The Red Knight

Archangel was ready, pivoted his whole great bulk as Gawin’s weight shifted so that the war horse moved like his own feet in a fight, and the huge enemy – scent of burned hair and soap and old ashes – shot past. One taloned arm stretched out like an angry cat’s paw, reaching for Archangel’s neck, but the war horse was fast, and some steel-shod forefoot smashed the taloned hand with lethal precision.

The thing screamed, its left talon hanging limply, the bones broken. It rose on its hind feet, raised its right claw, and fire shot from its outstretched talons – a beam of fire that caught his body where the mail aventail of his helmet hung over his padded jupon. It had no pressure, no impact, and Gawin ducked his head, putting the peak of his helmet into the flame by instinct rather than training. His left eye flared with pain even as the first cold knife of agony pierced his left shoulder. His body, with no guidance from his mind, cut down blindly with the sword.

His blow was weak and badly directed – the edge of the blade didn’t even bite into the thing’s hide – but the sword’s weight fell on its brow ridge, and it stumbled.

Archangel shouldered it. Gawin almost lost his seat, his back and rump crashing into the high-backed saddle as his war horse made its own fighting decisions and leaped forward, bearing down the monster again with weight and momentum, so that the creature’s stumble was more off balance and the horse landed two more blows with its steel-shod forefeet, forcing the creature onto all fours. It roared with pain as it put weight on the broken limb.

And then the grass was full of boglins thrusting their stone-tipped spears at him, and some of them scoring hits. The deerskin of his padded jupon turned a few and the damp sheep’s wool stuffing turned others, but at least one punched straight through and into his skin. Unthinking, he touched his spurs to Archangel and the great horse responded with a mighty leap forward, and then they were running free.

Gawin turned him in a wide circle. He couldn’t see from his left eye, and the pain in his side was so great that he could scarcely feel it – or anything else.

I want that thing, he thought. Let them take that head back to Harndon and show it to the king, and I will be content.

He got Archangel around. The horse had at least two wounds – both from javelins. But like his rider he was trained to fight hurt, and went at his prey with all the spirit he could have asked.

But the monster was running – weight forward, low to the ground, only three legs working, a dozen boglins gathered tight around it in the strong sunlight, as they fled into the trees.

Gawin reined up – surprised at himself. Death lay waiting in those trees. But it was one thing to fight to the death out here under the sun, and another to follow the Wild into the waiting trees and die alone – and for nothing. He reined up, and looked at the litter of broken boglins, and his view of them suddenly narrowed – he tasted salt in his mouth, and copper, and-

Lorica – Ser Gaston

Lorica again.

Gaston spat the foreign name as he watched the grey stone walls approach. He flicked a look at his cousin, who was riding serenely at his side.

‘We are going to be arrested,’ Gaston said.

Jean made a face. ‘For what?’ he asked. He laughed, and at the silvery peel of his laughter, other men smiled all down the column. Their contingent was third; first the king’s household, then the Earl of Towbray’s, and then theirs. They had more knights than the king and the earl together.

‘We killed the two squires. I locked the sheriff in a shed. You burned the inn.’ Gaston winced as he said the last. Ten days in Alba and he was beginning to appreciate just how poor their behaviour had been.

Jean shrugged. ‘No one of worth was involved except the knight,’ he said. His voice rode the edge of a sneer. ‘And he has chosen not to take exception. He has shown especial wisdom in this, I think.’

‘Nonetheless, the king will learn exactly what happened in the next hour or so,’ Gaston said.

Jean de Vrailly gave his cousin a sad smile. ‘My friend, you have much to learn of the workings of the world. If we were in the least danger, my angel would have told me. And it seems to me that our knights make up the best part of this column – bigger, better men in superb armour on fine horses. We can always fight. And if we fight, we will win.’ De Vrailly shrugged again. ‘You see? Simple.’

Gaston considered taking his own men and riding away.

Lissen Carak – The Red Knight