‘There’s open talk of negotiation. Of surrendering the fortress for free passage away,’ Ser Jehannes said. The others flinched at his tone.
‘No,’ The captain said. ‘There will be neither surrender nor negotiation.’ He was noticing that he’d been bandaged around the ribs, and that all the hair had been shaved away – well. Lots of hair. He winced. The Abbess was dead and he realised that he had, in his way, loved her.
Always looking for a better mother, he thought. ‘If you all will leave Michael to dress me,’ he said quietly.
‘Dress quickly,’ Ser Jehannes said. ‘It’s happening right now.’ He was quiet. ‘All the local people. Some of the men.’
Sister Miram withdrew to the door. ‘She would never have surrendered,’ she said quietly. ‘The men in the courtyard are saying Amicia did it,’ she added.
The captain winced and met her eye. ‘I’ll see to it.’
The nun closed the door.
The captain got himself out of bed, despite a touch of vertigo. He had a feeling he knew from childhood – the feeling of having tapped his Hermetical powers utterly. An emptiness, but also a good feeling, like a well-exercised body.
Prudentia is dead.
It was not the first time that good people had died to keep him alive.
Toby appeared with his old black doublet and his old black hose and his fine gold belt. He looked terrified.
Hose took time to get on – he tried to quiet his own pulse. To think about something besides the Abbess and his tutor.
‘She was murdered,’ Ser Jehannes said. ‘Someone shot the Abbess in the back.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Gelfred says it was Witch Bane.’
The thought of it made him physically sick.
‘And no one saw this?’ he asked wearily.
‘Everyone was watching the fight outside the walls,’ Ser Jehannes said.
The captain sighed. ‘Secure the gates and all the passages. There is a passage under the main donjon which leads out of the fortress. Right now, it’s blocked by our wagon-bodies, but put a pair of archers – good archers – on the stairs. Give me a nod when this is done.’
‘When you say I should secure-’ Jehannes paused.
‘As if we were taking the fortress for ourselves,’ the captain said harshly. ‘As if we were in Galle. Trust no one who is not one of ours. Use force if you have to. Secure the exits, Jehannes!’
The old knight saluted. ‘Yes, my lord.’
Michael had his boots. He buckled them around the ankles, laced the tops to the captain’s pourpoint.
‘Full armour, gloves, war sword,’ the captain said.
Michael began to arm him. It wasn’t a quick process and some parts hurt a great deal. But wearing armour was itself a statement.
The arming doublet and mail haubergon weighed on him like a shirt of lead and a hairshirt all together. Many knights believed that the very pain of wearing armour was a penance before God.
Well.
Leg harness, starting with the cuisses, and then the greaves and the steel sabatons that buckled so neatly over his boots, right to the shaped and pointed toes. Michael pointed the cuisses into his arming doublet at an amazing speed, while Toby supported him.
He stood, flexed his legs, and Michael, aided now by Jacques, fitted his breast and back over his head and latched it shut.
‘Had a dent in it like you wouldn’t believe,’ Michael said.
‘Oh, I would,’ the captain said.
Michael snorted. ‘Carlus says taking the dent out took more strength than he’s ever had to use,’ he said. ‘Like the steel was magicked.’
Each of them took an arm harness – vambrace, elbow cop and rerebrace in a single unit on sliding rivets, a miracle of craftsmanship in gilded bronze and hardened steel – and clipped them on, buckling them to his upper arms and then to his shoulders with straps, and then his pauldrons went on, and the circular plates that strapped to the pauldrons and guarded his under arms.
The golden belt at his waist.
Golden spurs at his heels.
Gloves, and a sword, and the baton of his office.
‘There you are, my lord,’ Michael said.
The captain smiled – it was done as fast and as painlessly as it could have been done by anyone. ‘You are a fine squire,’ he said.
He walked out of the recovery ward, looked down the main corridor, and saw his brother.
Gawin had his feet over the edge of the bed.
‘Stay where you are,’ the captain said gently. ‘Michael, stay here with this man.’
Michael nodded. And saluted. He recognised his captain’s tone.
‘But-’ Gawin began.
