The king shrugged. ‘Never mind, love. We shall have a tournament, but it may have to wait until after the spring campaign.’
She clapped her hands. Spring was, at last, upon them.
Chapter Three
The Red Knight
Lissen Carak – The Red Knight
Amy’s Hob managed to get his nag to a gallop for long enough to reach the Captain in good time. The company was stretched out along the road in march order – no wagons, no baggage, no followers. Those were in camp with a dozen lances as guards.
‘Lord – Gelfred says he’s found its earth. Away in the forest. Trail and hole.’ Amy’s Hob was a little man with a nose that had been broken as often as he’d been outlawed.
The scout held up his hunting horn, and in it was a clod of excrement.
The fewmets, thought the captain, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Gelfred’s revenge for his impiety – sometimes close adherence to the laws of venery could constitute their own revenge. He gave the scout a sharp nod. ‘I’ll just take Gelfred’s word for it, shall I?’ he said. He stood in his stirrups and bellowed ‘Armour up, people!’
Word moved down the column faster than a galloping horse. Men and women laced their arming caps and donned their helmets – tall bassinets, practical kettle hats, or sturdy barbutes. Soldiers always rode out armed from head to foot – but only a novice or an overeager squire rode in his helmet or gauntlets. Most knights didn’t don their helmets until they were in the face of the enemy.
Michael brought the captain’s high-peaked helmet and held it high over his head to slide the mail aventail, the cape that protected the neck and depended from the lower rim of the helmet, over his shoulders. Then he seated the helmet firmly on the padded arming cap, visor pinned up.
The captain motioned for his squire to pause and reached up to pull the ends of his moustache clear of the mail. He was very proud of his moustache. It did a great deal to hide his age – or lack of it.
Then Michael adjusted the fall of the aventail over his breastplate, checked the buckles under his arms, and pushed the gauntlets on to his master’s hands, one at a time, while the captain watched the road to the north.
‘How far up the road?’ he asked Hob.
‘A little farther. We’ll cross the burn and then follow it west into the trees.’
He had the second gauntlet on, and Michael unbuckled the captain’s riding sword and took his long war sword from Toby, who was standing between them on foot, holding it out, a look of excitement on his plain face and a biscuit in his free hand.
Michael handed the shorter riding sword down to Toby, and girded him with the sword of war. Three and a half pounds of sharp steel, almost four feet long.
The weight always affected the captain – that weight at his side meant business.
He looked back, standing a little in his stirrups, feeling the increased weight of his armour.
The column had tightened up.
‘How far?’ he asked Hob.
‘A league. Less. Not an hour’s walk.’ Hob shrugged. His hands were shaking.
‘Standard front, then. At my word – Walk!’ called the captain. He turned to his squire. ‘Whistle. Not the trumpet.’
Michael understood. He had a silver whistle around his neck. Carlus, the giant trumpeter and company armourer, shrugged and fell back.
The column shifted forward, into a walk, the horses suddenly eager, ears pricked forward and heads up. The chargers quivered with excitement – the lighter ronceys ridden by the archers caught the bug from the bigger horses. Along the column, the less able riders struggled to control their mounts.
Up a long hill they went, and then back down – to a burn running fast with the water of two days’ rain. Hob led them west into the trees.
Now that they were at the edge of the Wild, the captain had time to note that the trees were still nearly bare. Buds showed here and there, but the north country was not yet in spring, and snow lay in the lee of the larger rocks.
He could see a long way in these woods.
And that meant other things could see him, especially when he was resplendent in mirror-white armour, scarlet and gilt.
He led them on for another third of a league, the column snaking along behind him, two abreast, easily negotiating the sparse undergrowth. The trees were enormous, their branches thick and long, but stretching out high above even Bad Tom’s head.
But when an inner sense said that he was courting disaster – imagine that taloned monster in among this column before we were off our horses and ready – he raised his right fist to signal a halt and then spread his arms – always good exercise, in armour – and waved them downwards, once. Dismount.
