The Red Knight

The captain got himself out of bed, despite a touch of vertigo. He had a feeling he knew from childhood – the feeling of having tapped his Hermetical powers utterly. An emptiness, but also a good feeling, like a well-exercised body.

Prudentia is dead.

It was not the first time that good people had died to keep him alive.

Toby appeared with his old black doublet and his old black hose and his fine gold belt. He looked terrified.

Hose took time to get on – he tried to quiet his own pulse. To think about something besides the Abbess and his tutor.

‘She was murdered,’ Ser Jehannes said. ‘Someone shot the Abbess in the back.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Gelfred says it was Witch Bane.’

The thought of it made him physically sick.

‘And no one saw this?’ he asked wearily.

‘Everyone was watching the fight outside the walls,’ Ser Jehannes said.

The captain sighed. ‘Secure the gates and all the passages. There is a passage under the main donjon which leads out of the fortress. Right now, it’s blocked by our wagon-bodies, but put a pair of archers – good archers – on the stairs. Give me a nod when this is done.’

‘When you say I should secure-’ Jehannes paused.

‘As if we were taking the fortress for ourselves,’ the captain said harshly. ‘As if we were in Galle. Trust no one who is not one of ours. Use force if you have to. Secure the exits, Jehannes!’

The old knight saluted. ‘Yes, my lord.’

Michael had his boots. He buckled them around the ankles, laced the tops to the captain’s pourpoint.

‘Full armour, gloves, war sword,’ the captain said.

Michael began to arm him. It wasn’t a quick process and some parts hurt a great deal. But wearing armour was itself a statement.

The arming doublet and mail haubergon weighed on him like a shirt of lead and a hairshirt all together. Many knights believed that the very pain of wearing armour was a penance before God.

Well.

Leg harness, starting with the cuisses, and then the greaves and the steel sabatons that buckled so neatly over his boots, right to the shaped and pointed toes. Michael pointed the cuisses into his arming doublet at an amazing speed, while Toby supported him.

He stood, flexed his legs, and Michael, aided now by Jacques, fitted his breast and back over his head and latched it shut.

‘Had a dent in it like you wouldn’t believe,’ Michael said.

‘Oh, I would,’ the captain said.

Michael snorted. ‘Carlus says taking the dent out took more strength than he’s ever had to use,’ he said. ‘Like the steel was magicked.’

Each of them took an arm harness – vambrace, elbow cop and rerebrace in a single unit on sliding rivets, a miracle of craftsmanship in gilded bronze and hardened steel – and clipped them on, buckling them to his upper arms and then to his shoulders with straps, and then his pauldrons went on, and the circular plates that strapped to the pauldrons and guarded his under arms.

The golden belt at his waist.

Golden spurs at his heels.

Gloves, and a sword, and the baton of his office.

‘There you are, my lord,’ Michael said.

The captain smiled – it was done as fast and as painlessly as it could have been done by anyone. ‘You are a fine squire,’ he said.

He walked out of the recovery ward, looked down the main corridor, and saw his brother.

Gawin had his feet over the edge of the bed.

‘Stay where you are,’ the captain said gently. ‘Michael, stay here with this man.’

Michael nodded. And saluted. He recognised his captain’s tone.

‘But-’ Gawin began.

The captain shook his head. ‘Not now, messire.’

He walked down the corridor to the other ward. Ser Jehannes had already passed. Low Sym was dressing in his gambeson.

‘Have a sword, Sym?’ the captain said.

Sym nodded wordlessly.

The captain pointed at Amicia’s elegant back, standing at the dry sink across the room. ‘She is not to leave this ward until I return,’ he said. ‘If you harm her you are a dead man. But she is not to leave this room. Understand?’

Amicia whirled on him. ‘What?’

‘For your own protection, sister,’ he said, his voice quiet. ‘Father Henry has killed the Abbess. But he will seek to blame you.’

‘Father Henry?’ she came towards him, a hand at her chest. ‘The priest?’

He was at the top of the stairs. ‘Obey. On your life.’ He ignored her outcry, and went down the steps, past the commanderies, to the courtyard. At the door, Bad Tom waited, armoured cap à pied, a pole-axe in his left hand.

‘It’s bad,’ he said.

The captain nodded. He pulled on his gloves, and took the staff of his command from his belt. ‘On me,’ he said, and Tom opened the door.

The sound hit him. Anger first – then fear.

Every farmer and tenant was in the courtyard – four hundred men and women packed into four hundred square ells. The noise was like a living thing.

The dispensary had a wooden step, and two of his men-at-arms were keeping it clear.

On the other side of the courtyard, a dozen big farmers stood together. With them were some of the merchants.

The captain turned to Carlus, and he blew his trumpet. It was loud, and shrill.

Every head turned.