The captain shook his head. ‘Not now, messire.’
He walked down the corridor to the other ward. Ser Jehannes had already passed. Low Sym was dressing in his gambeson.
‘Have a sword, Sym?’ the captain said.
Sym nodded wordlessly.
The captain pointed at Amicia’s elegant back, standing at the dry sink across the room. ‘She is not to leave this ward until I return,’ he said. ‘If you harm her you are a dead man. But she is not to leave this room. Understand?’
Amicia whirled on him. ‘What?’
‘For your own protection, sister,’ he said, his voice quiet. ‘Father Henry has killed the Abbess. But he will seek to blame you.’
‘Father Henry?’ she came towards him, a hand at her chest. ‘The priest?’
He was at the top of the stairs. ‘Obey. On your life.’ He ignored her outcry, and went down the steps, past the commanderies, to the courtyard. At the door, Bad Tom waited, armoured cap a pied, a pole-axe in his left hand.
‘It’s bad,’ he said.
The captain nodded. He pulled on his gloves, and took the staff of his command from his belt. ‘On me,’ he said, and Tom opened the door.
The sound hit him. Anger first – then fear.
Every farmer and tenant was in the courtyard – four hundred men and women packed into four hundred square ells. The noise was like a living thing.
The dispensary had a wooden step, and two of his men-at-arms were keeping it clear.
On the other side of the courtyard, a dozen big farmers stood together. With them were some of the merchants.
The captain turned to Carlus, and he blew his trumpet. It was loud, and shrill.
Every head turned.
The captain waved the staff over the assembly. ‘Disperse!’ he said into the sudden silence. ‘There will be no negotiation, and no surrender,’ he went on.
A dangerous murmur began.
‘Kindly disperse to your stations and your beds, and let’s have no more of this,’ the captain kept his voice level and kind.
One of the merchants raised his head. ‘Who are you, messire, to decide for us?’
The captain took a deep breath and struggled with the spark of rage that hit him. Why did good men always make him feel like this? ‘I will not debate this with you,’ he said. ‘If you wish to leave, the gate will be opened for you.’
Another farmer shouted ‘Fuck you! That’s just death! It’s our land that’s destroyed. Our farms that are burned, you sell-sword. Get out of the way, or we’ll put you out.’
Jehannes was waving to him from the portcullis winch. He had a key in his hand.
‘This fortress is under the protection of my company,’ The captain said loudly. ‘The lady Abbess charged me with its defence, and I will hold it until I am dead. The power that invests us will not hesitate to lie, deceive, or betray us to our doom – but it will not let anyone here escape alive. The only hope any of you have is to join us in resisting to the last drop of our blood. Or better yet, to the last drop of theirs.’ He looked around. ‘The king, ‘ he almost choked on the title, but he got it out. ‘The king is on his way. Do not give way to despair. Now, please disperse.’
‘You can’t fight all of us!’ shouted the farmer.
The captain sighed. ‘In fact, we can kill every on
e of you.’ He spoke out. ‘Look around you. Would the Abbess ever have given in? She isn’t even buried yet and look at you. Ready to surrender?’ He pushed his way into the courtyard, ignoring Tom’s protests. He pushed his way through the crowd until he was nose to nose with the big farmer.
‘Priest says she was a witch,’ the farmer said.
People were shuffling away from him.
‘Priest says all these so-called nuns is witches!’ the farmer insisted. ‘Souls black as night.’
A few men nodded. None of the women did.
The captain passed his arm through the farmer’s arm. ‘Come with me,’ he said.
‘I don’t have to – argh!’ the farmer stumbled. He was unable to resist the armoured man, and was pulled along through the crowd to the great gate.
The gate was open, and the sun was shining beyond the walls of the fortress.
‘Look out there,’ the captain said. ‘Look out there at what Thorn has done. He betrayed his king. He betrayed his people. He has made himself a construct of the Wild, a sorcerer without compare, unlimited by laws or even friends. And you think that is better than your Abbess? Because a priest told you that black is white, and white is black?’ The captain spat the words.
‘And I should trust you?’ the farmer growled.