He dismounted carefully, to Grendel’s disgust. Grendel liked a fight. Liked to feel the hot squirt of blood in his mouth.
Not this time, the captain thought, and patted his destrier’s shoulder.
Toby came and took his head.
‘Don’t go wandering off, young Toby,’ the captain said cheerfully. ‘All officers.’
Michael, already off his horse and collected, blew a whistle blast. Then handed the captain a short spear with a blade as long as a grown man’s arm at one end and a sharp spike at the other.
Jehannes and Hugo and Milus walked up, their armour almost silent.
‘Gelfred has the beast under observation. Less than a league away. I want a spread line, heavy on the wings, light in the loins, and every man-at-arms with an archer tight to his back.’ The captain glanced about.
‘The usual, then,’ said Jehannes. His tone suggested that the captain should have said as much.
‘The usual. Fill the thing full of arrows and get this done.’ This was not the right moment to spar with Jehannes, who was his best officer, and disapproved of him nonetheless. He looked around for inspiration.
‘Thick woods,’ Jehannes said. ‘Not good for the archers.’
The captain raised his hand. ‘Don’t forget that Gelfred and two of our huntsmen are out there,’ he said. ‘Don’t let’s shoot them full of arrows, too.’
The rear two-thirds of the column came forward in an orderly mob and rolled out to the north and south, forming a rough crescent two hundred ells long, in three rough ranks – knights in the front rank, squires in the middle, both men covering an archer to the rear. Some of the archers carried six-foot bows of a single stave, and some carried heavy crossbows, and a few carried eastern horn bows.
The captain looked at his skirmish line and nodded. His men really were good. He could see Sauce, off to the north, and Bad Tom beyond her. What else could they do? Be outlaws? He gave them purpose.
I like them, he thought. All of them. Even Shortnose and Wilful Murder.
He grinned, and wondered who he would be, if he had not found this.
‘Let’s get this done,’ he said aloud. Michael blew two sharp blasts, and they were moving.
He’d counted two hundred paces when Gelfred appeared off to his left. He waved both arms, and the captain lifted a fist, and the line shuffled to a halt. A single shaft, released by a nervous archer, rattled through the underbrush and missed the huntsman by an ell. Gelfred glared.
Milus spat. ‘Get his name,’ he growled. ‘Fucking new fuck.’
Gelfred ran to the captain. ‘It’s big,’ he said. ‘But not, I think, our quarry. It is – I don’t know how to describe it. It’s different. It’s bigger.’ He shrugged. ‘I may be wrong.’
The captain weighed this. Looked into the endless trees. Stands of evergreen and alder stood denser than the big, older oaks and ashes.
He could feel it. It knew they were there.
‘It’s going to charge us,’ the captain said. He spoke as flatly as he could, so as not to panic his men. ‘Stand ready,’ he called. To hell with silence.
Behind him, Michael’s breathing grew louder.
Gelfred spanned his crossbow. He wasn’t wearing armour. Once he had a bolt on the stock, he stepped into line behind Michael.
>
The captain reached up and lowered his visor, and it fell across his face with a loud snap.
And then his vision was narrowed to the two long slits in his faceplate, and the tiny breathing holes that also gave him his only warning of any motion coming from below. His own breath came back into his mouth, warmer than the air. The inside of the helmet was close, and he could taste his own fear.
Through the slits, the woods went on and on, although they seemed darker and stiller than before.
Even the breeze had died.
Silence.
No bird song.
No insect noise.
Michael’s breathing inside his dog-faced Thuruvian helmet sounded like the bellows in a forge running full-out at a fair. His first time, the captain thought to himself.
The line was shuffling a little. Men changed their stances – the veterans all had heavy spears, or pole-axes, and they shifted their weight uneasily. The crossbowmen tried to aim. The longbowmen waited for a target before they drew. No man could hold a hundred-pound weight bow for long at the full draw.
