The Red Knight

Today, all of the small folk dug at the trench. I append a small sketch of the work; it runs from the gate of the Lower Town to the out-wall of the Bridge Fort, a distance of four hundred and twenty-four paces. With just under a thousand working men and women, we dug the ditch in two days. The upcast of the ditch has been made into low walls on either side, and the captain has ordered us to plant stakes from our stores – the palisades we use when we encamp – along the edge of the ditch.

All the day a heavy fog stayed over the length of the ditch – today’s phantasm cast by the Abbess and is maintained by the good sisters, who can be heard praying at all hours in their chapel.

The enemy has sought all day to search out our new work. The air is thick with birds – starlings and crows and doves, but they dare not enter the fog, and the area close in to the castle walls seems abhorrent to them.

The Enemy has wyverns, and they ride the air currents high above us all day. Even now, there is one above me.

In the woods to the west, we can hear the sound of axes. Twice today, large bands of men advanced from the wood’s edge to within bowshot of the fog, and lofted arrows into it. We did not respond, except that our own archers crept close and retrieved the arrows.

Nigh on sunset, we released three sorties; one north, one west, and one westerly, but right along the river.

The captain rode west into the setting sun, his armour gathering what little light penetrated the sun. Grendel had a cote of barding today – two layers of heavy chain falling to the mighty horse’s fetlocks.

It took four valets to lift the cote and get it over the big horse’s back. Grendel hated it, but the captain was confident that the Jacks would rise to his raid.

He had a dozen men-at-arms, fully harnessed, and their archers behind him, and as soon as Grendel’s hooves were clear of the Lower Town – empty and sullen but for the two archers on the stone gate towers – he put his spurs gently to the great horse’s sides, and Grendel began a heavy canter over the spring fields. The fog hid the light, and the terrain. It was possible to be ambushed in the fog, as he was aware.

But this was his own fog, and it had some special properties.

He rode south along the trench, going slowly, looking down to see the work that had been accomplished. It was a broad, deep ditch with a wooden floor. He had hidden a surprise under the wooden floor, but in ground this wet, the floor had its own essential purpose.

The palisades were too few to stop a determined enemy but, given time, he’d have the workers weave brambles and vines among them, and make a stouter barrier.

He shook his head. It didn’t matter a damn, because the whole thing was a ruse anyway.

There were five bridges across the trench, each wide enough for two fully armed horsemen to ride abreast without making their horses shy. Again, given more time, he’d arrange mechanisms to raise and lower them.

Given time, he’d make his opponent look like a complete fool. But he didn’t think he was going to get any more time. He could feel – no better explanation that that – his opponent’s frustration. He didn’t have much experience fighting men. He was arrogant.

Me too. The captain grinned and turned Grendel to cross the last bridge before Bridge Castle. Grendel’s hooves sounded hollowly, as if he were riding over a coffin.

Where’d that thought come from?

He’d walked down to the apple tree at sunset the night before. She hadn’t come. He wondered why. He remembered the touch of her lips on his.