The headache was back.
He stood by his water basin for a full watch. Staring into the dark.
It was, as such things went, pretty dark.
You make them love you, and then you tire of the energy they demand, the voice said.
He sighed, lay down, and went to sleep.
The chapel was magnificent, with all the decoration that could be managed for an occasion that featured the King, the Queen, the Prior, and a thousand noblemen – virtually the whole peerage of Alba.
But there wasn’t room for all of them. The chapel had been built for sixty nuns, as many novices, and perhaps another hundred worshipers.
In the end the service was held in the chapel, but only a select few were there. The rest waited in the courtyard and were served communion there. It was well-managed, and had a festive air despite the great solemnity of the occasion. The courtyard was full to bursting, and velvet clad gentlemen stood shoulder to shoulder with farmers and farm wives.
The Prior and the new Abbess had been very mindful of the future in their assignment of places. Only the greatest lords were in the chapel. The King and Queen sat enthroned. By the king’s right hand stood the Captal de Ruth; by the Queen stood Lady Almspend and Lady Mary. The Count of the Borders stood with the Count D’Eu; the Earl of Towbray stood with Ser Alcaeus, as the ambassador of the Emperor Basileus. And next to him stood the captain.
The Prior said the mass, and a thousand beeswax candles burned.
It was brutally hot.
Out in the courtyard, the company stood in full armour, four ranks deep. With them, by a curious choice of the Prior’s, stood the surviving knights of the military orders in their black. Mag stood nearby, with the women of the company. Her home was gone, and Johne the Bailli had made her a proposal.
The Prior preached about Mary Magdalene. He spoke about sin, and forgiveness. About faith, hope, and charity, and the nuns brought forth the bier on which the Abbess lay. When her corpse entered the chapel, the air temperature dropped, and a smell, like lilacs, wafted in through the doors.
The captain looked at her and wept.
The Captal de Ruth looked at him and raised an eyebrow.
The Queen placed a hand on the captal’s arm.
The captain looked up – he’d surprised himself – and found that he was eye to eye with Amicia. She was standing by the rightmost choir stall, near the altar screen, with six other women in sparkling white-grey. She had, no doubt, been watching him weep.
And now, her eyes remained fixed on his.
She was knocking at the door.
He left it closed.
One is one, and all alone, and ever more shall be so.
The service went on for too long.
When the novices had been elevated; when the new Abbess had been formally invested – when the last words had been spoken over the old Abbess – then the whole congregation rose from their knees and walked in procession from the chapel, through the gate, and down onto the plain. The company acted as guards to the bier with the knights. It was a signal honour, subtly granted by the Prior.
She was lowered slowly into the newly turned earth by six knights.
The Prior threw a shovel of earth onto her.
The captain found that he had wandered away into a world of his own, when the king – the king himself – materialized in front of him.
‘I owe you a debt of gratitude,’ the king said. ‘You are not an easy man to find.’
The captain shrugged. ‘Your servant, my lord,’ he said dismissively.
The king was shocked by the mercenary’s rudeness, but he mastered himself. ‘The Queen has requested that she meet your company. We know what sacrifices they made for our kingdom.’
‘Oh, as to that,’ the captain said, ‘We were well paid.’ But he turned, and led the king and Queen and a small host of their courtiers through the ranks of the company.
The first man on the right was Bad Tom, and next to him, his brother. The king smiled. ‘Ranald!’ he said. ‘I thought that you had returned to my guard?’ He laughed. ‘I note the colour of your tabard remains the same.’
Ranald looked straight ahead. ‘Business,’ he said, seriously. ‘My lord.’
‘But this is a woman, surely?’ asked the Queen, who had taken a few more steps.
‘Ser Alison,’ the captain said. ‘Her friends call her Sauce.’
‘A woman knight?’ the Queen asked. ‘How delightful.’
By her elbow, the captal laughed. ‘Knighted by whose hand?’ he asked.
‘My own,’ the captain said.
Conversation stopped.
‘By what right do you make knights?’ demanded the captal. ‘That is reserved for the very highest nobility, members of the greatest orders, and knights of great renown.’
‘Yes,’ the captain said. ‘Yes, I agree.’
