The Red Knight

Gaston pushed his horse into the angry group. ‘Your words in no way prove my lord’s guilt,’ he insisted. ‘You did not witness any of these things, yet now pronounce them truth.’

‘You were the one who hit me!’ the sheriff said.

Gaston had to restrain himself from shrugging. You are an ineffective, useless man and a shame on your king – and you were in my way. But he smiled, glanced at the king, and offered his hand. ‘For that I apologise. My cousin and I were newly landed, and failed to understand the laws of these parts.’

The king was firmly in the cleft stick of conflicting emotions, goals and needs – his indecision showed clearly on his face. He needed Jean de Vrailly’s three hundred knights and he needed to be seen to give justice. Gaston willed the sheriff to take his hand and clasp it. He willed it, and so did the king.

‘Messire, my cousin and I have joined the king to ride against the Wild.’ Gaston’s voice was low, urgent and yet soothing. ‘I beg your forgiveness before we go into battle.’

Gaston prayed that the king wasn’t looking at his cousin, whose expression at the word beg would have curdled milk.

The sheriff sniffed.

The king’s shoulders began to relax.

Almost as if against his will, the sheriff of Lorica took Gaston’s hand and clasped it. He left his glove on, which was rude enough, and he didn’t meet Gaston’s eye.

But the king seized the moment. ‘You will pay reparations to the town and to the innkeeper,’ he said. ‘The sum to be the full value of the inn and all of its goods and chattels. The sheriff will investigate the value and send a writ.’ The king turned in his saddle to address the Captal de Ruth. ‘You, who have announced your willingness to serve me, will first serve my sentence on this: your wages and those of all of your knights will be paid, in lieu of fine, to the innkeeper and to the town until the value set by the sheriff has been discharged.’

Jean de Vrailly sat on his horse, his beautiful face still and peaceful. Only Gaston knew he was considering killing the king.

‘We-’ he began, and the king turned in his saddle, showing some of the flexibility he had showed jousting.

‘Let the captal speak for himself,’ the king said. ‘You are glib in your cousin’s defence, my lord. But I must hear him speak his acceptance for himself.’

Gaston thought, He is very good at this. He has understood my cousin better than most men, and he has found a way to punish him while keeping him close and using his prowess against his enemies. Jean and his angel will not dominate this king in an afternoon. Outwardly, he bowed.

And glared at Jean.

Jean bowed as well. ‘I came to fight your enemies, your Grace,’ he said in his charming accent. ‘At my own expense. This ordinance makes little difference to me.’

Gaston winced.

The king looked around him, gathering eyes, gathering the opinions men cast with their body language, in subtle facial expressions, in the fretting of their horses. He pushed his tongue against his teeth – which Gaston had already come to read as a tic of frustration.

‘That is not sufficient,’ the king said.

De Vrailly shrugged. ‘You wish me to say that I accept your law and your writ?’ he said, and contempt dripped from every word.

Here we go, Gaston thought.

The Earl of Towbray pushed his horse between the king and the captal. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is my fault.’

Both the king and de Vrailly looked at him as if he’d come between them in the lists.

‘I invited the Captal to Alba to serve me, and I failed – even after a youth spent fighting on the Continent – to understand how he would see us.’ The earl shrugged. ‘I will bear the cost, for my mistake.’

De Vrailly had the good grace to appear surprised. ‘But – no!’ he said suddenly. ‘But I insist! I must bear it.’

The king was looking at the Earl of Towbray the way a man might look at a rare flower suddenly discovered on a dung hill.

Gaston remembered to breathe.

And in moments men were chattering with relief, the convoy was forming up, and Gaston could ride to his cousin’s side.

‘This is not what the angel told me would happen,’ he said.

Gaston raised an eyebrow.

De Vrailly shrugged. ‘But it will suffice. It irks me, cousin, to hear you crawl to a creature like that sheriff. You must avoid such things, lest they form a habit.’

Gaston sat still for a moment, and then leaned forward. ‘It irks me, cousin, to hear you put on airs before the King of Alba. But I assume you cannot help yourself.’ He turned, and rode back to his own retinue, and left Jean to ride by himself.

West of Lissen Carak – Thorn