The Red Knight

by Miles Cameron

  He let them go with a fine meal and a hogshead of wine.

  ‘No one left here to drink it,’ he muttered.

  People were trickling back into the town. The captain bought bread for the whole company from a young woman with haunted eyes. Haunted, but practical.

  ‘Burned the house,’ she said, eyes on the west. ‘Couldn’t burn the ovens, though, could they? Little fucks.’

  They rode north on the east side of the Albin in the morning, and Ranald told them of having met the Queen at the ford as her boats rowed past.

  Past Albinkirk the huntsmen ranged wider, over the hills on either side. Summer was coming and the abandoned farms seemed sinister in their wrappings of verdant life. Grains stood tall and ripe and there wasn’t going to be a soul to harvest it.

  The captain watched it go by.

  Ser Alcaeus rode by his side. ‘There were men and women in these farms when I came through in late winter.’

  The captain shook his head. ‘I wonder if men will ever farm here again,’ he said.

  Two days north of Albinkirk, they came to the crossroads and made camp. The East Road ran up over the passes and down into the Vale of Delf, and on into the Morea.

  The North Road ran into the Hills, past the Inn of Dorling and eventually to the Lakes and the Wall.

  That night, over dinner in his tent, the captain put a map on the table. ‘Jehannes, you’ll take the company east to Morea. Find us a secure camp. I’ll join you in a ten-day.’

  Jehannes made a face. He looked at Tom Lachlan. ‘If this is so important, why don’t we all go?’

  Tom laughed. ‘We’re going to see the Wyrm, Jehannes. Not pay a call on a lady, nor smoke out a company of brigands.’

  The captain leaned over the table. ‘The Wyrm is a creature of the Wild. A Power like Thorn. And the company won’t impress it. Him.’

  Not like Thorn, Harmodius said in the captain’s head.

  Jehannes shook his head. ‘I mislike it.’

  ‘Reservation noted,’ the captain said.

  Tom sat back, his booted feet on one of the captain’s stools. ‘Ahh. I can smell the hills already.’

  Ranald nodded. ‘At some point,’ he said, ‘we need to talk about the drove.’

  Tom nodded.

  The captain looked at Ser Alcaeus. ‘We won’t be gone long,’ he said. ‘And Jehannes can deal with any emergency.’

  The Morean knight raised an eyebrow. ‘I never thought otherwise, messire,’ he said. ‘But I will be with you.’

  Ranald shook his head. ‘No offence. But why?’

  The Morean shrugged. Twirled his moustaches. ‘It is a Deed,’ he said. ‘I wish to see a dragon.’

  The captain smiled.

  When the company’s wagons rolled, the captain sat his elegant riding horse under the shade of a great oak tree and watched them go by. Men saluted him. It made him want to cry.

  There was Bent, riding with Long Paw; behind him rode No Head and Jack Kaves and Cuddy. They were laughing as they passed, but they all gave him a smile and a nod. Behind them were younger men – Tippit arguing with Ben Carter and Kanny about something. They stopped when they saw him, and saluted – Ben Carter drew his sword to salute, and then looked sheepish about it.

  Dan Favor rode by with Ser Milus and Francis Atcourt, who was explaining a jousting technique using a walking-stick tucked under his arm.

  And more, and more. Men-at-arms, valets, squires, archers. Wagoners and tailors, prostitutes and seamstresses.

  Sauce – Ser Alison Graves, now – made her horse rear a little, and flicked him a showy salute. And near the back of the column, Mag the seamstress hugged her man and rode her donkey clear of the column’s dust to join the captain. ‘If it please m’lord,’ she said.

  ‘Your downcast eyes are wasted on me,’ he said.

  ‘I would like to accompany you,’ she said.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘A few days of sleeping on the ground and bad food?’

  In his mind Harmodius said, Excellent.

  So when the column was gone, headed up the long ridge to the east, Ranald turned his horse’s head north. ‘I don’t know where you are sleeping tonight, Captain,’ he said. ‘But I’m for the Inn of Dorling.’ To Mag, he said, ‘It’s a little more comfortable than the cold, hard ground.’

  The Inn of Dorling – The Red Knight

  The Keeper came into the yard with eyes as wide as new-minted pennies. His people were on the walls, and the gate was open to receive them.

  His eyes went right past Ranald – wearing armour like a knight, and a red tabard. He nodded to the captain. ‘You are welcome here, messire. The best of everything, the most reasonable prices.’

  ‘Don’t you know your own kin?’ Ranald drawled.

  Tom kicked free of his stirrups and dismounted in a clash of plate and mail. ‘I hear my brother married your Sarah,’ he said.

  The Keeper looked back and forth. ‘By God!’ he said.

  Tom took him in a bear hug.

  ‘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 ta
kes 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.