The Red Knight

The Queen watched the effect on her ladies and held her peace. Hard Hands was quite a popular man. Lady Mary, who was known as ‘Hard Heart’ had been heard to say that perhaps his hands were not so very hard, after all. Seated nearest to the Queen, she pursed her lips and set her mouth, determined not to show the Queen her hurt. Behind this vignette, the king waved to his squires and set off up the main stairs to his arming room.

When the king was gone, Desiderata sat back down on her stool and picked up her sewing – an arming shirt for the king. Her ladies gathered round. They felt her desire and closed themselves against the younger knights, who looked to Hard Hands for leadership. Or had. Now they were disconsolate at losing their leader. They left with the sort of loud demonstration that young men make when socially disadvantaged, and the Queen laughed.

Hard Hands stopped in the arch of the main door and looked back. He met her eye, and his anger carried clearly across the sun beams that separated them.

‘I will come back!’ he shouted.

The other young men looked afraid at his outburst, and pushed him out the door.

‘Perhaps,’ purred the Queen. She smiled, much like a cat with a tiny piece of tail sticking out between its teeth.

The ladies knew that smile. They were silent, and the wisest hung their heads in real, or well-feigned, contrition, but she saw through all of them.

‘Mary,’ said the Queen gently. ‘Did you let Hard Hands into your bed?’

Mary, sometimes called Hard Heart, met her eye. ‘Yes, my lady.’

The Queen nodded. ‘Was he worthy?’ she asked. ‘Answer me true.’

Mary bit her lip. ‘Not today, my lady.’

‘Perhaps not ever – eh? Listen, all of you,’ she said, and she bent her head to her ladies. ‘Emmota – you are latest amongst us. By what signs do you know a knight worthy to be your lover?’

Emmota was not yet fully grown to her womanhood – fourteen years old. Her face was narrow without being pinched and a clear intelligence shone in her eyes. She was nothing next to the Queen, and yet, the Queen admitted to herself, the girl had something.

But in this instant, her wits deserted her, and she blushed and said nothing.

The Queen smiled at her, as she was always tender for the lost and the confounded. ‘Listen, my dear,’ she said softly. ‘Love only those worthy of your love. Love those who love themselves, and love all around them. Love the best – the best in arms, the first in the hall, the finest harpist, and the best chess player. Love no man for what he owns, but only for what he does.’

She smiled at all of them. And then pounced. ‘Are you pregnant, Mary?’

Mary shook her head. ‘I did not allow him that liberty, my lady.’

The Queen reached out and took Mary’s hand. ‘Well done. Ladies, remember – we award our love to those who deserve us. And our bodies are an even greater prize than our love – especially to the young.’ She looked at each in turn. ‘Who does not yearn for the strong yet tender embrace? Who does not sigh for skin soft as fine leather over muscles as hard as wood? But get with child-’ she locked eyes with Mary, ‘-and they will call you a whore. And you may die, bearing that bastard. Or worse, perhaps; find yourself living meanly, rearing his bastard child, while he rides to glory.’ She looked at the window. ‘If you are not locked away in a convent.’

Emmota raised her head. ‘But what of love?’ she asked.

‘Make your love a reward, not a raw emotion,’ the Queen said. ‘Any two rutting animals feel the emotion, child. Here, we are only interested in what is best. Rutting is not best. Do you understand?’

The girl swallowed carefully. ‘Yes, I think so,’ she said. ‘But then – why would we ever lie with any man?’

The Queen laughed aloud. ‘Artemis come to earth! Why, because it is for the love of us that they face terror, girl! Do you think it is some light thing to ride out into the Wild? To sleep with the Wild, eat with it, live with it? To face it and fight it and kill it?’ The Queen leaned down until her nose almost touched the sharp point of Emmota’s nose. ‘Do you think they do it for the good of humanity, my dear? Perhaps the older ones – the thoughtful ones. They face the dangers for us all because they have seen the alternative.’ She shook her head. ‘But the young ones face the foe for just one thing – to be deemed worthy of you, my dear. And you control them. When you let a knight into your lap you reward him for his courage. His prowess. His worth. You must judge that it has been earned. Yes? You understand?’

Emmota gazed into the eyes of her Queen with worship. ‘I understand,’ she said.