The captain could feel their fear. He was sweating into his armingcote. When he shifted, cold air came in under his arms and his groin, but the hot sweat ran down his back. His hands were cold.
And he could feel the tension from his adversary.
Does it have nerves too? Fear? Does it think?
No birds sang.
Nothing moved.
The captain wondered if anyone was breathing.
‘Wyvern!’ shouted Bad Tom.
It exploded from the trees in front of the captain – taller than a war horse, the long, narrow head full of back-curved teeth, scales so dark that they appeared black, so polished they seemed to be oiled.
It was fast. The damned things always were.
Its wave of terror was a palpable thing, expanding like a soap bubble around it – the full impact of it struck the captain and washed over him to freeze Michael where he stood.
Gelfred raised his crossbow and shot.
His bolt hit something and the creature opened its maw and screeched until the woods and their ears alike rang with its anger.
The captain had time to take his guard, spear high, hands crossed, weight back on his right hip. His hands were shaking, and the heavy spearhead seemed to vibrate like a living thing.
It was coming right for him.
They always do.
He had a long heartbeat to look into its golden-yellow eyes, flecked with brown – the slitted black pupil, the sense of its alienness.
Other archers loosed. Most missed – taking panicked shots at ranges far closer than they had expected. But not all did.
It ran forward over the last few yards, its two powerful, taloned legs throwing up clods of earth as it charged the thin line of men, head low and forward, snout pointed at the captain’s chest. Wings half open, beating the air for balance.
Gelfred was already spanning his crossbow, confident that his captain would keep him alive for another few heartbeats.
The captain shifted his weight and uncrossed his hands – launching the hardest, fastest swing in his repertoire. Cutting like an axe, the spearhead slammed into the wyvern’s neck, into the soft skin just under the jaw, the cut timed so that the point stopped against the creature’s jawbone . . . and its charge rammed it onto the point, pushing it deeper and then through the neck.
He had less than a heartbeat to savour the accuracy of his cut. Then the captain was knocked flat by a blow from its snout, his spear lodged deep in the thing’s throat. Blood sprayed, and the fanged head forced itself down the shaft of his spear – past the cross guard, ripping itself open – to reach him. Its hate was palpable – it grew in his vision, its blood lashed him like a rain of acid, and its eyes-
The captain was frozen, his hands still on the shaft, as the jaws came for him.
Afraid.
But his spearhead had wide lugs at the base, for just such moments as this and the wyvern’s head caught on them, just out of reach. He had a precious moment – recovered his wits, put his head down, breaking the gaze-
– as in one last gout of blood, it broke the shaft, jaws open and lunged-
The hardened steel of his helmet took the bite. He was surrounded by the smell of the thing – carrion, cold damp earth, hot sulphur, all at once. It thrashed, hampered by the broken spear in its gullet, trying to force its jaws wider and close on his head. He could hear its back-curved teeth scrape, ear-piercingly, over his helmet.
It gave a growl to make his helmet vibrate, tried to lift him and he could feel the muscles in his neck pull. He roared with pain and held hard to the projecting stump of the shaft as the only support he had. He could hear the battle cries – loud, or shrill, depending on the man. He could hear the meaty sounds of strikes – he could feel them – as men’s weapons rained on the wyvern.
But the creature still had him. It tried to twist his head to break his neck, but its bite couldn’t penetrate the helmet for a firmer grip. Its breath was all around him, suffocating him.
He got his feet beneath him and tried to control his panic as the wyvern lifted him clean from the ground. He got his right hand on his heavy rondel dagger – a spike of steel with a grip. With a scream of fear and rage, he slammed it blindly into the thing’s head.
It spat him free and he dropped like a stone to the frozen ground. His dagger spun away, but he rolled, and got to his feet.
Drew his sword.
Cut. All before the wave of pain could strike him – he cut low to high off the draw, left to right across his body and into the joint behind the beast’s leg.