The king cleared his throat. ‘I doubt any knight in this gathering would doubt the captain’s renown, Captal.’
The captal laughed. ‘He is a bastard – a bourc. Everyone says so. He cannot be noble, and he cannot make a knight – most especially not make a knight out of a woman.’
The captain felt the tension in his chest – not fear, but something like anticipation.
In a low voice, he said, ‘My lord, you requested to see my company. If you are done, we will take our leave.’
‘Unsay it,’ the captal insisted. ‘Unsay that this woman is a knight. Make her take that golden belt off her hips. It is unseemly.’
‘Captal!’ said the king. ‘Control yourself.’
The captal shrugged. ‘You are too easy, my liege.’ He looked at the captain and sneered. ‘I say you are a bastard, a caitiff, a low-born poseur, and I say before all these gentlemen that you cannot make a knight, that no knighting of yours-’
The captain turned to the king. Leaned over, and whispered in his ear.
The king whirled, looked at the mercenary, and the blood left his face like a tide slipping away from a white sand beach. In three beats of a man’s heart, the king aged – he looked as white as parchment. His upper lip trembled. The Queen, who had not been able to hear the words, felt his hand close on her arm like a vice and gave a little grunt of pain.
On the other side of the grave, Sister Amicia gave a start, and went as pale as the king.
The silence went on for so long that wasps could be heard droning, and the grunt of the men filling the Abbess’ grave.
The king looked at the captain, and the captain looked back at the king, and then the king inclined his head – the sort of civil motion that a gentlemen makes to a lady about to proceed him through a door.
In a hoarse voice, the king said, ‘This gentleman has the power to make a knight anywhere within the kingdom of Alba, of anyone, no matter how ignoble their birth or station. Such is my word.’
The captain bowed deeply and the captal was silent.
The king acknowledged the captain’s bow, and he took the Queen and led her on, up the hill to the fortress.
The captain caught the captal’s eye. Jean de Vrailly was afraid of nothing – so he stopped.
‘I take it I have managed to offend you?’ he said. ‘It is difficult for me to understand how a whore like you can take offence. You fight only for money.’
The captain had control of himself. He took his time. Composed his answer while the captal was pinned in place by convention like a butterfly to parchment.
‘Sometimes I fight for free,’ he said. ‘But only when it interests me.’ He paused, holding the captal with his eyes. ‘But I imagine that in the end, someone will pay me to put you down like the mad dog you are.’
Jean de Vrailly smiled – a beautiful smile that filled his face. ‘So,’ he said. And laughed. ‘I look forward to see you try.’
‘I imagine you do,’ the captain muttered. He wasn’t sure that he’d had the better of the exchange, but he walked away without falling over his feet.
Lissen Carak – Michael
> The Earl of Towbray left his tail of men-at-arms and all but ran down the steps behind the Commandery to catch the captain’s squire. Former squire.
‘You are a knight!’ he said.
Michael turned. ‘Pater. So are you, I find.’
Towbray couldn’t be angry. ‘I gather you won your spurs and then some,’ he said. ‘Can you come home now?’
Michael shook his head. ‘No, Pater.’ He looked up, and found it easier to meet his father’s eye then he had expected. ‘I was glad to see our banner. With the king.’ He looked around. ‘Surprised. But glad.’
Towbray shrugged. ‘I can’t love the king. But – damn it, boy! Who are you to tell me how to play the game of court?’
Michael shook his head and then bowed. ‘A new-minted knight, who makes twenty-eight florins a month in a company of mercenaries. ‘He stepped back. ‘I must go.’
Towbray reached out a hand. ‘I admire you.’
‘You won’t admire me as much when I tell you that I’m planning to marry a farm girl from Abbington.’ Michael grinned, feeling, for once, that he was master of a conversation with his father.
His father started, but with grim determination, extended his hand. ‘So be it,’ said his father, although his face showed distaste.
Michael took the hand. ‘Then may I have my allowance back?’
