The Red Knight

He laughed with her. And then frowned. ‘And there are the rumours from the north,’ he said.

‘Rumours?’ she asked. Knowing full well what they were – war and worse in the northlands, and incursions from the Wild. It was her business to know them.

The king shrugged. ‘Never mind, love. We shall have a tournament, but it may have to wait until after the spring campaign.’

She clapped her hands. Spring was, at last, upon them.

Chapter Three

The Red Knight

Lissen Carak – The Red Knight

Amy’s Hob managed to get his nag to a gallop for long enough to reach the Captain in good time. The company was stretched out along the road in march order – no wagons, no baggage, no followers. Those were in camp with a dozen lances as guards.

‘Lord – Gelfred says he’s found its earth. Away in the forest. Trail and hole.’ Amy’s Hob was a little man with a nose that had been broken as often as he’d been outlawed.

The scout held up his hunting horn, and in it was a clod of excrement.

The fewmets, thought the captain, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Gelfred’s revenge for his impiety – sometimes close adherence to the laws of venery could constitute their own revenge. He gave the scout a sharp nod. ‘I’ll just take Gelfred’s word for it, shall I?’ he said. He stood in his stirrups and bellowed ‘Armour up, people!’

Word moved down the column faster than a galloping horse. Men and women laced their arming caps and donned their helmets – tall bassinets, practical kettle hats, or sturdy barbutes. Soldiers always rode out armed from head to foot – but only a novice or an overeager squire rode in his helmet or gauntlets. Most knights didn’t don their helmets until they were in the face of the enemy.

Michael brought the captain’s high-peaked helmet and held it high over his head to slide the mail aventail, the cape that protected the neck and depended from the lower rim of the helmet, over his shoulders. Then he seated the helmet firmly on the padded arming cap, visor pinned up.

The captain motioned for his squire to pause and reached up to pull the ends of his moustache clear of the mail. He was very proud of his moustache. It did a great deal to hide his age – or lack of it.

Then Michael adjusted the fall of the aventail over his breastplate, checked the buckles under his arms, and pushed the gauntlets on to his master’s hands, one at a time, while the captain watched the road to the north.

‘How far up the road?’ he asked Hob.

‘A little farther. We’ll cross the burn and then follow it west into the trees.’

He had the second gauntlet on, and Michael unbuckled the captain’s riding sword and took his long war sword from Toby, who was standing between them on foot, holding it out, a look of excitement on his plain face and a biscuit in his free hand.

Michael handed the shorter riding sword down to Toby, and girded him with the sword of war. Three and a half pounds of sharp steel, almost four feet long.

The weight always affected the captain – that weight at his side meant business.

He looked back, standing a little in his stirrups, feeling the increased weight of his armour.

The column had tightened up.

‘How far?’ he asked Hob.

‘A league. Less. Not an hour’s walk.’ Hob shrugged. His hands were shaking.

‘Standard front, then. At my word – Walk!’ called the captain. He turned to his squire. ‘Whistle. Not the trumpet.’

Michael understood. He had a silver whistle around his neck. Carlus, the giant trumpeter and company armourer, shrugged and fell back.

The column shifted forward, into a walk, the horses suddenly eager, ears pricked forward and heads up. The chargers quivered with excitement – the lighter ronceys ridden by the archers caught the bug from the bigger horses. Along the column, the less able riders struggled to control their mounts.

Up a long hill they went, and then back down – to a burn running fast with the water of two days’ rain. Hob led them west into the trees.

Now that they were at the edge of the Wild, the captain had time to note that the trees were still nearly bare. Buds showed here and there, but the north country was not yet in spring, and snow lay in the lee of the larger rocks.

He could see a long way in these woods.

And that meant other things could see him, especially when he was resplendent in mirror-white armour, scarlet and gilt.

He led them on for another third of a league, the column snaking along behind him, two abreast, easily negotiating the sparse undergrowth. The trees were enormous, their branches thick and long, but stretching out high above even Bad Tom’s head.

But when an inner sense said that he was courting disaster – imagine that taloned monster in among this column before we were off our horses and ready – he raised his right fist to signal a halt and then spread his arms – always good exercise, in armour – and waved them downwards, once. Dismount.