Ever it has been so, when East meets West. My cousin was within his rights as a knight and a seigneur. And you say this Ser Gawin was also within his rights. Must we, who have come so far to serve you, my lord Earl – must we all pay for this misunderstanding? As it pleases God, we are all men of good understanding and good will. For my part, I will apologise to the young knight.’ Gaston glared at his cousin.

  The beautiful face showed understanding. ‘Ah, very well,’ he said. ‘He is the son of your ally? Then I will apologise. Although, by the good God! He needs training in arms.’

  Gawin Murien had recovered enough of his wits to pack his armour onto one horse and mount another. Then he followed the earl through the column, the way a child follows his mother.

  The earl raised his visor. ‘Gawin!’ he called out. ‘Lad, the foreign knights – they come from different customs. The Lord de Vrailly will apologise to you.’

  The Alban was seen to nod.

  De Vrailly halted his horse well out of arm’s reach, while Gaston rode closer. ‘Ser Knight,’ he said, ‘for my part, I greatly regret the deaths of your squires.’

  The Alban knight nodded again. ‘Very courteous of you,’ he said. His voice was flat.

  ‘And for mine,’ de Vrailly said, ‘I forgive your ransom, as the earl insists that by your law of arms, I may have encountered you unfairly.’ The last word was drawn from him as if by a fish hook.

  Murien looked a less-than-heroic figure in his stained cote-hardie and his hose ruined by a night of kneeling in the courtyard. He didn’t glitter. In fact, he hadn’t even put his knight’s belt back on, and his sword still lay on the bed of the wagon.

  He nodded again. ‘I hear you,’ he said.

  He turned his horse, and rode away.

  Gaston watched him go, and wondered if it would have been better for everyone if his cousin had killed him in the yard.

  Chapter Five

  Ser Gawin

  Harndon Palace – Harmodius

  Harmodius Magus sat in a tower room entirely surrounded by books, and watched the play of the sun on the dust motes, as it shone through the high, clear glass windows. It was April – the season of rain but also the season of the first serious, warm sun – when the sunlight finally has its own colour, its own richness. Today, the sky was blue and a cat might be warm in a patch of sunshine

  Harmodius had three cats.

  ‘Miltiades!’ he hissed, and an old grey cat glanced at him with weary insolence.

  The man’s gold-shod stick licked out and prodded the cat, whose latest sleeping spot threatened the meticulously drawn pale blue chalk lines covering the dark slate floor. The cat shifted by the width of its tail and shot the Magus a disdainful look.

  ‘I feed you, you wretch,’ Harmodius muttered.

  The light continued to pour through the high windows, and to creep down the whitewashed wall, revealing calculations in chalk, silver or lead pencil, charcoal, even scratched out in dirt. The Magus used whatever came to hand when he felt the urge to write.

  And still the light crept down the wall.

  In the halls below, the Magus could sense men and women – a servant bringing a tray of cold venison to his tower’s door; a gentleman and lady engaged in a ferocious tryst that burned like a small fire almost directly under his feet – where was that? It must be awfully public – and the Queen, who burned like the very sun. He smiled when he brushed over her warmth. Oftimes, he watched others to pass the time. It was the only form of phantasm he still cast regularly.

  Why is that? he wondered, idly.

  But this morning, well. This morning his Queen had asked him – challenged him – to do something.

  Do something wonderful, Magus! she had said, clapping her hands together.

  Harmodius waited until the sun crossed a chalk line he had drawn, and then raised his eyes to a particular set of figures. Nodded. Sipped some cold tea that had a film of dust – what was that dust? Oh – he had been grinding bone for oil colour. He had bone dust in his tea. That wasn’t entirely disgusting.

  All three cats raised
their heads and pricked their ears.

  The light intensified and struck a small mirror with the image of Ares and Taurus entwined on the ivory back – and then shot across the floor in a focused beam.

  ‘Fiat lux!’ roared the Magus.

  The beam intensified, drawing in the light around it until the cats were cast in shadow while the beam sparkled like a line of lightning – passing above the chalk designs, through a lens, and into a bubble of gold atop his staff. Unnoticed by him, it struck a little off centre and a tiny fragment of the white beam slid past the staff to dance along the far wall, partially reflected by the golden globe, partly refracted by the mass of energy seething inside the staff itself. The intense light flicked up sharply, licked at gilding of a triptych that adorned the sideboard, struck a glass of wine abandoned hours before. And, still focused, it passed across the east wall, its rapid passage burning away a dozen or more characters of a spell written in an invisible, arcane ink, hidden under the paint.

  The older cat started, and hissed.

  The Magus felt suddenly light headed, as if at the onset of a fever or a strong head-cold. But his mind was abruptly clear and sharp, and the staff was giving off the unmistakable aura of an artefact filling with power. He saw the rogue light fragment and deftly moved the mirror and the focus to touch the staff perfectly.

  He clapped his hands in triumph.

  The cats looked around, startled, as if they had never seen his room before – and then went back to sleep.

  Harmodius looked around the room. ‘What in the name of the triad just happened?’ he asked.

  He didn’t need rest. Even after casting a powerful phantasm like the last, the feeling of the helios in his staff made him tingle with anticipation. He’d promised himself that he’d wait a day . . . perhaps two days . . . but the temptation was strong.

  ‘Bah,’ he said aloud, and the cats flicked their ears. He hadn’t felt so alive in many years.