It whirled and before he could react, the tusked snout punched him off his feet. Too fast to dodge. Then threw back its head and screamed.
Bad Tom buried his pole-axe in its other shoulder.
It reared away. A mistake. With two wounded limbs, it stumbled.
The captain got his feet under him, ignored the fire in his neck and back, and stood, powering straight forward, coming at it from the side this time. It turned to flatten Bad Tom, and Jehannes, suddenly in front of it, hit it on the breastbone with a war hammer. Its face was feathered with barbs and arrows. There were more in the sinuous neck. Even as it turned and took another wound, in the moment that the head was motionless it lost an eye to a long shaft, and its body thrashed – a squire was crushed by a flick of the wyvern’s tail, his back breaking and armour folding under the weight of the blow.
Hugo crushed its ribs with a mighty, two-handed overhead blow. George Brewes stabbed it with a spear in the side and left the weapon there while he drew his sword. Lyliard cut overhand into the back of its other leg; Foliack hammered it with repeated strokes.
But it remained focused on the captain. It swatted at him with a leg, lost its balance, roared, and turned on Hugo who had just hit it again. It closed its jaws on the marshal’s head, and his helmet didn’t hold, The bite crushed his skull, killing him instantly. Sauce stepped over his headless corpse and planted her spear in its jaw, but it flung her away with a flick of the neck.
The captain leaped forward again and his sword licked out. This time, his cut took one of the thing’s wings clean off its body, as easy as a practice cut on a sapling. As the head turned and struck at him the captain stood his ground, ready to thrust for the remaining eye – but the head collapsed to the earth a yard from him, almost like a giant dog laying his head down at his master’s feet, and the baleful eye tracked him.
He thrust.
It whipped its head up, away from the point of the sword, reared, remaining wing spread wide and thrashing the men under it, a ragged banner of the Wild-
– and died, a dozen bolts and arrows catching it all together.
It fell across Hugo’s corpse.
The men-at-arms didn’t stop hacking at it for a long time. Jehannes severed the head, Bad Tom took one leg off at the haunch, and two squires got the other leg at the knee. Sauce rammed her long rondel into every joint, over
and over. Archers continued to loose bolts and arrows into the prone mound of its corpse.
They were all covered in blood – thick, brown-green blood like the slime from the entrails of a butchered animal, hot to the touch, so corrosive that it could damage good armour if not cleaned off immediately.
‘Michael?’ the captain said. His head felt as if it had been pulled from his body.
The young man struggled to get his maille aventail over his head, failed, and threw up inside his helmet. But there was wyvern blood on his spear, and more on his sword.
Gelfred spanned his crossbow one more time, eyes fixed on the dead creature. Men were hugging, laughing, weeping, vomiting, or falling to their knees to pray, others merely gazed blank-eyed at the creature. The wyvern.
Already, it looked smaller.
The captain stumbled away from it, caught himself, mentally and physically. His arming cote was soaked. He went instantly from fight-hot to cold. When he stooped to retrieve his dagger, he had a moment’s vertigo, and the pain from his neck muscles was so intense he wondered if he would black out.
Jehannes came up. He looked – old. ‘Six dead. Sweet William has his back broken and asks for you.’
The captain walked the few feet to where Sweet William, an older squire in a battered harness, lay crumpled where the tail and hindquarters had smashed him flat and crushed his breastplate. Somehow, he was alive.
‘We got it, aye?’ he said thickly. ‘Was bra’ly done? Aye?’
The captain knelt in the mire by the dying man’s head. ‘Bravely done, William.’
‘God be praised,’ Sweet William said. ‘It all hurts. Get it done, eh? Captain?’
The captain bent down to kiss his forehead, and put the blade of his rondel into an eye as he did, and held the man’s head until the last spasm passed, before laying his head slowly in the mire.
He was slow getting back to his feet.
Jehannes was looking to where Hugo’s corpse lay under the beast’s head. He shook his head. Looked up, and met the captain’s eye. ‘But we got it.’
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