The Red Knight

‘An angel of God told you to come and kill my enemies?’ he asked. Desiderata thought the knight spoke with irony but she couldn’t be sure. De Vrailly blinded her in some strange way. He filled the room.

She closed her eyes and she could still sense him.

‘Yes,’ he said.

The king shook his head. ‘Then who am I to deny you,’ he said. ‘And yet I sense that you, in turn, desire something of me?’

De Vrailly laughed, and the sweet musical sound of it filled the room. ‘Of course! I would be your heir in exchange, and this kingdom shall, after you, be my own.’

The earl staggered as if he had been struck.

The king shook his head. ‘Then, angel or no, I think it would be best if you went back to Galle,’ he said. ‘My wife will bear me an heir of my body, or I will appoint my own choice.’

‘Of course!’ de Vrailly said. ‘But of course, my king!’ He nodded, his eyes shining. ‘But I will prove myself and become your choice. I will serve you, and you will see that there is no one like me.’

‘And you know this because an angel told you.’

‘Yes,’ said Jean de Vrailly. ‘And I offer to prove it on the body of any man you send against me, on horse or foot, with any weapon you care to name.’

His challenge, delivered in his sweet angelic voice from the bended knee of the suppliant, had all the authority of a decree. Men flinched from it.

The king nodded, as if satisfied.

‘Then I look forward to placing my lance against yours,’ he said. ‘But not as a challenge to your angel. Merely for the pleasure of the thing.’

Desiderata saw the perfect knight exchange a glance with his cousin. And she had no idea what thought they shared, but they were pleased. Pleased with themselves, and perhaps pleased with the king. It warmed her, so she smiled.

Gaston, the Sieur D’Eu, smiled back at her, but the golden de Vrailly, never took his eyes from the king. ‘I should love to match lances with you, sire,’ he said.

‘Well, not tonight. It’s too dark. Perhaps tomorrow.’ The king looked at the Earl of Towbray and nodded. ‘I thank you for bringing me this splendid man. I hope I have the revenue to keep him and his army!’

The earl chewed his moustache for a moment, and then shrugged. ‘My pleasure, your Majesty,’ he replied.

Lissen Carak – The Red Knight

‘God be with you,’ The Abbess said quietly, laying her hands on Wilful Murder’s head, and he flinched.

She caught the captain’s eye as the narrow gateway began to clear.

‘Any pursuit?’ he asked Ser George Brewes, the rear file leader – a man ready to be a corporal. One of Jehannes’ cronies, not one of Tom’s. Still waiting in the gate, aware it was open, eyes on the darkness outside.

Brewes shrugged. ‘How would I know?’ he asked. But he relented. ‘I wouldn’t think it.’ He shook his head. ‘We lit ten farms’ worth of the woods, and sent the fire downwind right at their camp.’

‘How many Jacks?’ the captain asked.

‘At least a hundred. Maybe thrice that – there’s no proper counting in the dark, ser.’ Brewes shrugged. ‘M’lord,’ he added, as an afterthought.

A pair of valets and an archer came up and began to winch the main gate shut.

‘Ware!’ shouted a voice from the highest tower, the one over the nuns’ dormitory, and the captain heard the unmistakable sound of a crossbow snapping off a shot.

Something passed over the moon.

Thankfully every man was on the walls and alert, or it might have been worse when the wyvern came down into the courtyard on wings a dozen ells wide, and its claws wreaked ruin among the unarmoured dancers and singers and merry-makers, but before the screams started it sprouted a dozen bolts, and it raised its head and screeched a long cry of anger and pain, and leapt back into the air.

The captain saw Michael, unarmoured, hurdle a pair of corpses and draw his heavy dagger, flinging himself at the wyvern’s back as it lifted into the air. Its tail flicked – and slammed full force into the squire’s hip. Michael screamed in pain and was thrown a horse’s length to the stone.

The Red Knight didn’t waste the time provided by his squire. He was down from the gatehouse, sword in gloved hand, before Michael’s scream had echoed off the stable walls and the chapel.

The wyvern whirled to finish the squire, and Bad Tom stepped between the monster and its prey. The big man had a long, heavy spear in hand, and he attacked, thrusting for the thing’s head. It was fast – but its sinuous neck served the creature as a man’s torso serves a man, and when it flicked its head to avoid the spear, it could neither strike nor rise into the air until it had its balance back.

Bad Tom stepped in closer, shortened his grip on the spear and struck hard, thrusting the spear brutally into the thing’s chest where the neck met its underbelly.

Long shafts began to feather the thing’s wings and abdomen.