Lissen Carak – The Red Knight
An hour later, the company was mounted and ready. All week the wagons had been swayed out of the cellars and re-built, rolled down the hill, and loaded. The company’s stock had been safe in the fortress, and they were hitched with the company’s usual efficiency. The valets mounted the wagons, the archers collected the spare mounts, and the camp followers got their nags and donkeys. At the head of the column, the captain mounted a strange new war horse, just given him by the Prior, and looked back to see Michael – Ser Michael – attending to the banner.
One by one, the corporals reported in, ready to march. A small crowd formed – mostly Lanthorns and Carters and a dozen guildsmen from Harndon, come to see their boys off as they marched away. And their girls. Amy and Kitty Carter, Lis the laundress, Old Mag – who hadn’t looked as young in twenty years. Her daughter Sukey, whose husband had died in the siege. The captain had noted Sukey with Bad Tom. Twice. He made a note to himself to look into that.
The captain looked repeatedly for a single face in the crowd, but it refused to be there. Many women looked – for an instant – like her. Too many women.
So when all his people were ready, and the sun was so high in the sky that it made a mockery of his intention to march away, he raised a hand. ‘March!’ he said.
Whips cracked, men shouted, and wagons rolled.
Gerald Random waved from the walls, and Jean de Vrailly watched silently. The Prior saluted and women cried.
The king stood alone in the north tower, watching the convoy begin to roll east. His hands shook. And the Queen watched him from the courtyard and wondered what was amiss.
A young nun knelt, her back straight, at the high altar of the chapel.
A mile from the fortress, the captain came upon his huntsman, sitting his horse silently at a bend in the road. It took him a long moment to recognise where they were.
‘We still never caught the man who killed that nun,’ Gelfred said. ‘It sticks in my craw. I want justice.’
‘It was the priest,’ the captain said. ‘Sister Amicia and I figured it out – far too late to punish him for it. He’s off to the Wild, I suspect.’
Gelfred crossed himself. ‘He will go to Hell!’ Gelfred said. ‘God will punish him.’
He captain shrugged. ‘God doesn’t give a fuck, Gelfred,’ he said. He touched his heels to his magnificent new charger. ‘But I do, Gelfred, and I promise you, the priest will die.’
And with that, he put his horse’s head to the east, and rode away.
Far to the west, Thorn paused at the top of a ridge. He could see fifty leagues in the clear air, and he breathed deep. He had twenty wounds, and his powers – greater than they had ever been – were nonetheless spent.
He looked east.
That was foolish, he thought. The further he got from the rock, the more it was like a bad dream.
I could have been killed. For ever.
But I wasn’t, and when I return-
The great creature that was Thorn could not smile, but something passed over the heavy bark and stone of his face.
On the downslope of the ridge, he thought, Or perhaps I’ll do something else. Unify the boglins, perhaps.
Chapter Eighteen
The King
The North Road – The Red Knight
The column rolled east at a good pace and within hours, the captain’s precautions were justified by huntsmen flushing creatures of the Wild – a pair of boglins, and a lone irk.
They made camp early, dug a trench, and stood watches.
The captain lay awake most of the night.
In the morning they moved with the dawn, and his heart began to lift. The process of camping, of moving camp, and the sounds of the horses and the wagons – the sounds of people and animals – it all raised his spirits.
It took them three days to come to the Southford of the Albin. Albinkirk still smouldered, on its hill. The Royal Standard still flew from the castle, and the captain and his officers rode to the town gate, were admitted, and dined with Ser John Crayford.
Ser Alcaeus, who was falling into the company as if he had always been there, walked them around the walls. ‘This is where we held their first rush,’ he said at the ruined west wall. ‘Here’s where a dozen of us held the gate.’ And again, with a wry look, ‘Here’s where we almost lost the wall.’
Crayford shook his head. ‘You’re the very King of Sell-Swords, now, I reckon,’ he said. He leered at the captain. ‘My squire’s older than you, boy! How’d you do it?’
The captain raised an eyebrow. ‘Clean living.’
Crayford shook his head. ‘Good on you, lad. I’m a jealous old man. If I had another battle in me, I’d follow you.’
The captain smiled. ‘Even though two of your men are leaving you for my company?’ he asked.
The old man managed to nod with a good grace. ‘Even then, you scapegrace.’
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.’
T
he 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.
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