He took his time currying the horses. They looked fat and happy. It had been a way of hiding from his father when he was young.
When they were all gleaming like the sun on the water of the high loch outside, he went back into the cot – so much bigger on the inside than the outside – and took the spear down from its nails.
It was a heavy blackthorn shaft, but the butt was spiked in bronze and inlaid in gold, and the head was magnificently worked – folded steel, carefully chiselled.
Oh. Empty. Harmodius lost all interest in it. Not mine at all.
The captain hefted it for a long time.
Then he frowned and tucked it under his arm.
One by one they filed out of the cot. Mag left last, and closed the door behind her.
She looked puzzled. ‘I thought it would . . . vanish’ she said.
‘He’s not showy,’ the captain responded.
They all mounted, and rode over the ridges. In two ridges, the cot was gone, hidden in the folds of earth.
‘If I ride back, will there be aught there?’ Tom asked.
The captain shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’
‘You know what?’ Tom said. ‘He reminded me of you. Only – more so.’
He laughed.
The captain raised an eyebrow. ‘I think I’m flattered, Tom,’ he said.
Tom patted the sword at his side. ‘I have a magic sword,’ he said happily. ‘I want to go try it on something.’
Ranald shook his head. ‘Tom, you hate magic.’
Tom grinned. ‘Och. You can teach an old dog a new trick, if ye are patient.’
Gawin shook his head. ‘Why us?’
The captain shook his head.
They rode on.
The woodsmen were gone. There was no pile of bodies, no line of graves, no rusting tools. Merely gone.
Over the Irkill a stone bridge stood on heavy pilings, as wide as two horsemen abreast or a single wagon, and on the other side sat a new keep – a square tower – with a small toll house.
It was solid, and smelled of new masonry. The Keeper sat in the road, looking at it.
‘Open it,’ said the captain.
The Keeper looked at him.
‘The box – open it.’ The captain crossed his arms.
There was an anticlimactic moment as the Keeper rooted in his malle and emerged with his box. He opened it.
The box held a circlet, an arm ring, and a key.
The key fitted the door of the keep.
The circlet fit on his brow. He tried it and then snatched it off.
‘Damn,’ he said.
‘He’s telling you something,’ said Ranald.
‘The arm ring is for the drover,’ said the Keeper. ‘I know it.’
Ranald looked at it. ‘Leave it lie, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back in spring, and we’ll see.’
They rode back to the inn.
Toby unpacked his master’s portmanteau and appeared at his elbow. ‘M’lord?’ he asked.
The captain was playing piquet with Maggie. He looked up.
‘What do I do with these?’ he asked. He held up two velvet bags. They all but glowed a deep, dark red.
‘Not mine,’ the captain said.
‘Begging your pardon, m’lord, but they was in your bag.’ Toby held them out again.
The captain looked in one, and laughed. ‘Why, Toby, I’ve just discovered our host was more thoughtful than I had imagined. Come here.’ He gestured to his new squire. ‘I assume these are for you.’ He handed the bag over.
In it was a pair of silver spurs. Rich squires wore such things.
Toby gasped.
The captain shook his head. ‘He knew we were coming, but we sent Toby back.’ He looked in the other bag. And frowned.
A small, and very beautiful ring, gleamed in the bottom of the bag. It said ‘IHS’. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘This is too much,’ he said quietly, and flung the bag across the room.
It bounced off the wall.
He went back to his cards.
In the morning, when he went to pay the Keeper, he found the ring among his coins.
Give it up said the magister. He wants her, as well. You two are not done with each other, it seems.
He embraced the Keeper. ‘Got anyone going west to Lissen Carak?’ he asked.
The Keeper grinned. ‘In the autumn, maybe, and then only with twenty swords,’ he said.
The captain wrote a brief note on parchment. ‘Send this, then.’ He wrapped the ring in the parchment. It gave him the oddest feeling.
‘Go well, Captain,’ said the Keeper. ‘Stop here when you come west for the tournament.’
The captain raised his eyebrows.