‘Since you are so obviously a fool – yes. You’d do better trusting me, the man who fights to defend you, than trusting to the God-damned priest, who killed your Abbess.’
The crowd was backing away from him, and he had to assume his eyes were burning.
The farmer stood his ground, but his jaw was trembling. ‘You’re one of them too. And the priest says the other witch killed the Abbess. For her power.’
The crowd muttered again. ‘You’re one of them!’ shouted a man at the front.
‘I am whatever I choose to be,’ said the captain. ‘So are you. What do you choose?’
Tom and Jehannes stepped up behind him. And with them, a dozen other men-at-arms in plate armour, and most of the archers. There were archers on the walls, on the stumps of the towers.
‘Don’t make me do this,’ the captain said to the crowd.
Sister Miram walked out of the wreckage of the chapel with Mag, the seamstress. Miram raised her arms.
Mag spat. ‘Look at you, Bill Fuller.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Playing with fire. Going to stand here and get shot?’ She looked over the crowd. ‘Go to your beds. Let go. We’ve lost the Abbess. Let’s not spill any more blood here.’
‘We can take ’em,’ Fuller said. But his tone suggested he knew he was lying.
Mag walked over and slapped his face. ‘You always were a weak fool, Bill Fuller,’ she said. ‘They’ll kill every one of us, if they have to. We wouldn’t even hurt them to do it. And for what? The enemy is out there.’
Johne the Bailli came out of the chapel. ‘Well said, Maggie.’ He went and stood with Bad Tom. ‘I stand for the Abbess. We will not surrender.’
Maggie’s daughter Sukey came and stood with her. She was shaking.
The Carters started to burrow through the crowd.
Dan Favor went and stood with Ser Jehannes.
Amie Carter grabbed her sister’s wrist and towed her across the open space. She turned and faced the crowd. ‘Don’t be a pack of tom-fools,’ she said. ‘You been sorcelled. Can’t you feel it? Don’t be so stupid and pig-ignorant you can’t face it.’
Liz the laundress came and stood by Tom. Kaitlin Lanthorn walked across the open space.
‘Sluts and harlots,’ said a voice.
The heads of the crowd turned, as one.
Father Henry looked as if he’d been on the cross. His face was streaked in old, dried blood. His robe was flayed and fell around his waist, showing his ascetic body, lacerated with further cuts.
The people parted for him. He walked between them like a king.
‘Sluts and harlots. Are these your allies, Satan?’ He stopped at the edge of the crowd.
‘Not all of us are sluts, priest,’ said Master Random, and he burrowed into the crowd. ‘Adrian! Allan Pargeter! What are you doing with this man? Fomenting mischief? Master Random walked into the crowd, looking for other apprentices he knew.
‘You killed the Abbess,’ the captain said.
Father Henry drew himself up, and the captain knew he had his man. He was too proud to deny the crime.
Fool.
‘She was a witch, a creature of Satan who chose to put her own appetites against-’
The stone hit the priest in the head. He snapped around, eyes blazing, and just for a moment, he didn’t look like a gentle and crucified Jesus. He looked like a madman. His eyes raged.
‘Take that man,’ the Red Knight said. He pointed his baton.
Bad Tom reached out with his pole-axe, caught the priest’s foot with the head, and pulled, and the priest fell. Tom kicked him viciously, his armoured foot making a distinctive meaty sound as it connected with the priest’s gut.
The priest retched.
Two archers grabbed him and hoisted him. He tried to speak, and he got the butt of Tom’s pole-axe in the arch of his foot. He screeched.
And suddenly, there was no crowd. Just frightened people, looking for salvation.
And most of them asked – Where is the king?
Chapter Fifteen
Long Paw
Albinkirk (Southford) – Ranald Lachlan
When Ranald Lachlan led his scouts down to the edge of the Albin River, he could scarcely believe his eyes.
Fifty great boats, like galleys, lay in the river opposite the landing. The river fleet covered the river in four long files of boats, and their oars went back and forth like the legs of water-running insects.
