The Red Knight

It turned away, suddenly less fearsome and sensing the defeat of near death. It tried to burst free across the stream but the rocky bottom betrayed it and it stumbled; a dozen archers, guildsmen and mercenaries alike, poured shafts into it, and its blood swirled in the fast water. It gathered itself up and leaped – awesome in its might – scattered the archers, and killed two guildsmen, massive front feet pounding their bodies to fleshy mush in the spring mud. And still it got its head up when the captain came out of the trees behind it, and it turned at bay. It’s great eyes met the captain’s.

‘Me again,’ the captain said.

It raised its head and bellowed, and the woods shook. One of Tom’s men-at-arms – Walter La Tour – landed a hard blow with a pole-axe and got swiped by the whole force of its mighty head in reply, crushing his breastplate and breaking all his ribs. He fell without a sound. Francis Atcourt, one day out of the infirmary, struck it with a pole-axe too, and danced aside as it’s splintered, burning tusk sought his life. He tripped and fell over a rotten stump, which saved his life as its tusks and fangs passed over his head.

The captain ran rock to rock across the stream, his sabatons flashing above the swollen water, charging his prey. It turned to finish Atcourt, caught sight of the captain’s rush, and hesitated a fraction of a heartbeat.

Bad Tom watched his captain rush the monster and laughed. ‘I love him,’ he shouted, and leaped after.

The monster lurched forward, and stumbled, and the captain thrust, catching it in the mouth, cutting up so that ivory sprayed. The splintered tusk caught the back of his rerebrace hard enough to slam him into the stream. He went down, his helmet filled with water, but he got a rock under his backplate and sprang to his feet, stomach muscles screaming as he levered his own weight plus sixty pounds up on his hips, and then he had his feet planted, knee deep in water, and he was cutting – down to the Boar’s Tooth guard, his heavy pole-arm cutting from the height of his shoulder all the way down to his hip – then back up the same path, ripping up through its trunk to the Guard of the Woman. He reversed the blade and thrust down into its eye as the creature fell.

Bad Tom slammed his fist into the thing before it was done moving. ‘I name you – meat!’ he shouted.

The mercenaries laughed. Some of the men-at-arms were even applauding and the guildsmen began to realise they might live. They began to cheer.

A last arrow flew into the corpse.

There was nervous laughter and then the cheers swelled.

‘Red Knight! Red Knight! Red Knight!’

The captain enjoyed it for three heavy breaths. Three deep, lung filling breaths to enjoy being alive, being victorious. Then-

‘We’re not out of this yet,’ the captain snapped.

At the sound of his voice the young knight who’d led the defence of the ford got up from where he’d knelt to pray – or fallen in exhaustion.

They looked at each other for a moment too long, the way only mortal foes and lovers look at each other.

And then the captain turned away. ‘Get the horses. Get everyone mounted. Get as many of these wagons as we can save. Move, move, move. Tom, collect wagons. Who’s in charge here? You?’ He was gesturing at one of the men of the convoy.

He turned to Jacques. ‘Find out who’s in charge of the convoy, get a head count. The knight in front of you-’

‘I know who he is-’ Jacques said.

‘He looks wounded,’ the captain replied.

The knight they were talking about rose and hobbled forward. His right leg was shiny and slick with blood.

‘You. Bastard!’ he said, and cocked back his sword to swing at the captain. He collapsed just as Jacques took his sword.

Tom laughed. ‘Someone who knows you?’ he said. Chortled, and got to work. ‘All right, you lot! Archers on me! Listen up!’

But the captain, sometimes known as the Red Knight, stood by the young knight’s body. For reasons none of them knew, except perhaps Jacques, it was a deeply satisfying moment. A great victory. And a little personal revenge.

Rescuing Gawin Murien.

Killing a behemoth. This one, in death, didn’t look any smaller. It was still fucking huge.

The captain threw back his head and laughed and the favour on his shoulder fluttered in the breeze.

Tom met his eye.

‘Sometimes, this is the best life I could ever have imagined,’ the captain said.

‘That’s why we love you,’ Tom said.

Harndon – Desiderata

Lady Mary stood by the empty bedstead, and watched a pair of southern maids roll the feather mattress.

‘We’re taking too much,’ Desiderata said.

Diota laughed. ‘My sweet, you won’t lie easy without a feather bed. All the knights have them.’

‘The Archaics slept on the ground, rolled in a cloak.’ Desiderata swirled, admiring the fall of her side-slit surcote and the way the slightest breeze caught the thing. Silk. She’d seen silk before – silk garters, silk floss for embroidery. This was more like something from the aether. It was magic.