‘You are a famous knight,’ the Keeper said with his child-like delight in knowing news the others didn’t know. ‘The Queen has ordained that there will be a great tournament at Lorica, at Pentecost in the New Year.’
The captain rolled his eyes. ‘Not my kind of fight, Keeper.’
The Keeper shrugged. ‘So you say.’
They spent five days riding over the mountains to Morea. They came down the pass north of Eva and the captain took them south and then east over the hills to Delf. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Gawin and Alcaeus were of the same mind, and Tom and Ranald saw the whole trip as an adventure, riding high on the hillsides, searching out caves . . .
‘Looking for a fight,’ Mag said in disgust. ‘Can we get home?’
‘Home to our company of hired killers?’ said the captain.
Mag looked at him and shook her head. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you must. Aren’t you – excited? Hopeful? Interested?’
He was watching the two hillmen ranging high above them. Alcaeus had purchased a good goshawk from a peddler and was flying him at doves. Gawin was riding ahead, feet crossed over the pintle of his saddle, reading.
He shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve just been enlisted by one mighty Power to fight another in a war not of my making, over things I don’t understand.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I swore off being a tool when I was a child.’
‘The Wyrm is good.’ Mag put a hand on his arm. ‘I can feel it.’
The captain shook his head. ‘Mag, what do my thoughts of good and evil mean to the worms in the road? I can be the most honourable knight who ever lived, and my horse’s iron-shod hooves will crush their soft bodies every step, after a rain.’ He smiled at her. ‘And I won’t even know.’
Down in the deep valley ahead of them, he could see rows of tents; a palisade; neat circles of heavy wagons, and over all, a banner, black, with lacs d’or worked in gold.
‘Damn you,’ she said. ‘Why can’t we just act? Why can’t we simply win?’
The captain sighed. ‘Men love war because it is simple,’ he said. ‘Winning is never simple. I can win a fight – together, we can win a battle.’ He rubbed his beard. Down in the valley, men were pointing and messengers were mounting horses. ‘But turning victory in battle into something that lasts is like building a place to live. So much more complicated than building a fortress.’
He pointed at the riders. ‘Luckily for me, those men are bringing me word of our contract. A nice little war.’ He forced a smile. ‘Something we can win.’
Harndon City – Edward
Edward finished his first rondel dagger – a fine weapon with a precise triangular blade and an armour-piercing point – and handed it to Master Pyle with trepidation. The older man looked it over, balanced it on the back of his hand, and threw it at the floor, where it stuck with a satisfying thunk.
‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Hand it to Danny to be hilted. I’ll have a project for you in a few days – until then, cover the shop.’
Well – shop work was clean and dull, but Edward was courting his Anne in the long summer evenings, and shop work allowed him to dress well – fine hose, a good doublet, not shop-worn linen stained in nameless chemicals and burned with a thousand sparks.
Anne was a seam
stress, and her hands were always clean.
Most evenings she would dance in the square by her house, and Edward would swagger his sword and buckler against other journeymen – he was becoming a good blade.
He was designing himself a fine buckler – sketching in a sure hand with charcoal – when the shop door opened and a small man came in. He was middling. And not very memorable.
He smiled at Edward. He had odd black eyes, and he tapped a gold coin on the heavy oak table where customers examined the wares. ‘Fetch me your master, young man,’ he said.
Edward nodded. He rang a bell for another shop boy and sent him to the yard, and Master Pyle appeared a few minutes later. The dark-eyed man had spent the time looking out the window. Edward couldn’t tear his eyes away, because the man was so very difficult to look at.
He turned just a moment before the master appeared, and met him at the counter.
‘Master Pyle,’ he said. ‘I sent you some letters.’
Master Pyle looked puzzled. Then he brightened. ‘Master Smith?’
‘The very same,’ said the odd man. ‘Did you try my powder?’
‘I did. Scary stuff, and no mistake. Shot a hole in the roof of my shed.’ Master Pyle raised an eyebrow. ‘Not very consistent, though.’
