The Red Knight

The irks fell back – flooding the Lower Town, but letting the men have a path to the tower – and the postern opened. Long Paw loosed a shaft right down the line of men-at-arms and then drew his hanger and his buckler, flinging his bow through the door behind him. He stepped out, and the men-at-arms carried Tom past him.

There was a brief flood of irks. They were all armoured in scale mail and carrying round shields – warriors.

Long Paw’s sword and buckler swept up, bound as if they were one weapon – his buckler slammed into the face of one irk’s shield, and then, in the same tempo, his sword beheaded another. In the same flow, he swept his sword back into guard, fell back a step, and parried not one but two spear thrusts with a single sweep of his blade. He stepped in, passed his buckler under the spear-wielding irk’s arms, wrapped them, slammed his pommel into the irk’s unarmoured face, and used his advantage to throw the lighter creature into his mates.

Stepped back again, and the postern crashed shut.

Lissen Carak – The Red Knight

Ser Jehannes had halted the sortie two-thirds of the way down the ridge, when it became clear that the breach had fallen. Now the sortie turned and rode silently back up the road.

The captain was waiting in the gate.

‘Right,’ he said to Jehannes. ‘Good call.’

Jehannes dismounted, gave his reins to a farmer – the valets were all in harness – and started to turn away. ‘The Lower Town is lost,’ he said.

‘No,’ the captain said. ‘Not yet.’

Over their heads, the trebuchet lashed out again.

‘You are risking everything on the hope that we will be relieved. By the king.’ Jehannes was obviously restraining himself. The words were very carefully enunciated.

The captain put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Christ be with us,’ Jehannes said.

West of Albinkirk, South Bank of the Cohocton – Gaston

Gaston had done his exercises of arms, and had prayed. And now he had little to do. He’d had enough of his cousin, and enough of the army in every way.

He mounted his riding horse, left his valet at his tent door, and went for a ride.

The camp was enormous – a sprawling thing as big as a market fair or a small town, with more than two thousand tents, hundreds of wagons drawn up like a wall, and a ditch all the way around it, dug to the height of a man and with the upcast flung back to form a low rampart.

No man was allowed outside the ditch on pain of punishment. Gaston understood – better than his cousin – that he needed to set an example, so he rode slowly around the perimeter, nodding to the Alban knights he knew, and their lords.

He saw a pair of younger men with hawks on their wrists, and he was envious.

He thought of home. Of sun-drenched valleys. Of riding out with his sister’s friends, for a day of wit and wine and frolic, chasing birds, climbing trees, watching a well-formed body on a horse, or by a stream . . .

He shook his head, but the image of Constance d’Eveaux looking back over her naked shoulder before leaping into the lake haunted him.

There had been nothing between them. Until that moment, he hadn’t even noticed her except as a pretty face among his sister’s friends.

Why am I here? Gaston asked himself.

‘See something what you like?’ said a familiar voice.

Gaston reined in, his reverie exploded.

It was the old archer. Gaston was surprised to find that he was happy to see the low-born man.

‘You were going home,’ Gaston said.

The old man laughed. ‘Heh,’ he said. ‘Lord Edward asked me to stay. I’m a fool – I stayed. I sent my useless brother-in-law home.’ He shrugged. ‘Of the two of us, my daughter probably needs him the more.’

‘The Lord of Bain?’ Gaston asked.

‘The very same. I was his archer on the crusade, oh, ten years back.’ He shrugged. ‘Those were some hairy times.’

Gaston nodded. ‘I knew you were an man-at-arms.’

The old archer grinned. ‘Aye. Well. I meant what I said. It’s all foolishness. Why are we at war with the Wild? When I lie out at night hunting I love to have a chat with the faeries. I’ve traded with the irks more than once. They like a nice piece of cloth, and mirrors – hehe, they’d trade their mothers for a bit o’mirror.’ He nodded. ‘Admit I can’t stand boglins, but they probably feel the same about me.’

Gaston couldn’t imagine such a life. He covered his confusion by dismounting. He was surprised to find the archer holding his horse’s head.

‘Habit,’ the old man said.

Gaston held out his hand. ‘I’m Gaston d’Eu.’

‘I know,’ the old man said. ‘I’m called Killjoy. Make of it what you will. Harold Redmede, it says in the christening book.’

Gaston surprised himself by clasping the man’s arm, as if they were both knights.

‘Surely it is a crime against both the King and Church to trade mirrors to the irks.’