The Red Knight

‘There!’ said the mercenary.

There was, just for a moment, a pinpoint of light that burned like a star above the glow of Albinkirk.

Random shrugged. ‘That’s all?’ he asked.

Guilbert nodded, clearly unhappy about it.

‘I’m for bed, then,’ Random said. ‘Wake me if we’re attacked,’ he added. He wished, later, that he hadn’t been quite so snappish.

Lissen Carak – Mag the Seamstress

Mag the seamstress sat on a barrel, staying out of the way. The day had passed well enough – she’d helped Lis wash shirts and been paid in solid coin for her work; had remembered her skills at avoiding pinching fingers, or delivering a slap where it was needed. The mercenaries were like nothing she’d ever seen – aggressive beyond anything a town of peasants had to offer.

She knew that, had the circumstances differed, they’d have killed her sheep, taken her chickens, her silver, and probably raped and killed her as well. These were hard men – bad men.

But they shared their wine and danced in the evening, and she had a hard time seeing them for what they probably were. Thieves and murderers. Because the Abbess said the Wild was going to attack them, and these men were all they had as defenders, and Mag thought . . .

Whatever she thought, she must have drifted off after the flashes in the sky. And suddenly they came out of the darkness in blackened armour, led by Thomas, who she now knew was Ser Thomas, riding hard on a destrier covered in sweat; six men-at-arms, twenty archers and some armed valets, all galloping up the twisting road and through the gate almost at her feet.

Bad Tom was the first off his horse, and he bent his knee to the captain. ‘Just as you said,’ he panted. ‘We fucked ’em.’ He rose stiffly.

The captain embraced the bigger man. ‘Go get your harness off and get a drink,’ he said. ‘With my thanks, Tom. Well done.’

‘And who’s gonna take the lamp-black off my mail?’ complained one of the archers – the one with dead eyes. He looked up, and his terrifying eyes found her unerringly with their promise of violence.

He grinned at her. The other men called him Will, and she’d learned it stood for Wilful Murder, of which he had apparently been convicted.

She flinched.

‘How was it?’ asked the captain.

Thomas laughed his huge laugh. ‘Gorgeous, Cap’n!’ he said, and swung down.

The other men laughed, a little wildly, as Mag knew men she knew that Thomas was really laughing, and the others had endured something sharp and horrible.

They’d survived it, and triumphed.

The captain embraced the big man again, and shook his hand. He went among the archers, helping them dismount and giving each his hand, and Mag saw the Abbess was right next to him and that she was blessing them.

She clapped her hands and just managed not to laugh.

Harndon Palace – Desiderata

As evening fell, Desiderata watched the foreign knight with the pleasure of a connoisseur for a true artist. He was tall – a head taller than every other man in the great hall – and he moved with a grace that God only bestowed on women and exceptional athletes. His face was like that of a saint – bright gold hair and sculpted features that were not quite too fine for a man. His red jupon fitted to perfection, his white hose were silk, not wool, and the wide belt of gold plaques on his slim hips was a mute testament to riches, privilege, and bodily power.

He bowed deeply before the king, sinking all the way to one knee with graceful courtesy.

‘My lord King, may I present the noble Jean de Vrailley, Captal de Ruth, and his cousin Gaston D’Albret, Sieur D’Eu.’ The herald proceeded to name their coats of arms and their heraldic achievements.

Desiderata already knew the foreign knight’s achievements.

She watched his eyes, and he watched the king.

The king scratched his beard. ‘It is a long way from the Grand Pays,’ he said. ‘Is all of Galle at peace, that you can bring so many knights to my lands?’ He said the words easily, and yet his eyes were hard and his face blank.

De Vrailly remained on one knee. ‘An angel commanded me to come and serve you,’ he said.

His sponsor, the Earl of Towbray, turned sharply.

Desiderata extended her sense – her warmth, as she thought of it – towards him, and the foreign knight burned like the sun.

She inhaled, as if to inhale his warmth, and the king glanced at her.

‘An angel of God?’ the king asked. He leaned forward.

‘Is there another kind?’ de Vrailly asked.

Desiderata had never heard a man speak with such simple arrogance. It hurt her, like a physical blemish on a beautiful flower. And yet, like many blemishes, it had its own fascination.

The king nodded. ‘How do you intend to serve me, Ser Knight?’ he asked.

‘By fighting,’ de Vrailly said. ‘By making unrelenting war upon your enemies. The Wild. Or any men who oppose you.’

The king scratched his beard.