The Red Knight

There was a stir up in the castle yard – soldiers craning their necks, others moving to the walls, while still others jammed up at the gate beyond which were sounds of shouting and galloping horses.

The Queen did not often pray. But as she watched the king she put her right hand to the rosary around her neck and prayed to the Queen of Heaven, asking her for grace-

Two horses flashed past the gate, galloping along the cobbled road to the lists down by the moat yard, their riders shouting and horseshoes striking sparks that leapt even in the sunlight.

She could feel the gathering of powers in the tiltyard, exactly as she had been able to feel the first gathering of Harmodius’ not inconsiderable power, but this was power of another order – like bright white light on a dark day.

The foreign knight touched his spurs to his horse.

The king spurred Father Jerome, almost in the same instant. In another time, she would have applauded.

The two messengers were racing along the moat road, neck and neck, as king and knight charged each other-

– and Ser Jean’s horse shied beneath him as a great horse fly sunk its sting far into the black horse’s unprotected nose, where the soft lips emerged from beneath the chamfron.

The war horse balked, missed a stride, and half-reared, half-turned from the barrier. Ser Jean fought for his seat, tried to force his mount’s head back to the barrier, but he was hopelessly out of line and now too slow to strike with real force. He raised his lance and then cast it aside as his pained horse reared again.

The king came on at full tilt, back straight, Father Jerome perfectly collected under him, lance aimed like a swift arrow from some ancient god’s bow. A foot short of Jean de Vrailly’s prow-shaped shield his lance tip swept up, plucked the swan from his helmet, and then the king thundered by, his lance dropping again to strike the brass globe on the last post of the lists. He struck it squarely, so hard that it ripped from its post and flew through the air to bounce and roll past Ser Gaston, past the two messengers thundering up the rise to the lists, and into the moat.

The Queen applauded . . . and yet felt that the king – she tried to keep the thought in check – that he might have voided his lance and passed his opponent without taking his crest. It would have been a generous act, and such things were done, between friends, when a knight was obviously struggling with his horse.

De Vrailly rode back toward his own end, back straight, horse now firmly under control.

A dozen royal archers ran to get between the king and the two riders, who were bearing down on him with intent, shouting but their words indistinct. They both held scrolls, the colourful ribbons dangling.

The archers parted to let them through when the king opened his faceplate and beckoned to the messengers. He was grinning like a small boy in his victory.

The Queen wasn’t sure whether this was the outcome of her prayer or not, and so she prayed again as the messengers reached the king, dismounting to kneel at his feet even as his squires began to take his armour.

At the same end of the lists, only a few feet away, Jean de Vrailly dismounted. His cousin spoke sharply to him, and the tall knight ignored the smaller man, and drew his sword – almost too fast to follow.

His cousin slapped him – hard – on the elbow of his sword arm, and the foreign knight fumbled his sword – the only clumsy movement she’d ever seen him make. He turned on his cousin, who stood his ground.

The Queen knew unbridled rage when she saw it, and she held her breath, a little shocked to see the Galle so out of control – but even as she watched, the man mastered himself. She saw him incline his head very slightly to his cousin, as if acknowledging a hit in the lists.

He turned and spoke to one of his squires.

The man collected the mighty horse’s reins and began to strip its barding with the help of a pair of pages.

She lost the action for a moment while she tried to take in what she had seen.

Suddenly the king was by her side.

‘He’s very angry,’ the king said, while bowing over her hand. He sounded content with his opponent’s anger. ‘Listen, sweeting. The fortress at Lissen Carak is under attack by the Wild. Or so both these two messengers say.’

She sat up. ‘Tell me!’ she demanded.

Ser Gaston came up, approaching the king with the deference that his cousin never seemed to show even when kneeling.

‘Your Grace-’ he began.

The king raised a hand. ‘Not now. The joust is over for the day, my lord, and I thank your cousin for the sport. I will be riding north with all my knights as soon as I can gather them. One of my castles, and not the least of them, is under attack.’

Ser Gaston bowed. ‘My cousin requests that he might ride one course against you.’ He bowed. ‘And he wishes your Grace to know that he honours your Grace’s horsemanship – he sends you his war horse, in hopes your Grace might school him as well as your own is schooled.’