The man’s dark eyes sparkled. ‘Mmm. Well, perhaps I didn’t explain entirely. Try wetting it with urine after you’ve mixed it. Dry it in the sun – far from fire, of course. And then grind it back to coarse powder, very carefully.’
‘If I was an alchemist, all this might entertain me, Master Smith. But I’m a blade smith, and I have many orders.’
Master Smith appeared confused. ‘You make weapons, though.’
‘All kinds.’ Master Pyle nodded.
‘The very best in Alba, I’ve been told,’ Master Smith said.
Master Pyle smiled. ‘I hope so.’
Master Smith rocked his head back and forth. ‘Is this a matter of more money?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid not.’ Master Pyle shook his head. ‘It’s just not my trade.’
Smith let out a sigh. ‘Why not?’
Edward looked at Master Pyle very hard, willing him to turn his head.
‘I have more orders than I can manage, and this is very untested.’ Master Pyle shrugged. ‘It would take months, perhaps years, to perfect.’ Smith shrugged. ‘So?’
Edward was all but hopping up and down. Master Pyle turned his head and glared at him. But it wasn’t his hard glare.
‘This is my journeyman, Edward. He made both of the test devices. He’s very competent, and perhaps he’d be willing to do the work for you.’ Master Pyle looked at Edward. ‘Want to try, Edward? Your own commission?’
Edward beamed.
The odd, dark-eyed man rocked his head again. ‘Excellent, then.’ He put two sheets of vellum down on the shop counter. ‘Have a look at these, and see what you think,’ he said. ‘Tube, stock, powder, and match. I want you to make them all.’
‘Just one?’ Edward asked. ‘Delivered where?’
‘Oh, as to that, I’ll send you my directions. It is for some friends.’ He laughed. ‘Just one, and then you destroy all your notes. Or I will find you. Understand?’
Edward looked at the man. He didn’t seem very dangerous. And yet, he did. And just for a moment, he seemed to have scales on the backs of his hands.
‘How much?’ Edward asked carefully. ‘Do I get paid?’
‘Absolutely,’ the strange man said. ‘Fifty gold nobles in advance. Fifty more on completion.’
Edward had to struggle to breathe.
Master Pyle shook his head. ‘I’ll get a notary.’
Harndon Palace – The King
Just above them, in the great fortress of Harndon, Master Pyle’s friend the king lay with his wife. He had two new scars on his heavily muscled thighs. She had one on her back.
Neither found the other a whit less fascinating.
When the king had done his thorough worship of her, he licked her leg and bit her gently and rose. ‘Men will mock me,’ he said. ‘A king who loves only his wife.’
She laughed. Stretched like a cat, fists clenched and turned inward to the best advantage of her breasts and back. ‘I,’ she purred, ‘beg leave to doubt your Majesty.’
He laughed and threw himself back down by her like a much younger man. ‘I love you,’ he said.
She rolled atop him and kissed him. ‘And I you, my lord.’
They lay for a while in companionable silence, until royal squires in the hall started to make noises that indicated that they had royal work to do.
‘I have set the date for your tournament at Lorica,’ the king said. He knew how much she wanted it. ‘It will help – after the battle. After Pentecost next.’
She took in a deep breath, also to her advantage, and clapped her hands together.
‘And I ordered Master Pyle to build two of your military carts with the Wagoner’s Guild,’ he said. ‘To test the concept. I’ll show them at the tournament. Ask men with retinues to build to the pattern.’ He shrugged. ‘It will be a start.’
‘And the Red Knight?’ she said.
He reacted as if he’d been stung.
She shook her head. ‘His company had standard wagons, built to the purpose in Galle.’ She dimpled. ‘So I didn’t invent the idea, apparently.’
He shook his head. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
She shrugged, again to her advantage.
‘If you don’t get dressed, the new ambassador from the Emperor will find me a most tardy host.’ He reached for her.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of inviting him to the tournament,’ the Queen said. She watched the king like a hawk.
He didn’t flinch.
‘Ah,’ he said.
