The Red Knight

‘My lord, if you would bring your forces across I believe we can relieve the fortress and evacuate the villagers – and leave the Enemy facing a newly victualled and garrisoned fortress they cannot hope to take, without the loss of another man.’ The captain was speaking quickly, and his eyes were on the far wood line. ‘The Enemy – your father’s magus, or so they say – has made a number of errors. Not the least of which has been his consistent underestimation of our side’s intelligence. I believe he intends one more all-out attack, to attempt to restore his fortunes through the heroic exertions of his allies.’ The young man smiled crookedly. ‘I built a trench line twenty days ago for just this moment, my lord. If you would place your archers in that trench, and gather your chivalry behind the Bridge Castle, I believe we can hand this arrogant Magus a heavy defeat.’

‘Might I have your name and style, messire?’ the king asked. The plan was solid – the lad had a head on his shoulders, and his pure Alban speech made him one of the king’s subjects, mercenary or no.

The dark-headed man drew himself up straight in his saddle. ‘Men call me the Red Knight,’ he said.

‘I thought you to be a Galle, and a good deal older,’ the king said. He turned to the Count of the Borders. ‘My lord – will you take the constable’s place? Command the Royal Guard? And where is the Count d’Eu? He must have the command of the vanguard now, eh?’

The Count of the Borders turned to the young knight. His banner bore a dozen lacs d’amour. ‘How many lances do you have, my lord?’

‘Twenty-six, my lord Count – and the Knights of Saint Thomas. And several hundred very able militiamen, in the form of a contingent of Harndonner merchants. And I have the pleasure of having the aid of the king’s own Magus – Harmodius.’ The young fellow bowed in his saddle again.

‘Harmodius is here?’ the king asked. Suddenly, his day looked considerably brighter.

The young man looked away. ‘He has been a pillar of our defence,’ he said. ‘With my lord’s leave, I must prepare to receive you.’

The king smiled – such an odd young man. ‘We’re right behind you. Go!’

The man bowed, as did his squire, and together they rode back across the bridge.

The king turned to the Count of the Borders. ‘He seems odd but able. Wouldn’t you say?’

The count shrugged. ‘He’s held this place for twenty days against Richard Plangere and his legions of Hell. Do you really care if he’s odd?’

‘He reminded me of someone,’ the king said. He glanced at Lachlan, who had stayed with the command group. ‘You have something to say about our young sell-sword?’

Lachlan shrugged. ‘No, my lord. About the Queen. She was struck – in the back – by an arrow. She is resting and doing well, in part thanks to the young fellow there. He used power. I saw it.’

‘The Queen? The Queen is hurt!?’ asked the king.

‘She’s now resting quietly – in the Bridge Castle. The young captain sent for healers.’

The king rose in his stirrups. ‘Attend me, guards. Let’s go!’

The Count of the Borders was left with the Royal Staff, sitting on their horses in the dust stirred by the king’s rapid departure.

He shook his head. ‘A great knight,’ he said, watching his king. He sighed. ‘Very well – messires, attend me. The Royal Guards will cross the river first, followed by the Huntsmen and the Household. In the second line of battle, the Chivalry-’

Near Lissen Carak – Gaston

Gaston, Count D’Eu, was as tired as he had ever been, and something was wrong with his left hip – it didn’t seem to move as freely as it ought – but he managed to get his leg over his destrier’s broad back and he rode forward under his own banner, with his cousin’s men arrayed behind them – two hundred knights and men-at-arms. Fully a hundred gentlemen lay dead or wounded in the woods and meadows along the road – an absurdly steep price for his cousin’s reckless desire to be the man who broke the ambush his angel had told him awaited the king’s army.

His cousin, who lay in the arms of death. Who only wanted to be the greatest knight in the world.

Gaston wanted to go home to Galle, sit in the chair of judgment of his castle, and pontificate on which wine was the best at harvest time. He thought back to the peasants under the bridge, his heart now full of understanding. He vowed – would God accept such a vow? – to go home and beg Constance for her hand in marriage.

At the top of the last ridge, the king’s friend, the Count of the Borders, was sitting with a number of other gentlemen under the flapping folds of the Royal Banner. The Count d’Eu rose in his stirrups – damn it, that left hip hurt – and looked down to the river where the red-surcoted Royal Guard were just marching for the great three span bridge. On the other side, two companies of men-at-arms were formed in neat wedges at the base of the great ridge on which the fortress sat – half a league north of the river. From the Fortress of Lissen Carack to the bridge ran a trench, black, as if it had been burned.