At his back, the Royal Standard of Alba fluttered in the breeze over the gate-towers of Albinkirk, and the fields by the great bridge were empty of foes. It was like a dream, because the familiar ground was so empty.
Ranald sat his horse, watching the big river craft row, and even as he watched, they turned, all together, at a flash of a great bronze shield, and suddenly the whole fleet went from four columns advancing west to four lines heading toward the north shore. His shore.
He walked his horse out onto the landing stage where the ferry had run, in better times, and waved.
A woman in the bow of the largest galley waved back. An awe-inspiringly beautiful woman in a flowing white overkirtle. It took an effort of will to tear his eyes away from her, and he knew her well, from his years in the south.
Queen Desiderata.
Unbidden, a smile came to his face, and he laughed.
Albinkirk – Desiderata
Who is that?’ Desiderata said to her maidens teasingly. She was standing in the bow, waving. ‘I feel I know him.’
Lady Almspend stood and waved. ‘Ranald the barbarous hillman, my lady,’ she said brightly.
Desiderata smiled at her secretary. ‘You seem happy enough to see him,’ the Queen said.
Lady Almspend sat a little too suddenly. ‘He – gave me the most wonderful book,’ she said haltingly.
The other ladies laughed, but not unkindly.
‘Was it a big book?’ one asked.
‘Very old?’ asked another.
‘Perhaps more like a nice, thick scroll?’ suggested Lady Mary.
‘Ladies,’ the Queen said. The oarsmen were losing the stroke, laughing so hard. But the bank was rushing at them, despite the current.
As they rowed into the landing, the Queen stepped lightly up on the gunwale and leaped onto the pier.
Ranald Lachlan, who she remembered perfectly well, bowed deeply and then knelt.
She gave him her hand. ‘It is a long way, since you were in my bridal guard.’
He smiled at her. ‘A pleasure, my lady.’
She looked past him, up the tall bank, where Donald Redmane had the lads dismounted. ‘You have a small army of your people here. Come to aid the king?’
He shrugged. ‘My cousin lost a small ar
my, my lady. We’ve already fought the Outwallers. But I have a thousand head of beeves and some sheep, and I’m looking to sell them to the Royal Army.’
She nodded. ‘I will buy them all. What’s your asking price?’
If he was surprised by her tone or manner, he hid it well. ‘Three silver marks a head,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘You drive a hard bargain.’ She said. ‘Is it chivalrous for a knight to bargain with his Queen?’
Ranald shrugged, but he couldn’t stop looking into her eyes. ‘Lady, I could say I’m no knight, but a drover. And I could say I’m a hillman, and not in any way your subject.’ He grinned, and knelt. ‘But he’d be a rude bastard and no kind of a man, who ever failed to acknowledge you as his Queen.’
She clapped her hands delightedly. ‘You are the very spirit of the north, Ser Ranald. One mark per beeve.’
‘You, my lady, are the living embodiment of beauty, but for a mark a head, I could have sold them to the Keeper of Dorling. Two silver marks a head.’ His eyes flicked to something behind her, and his smile intensified.
‘You remember my secretary, the very learned Lady Almspend?’ she asked. ‘One and a half.’
‘One and a half, right here, on this side of the river?’ he asked. He made another deep bow, this time to her secretary, who was standing on the gunwale, beaming. ‘Two if I have to drive them over the river.’
‘What’s a kiss worth,’ sang Lady Almspend. She blushed, shocked at her own boldness.
‘Everything!’ he shouted back. ‘But these aren’t my beeves, so I can’t trade them for a kiss, my sweet,’ He relented. ‘Your Grace, my price is two, but I’ll drive them where you like, and pledge my lads to serve your Grace.’
The Queen nodded. ‘Sold. Fetch me my navarch. I have a thousand head of cattle to ferry over the river.’ She turned back to the hillman. ‘So despite your sordid money, you’ll do a deed of arms with me?’
She put extra effort into her voice. She saw a coldness in him – something absent, some terror recently passed – and her voice caressed it like liquid gold.
The hillman looked cautious. ‘What kind of deed?’
‘What knight asks what deed is required of him? Really, Ser Ranald,’ she said, and put her arm through his.
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