Morea – The Red Knight
The camp was snug on the late summer evening. And the return had been enough like a homecoming to make him cry. He smiled a great deal, and rode through the camp.
Gelfred was sitting on a wagon, feeding—
‘Goodness gracious, Gelfred! Do we have Parcival?’ The captain slid down from his riding horse and shocked his hunt master with an embrace.
The eagle bated and said squaaack.
Gelfred nodded. ‘Wonderful bird.’ He looked around. ‘Not quite right, of course. Neither you, nor, pardon me, the Abbess is a king. Or queen.’ He grimaced.
The captain gave him a quick nod. ‘We’ll ask the Emperor for a special chrysobull, shall we?’ he laughed. ‘Although, to be honest, I’m pretty sure the Abbess almost was the Queen.’
Gelfred looked shocked.
Ser Alcaeus nodded. ‘I suspected the same.’
Ser Gawin looked at the captain. ‘I’ll be the slow brother. What are we talking about?’
In the captain’s head, Harmodius laughed. A nasty, gossipy laugh. So! You did see who she was.
‘The old king’s mistress, Gelfred. That’s what men called her. Sophia Rae. To whom Hawthor the Great offered marriage after the Battle of Chevin, and was refused.’ The captain smiled. ‘Imagine having been Hawthor’s lover and Richard Plangere’s at the same time.’ He shook his head. ‘And then an Abbess for thirty years.’ He reached out and smoothed the bird’s plumage. ‘Hawthor must have given her the bird. He must be quite ancient.’
The bird’s eyes were fathomless and gold, with a black centre.
‘I’ve heard of them living fifty years,’ said Gelfred.
The bird’s grumpy eyes locked with the captain’s.
‘I see,’ he said.
Mag sat with Johne the Bailli in the last of the light. He had camp stools – comfortable enough, but backless, and she wasn’t getting any younger. He was watching the stars.
‘I see a lot of unfamiliar faces,’ she said, watching two men-at-arms go by. They paused in the light of Johne’s lanterns, gave her an appraising look, and bowed.
‘We did some recruiting,’ he admitted. He ran a hand down her back. Turned his head, and smiled. ‘All right,
they all but attacked us. As soon as we made camp – every younger son in the North Country. Some Moreans, too. By the Saviour I would expect we have a hundred lances.’
She sighed. ‘So many,’ she said.
He sat back. ‘Won’t he be pleased? The young captain?’
She leaned over and kissed him gently. ‘I’m a sinful old woman, and I don’t need to be seduced, if that’s what your hand is supposed to be doing.’
He stiffened, but then grinned. ‘My lady, I am out of practice.’
They didn’t talk much, for a moment.
‘Am I clumsy?’ he murmured.
‘No,’ she said. She was thinking of blowing out the lanterns and lying on the carpet shamelessly. ‘No,’ she said.
‘What then?’ he asked.
She made a dismissive gesture and went to blow out the candles.
‘You can tell me,’ he said.
‘I’m just thinking of the captain. Of him being pleased.’ She shrugged. ‘You all think he’s fine, and he is not. He’s like a horse that’s taken a wound, and keeps going. He looks fine, right up until he falls stone dead.’ She found she was leaning back into him.
He held onto her. ‘When I was young, I wanted nothing so much as to be a knight,’ he said. ‘I wanted it, and I fought for it. And I did not get it. And after more time and some bad things, I met your husband, and we survived a bad time. And then I became a decent man in a small town. I had some dark days and some good days.’ He shrugged. ‘And now – par dieu, now it seems that I may get to be a knight. And I may have you, my lady.’ He held her tight. ‘Which is by way of saying – our little captain will take many hurts. If they break him?’ he shrugged. ‘Then they do. That is the way of it.’
She nodded. And slipped a little closer to the carpet of their tent.
The captain sat with Ser Alcaeus and his brother in the last light. The great eagle sat on a perch in the shaded end of the tent, head muffled, squawking softly. The captain went and petted the bird and calmed him, and while he was doing so, Toby poured him wine. Ser Jehannes knocked at the captain’s tent poles.
The Red Knight Page 89
