The Red Knight

They all stood there in the light rain – the survivors. Atcourt, and Brewes and Long Paw. Ser Alcaeus, who wore the red tabbard and stood with the knights; Johne the Bailli. Bent. No Head. Knights and squires and archers and valets, men and women, soldiers and prostitutes and laundresses and farm girls and servants. And to a man and woman, they looked at the captain and waited for him to speak.

Like a fool, he hadn’t planned anything. But their need was palpable – like a spell.

‘We won,’ he said, his young voice as harsh as the croaking of a raven. ‘We held the fortress against a Power of the Wild. But none of these men or women died to hold the fortress – did they?’

He looked at Jehannes. The older man met his glance. And gave him a small nod of agreement.

‘They died for us. We die for each other. Out there in the world, they lie, and cheat each other, and betray, and we, here, don’t do that.’ He was all too aware that sometimes, they did. But funerals are the time to speak high words. He knew that, too. ‘We do our level best to hold the line, so that the man next to us can live. We – we who are alive – we owe our lives to these, who are dead. It could have been us. It was them.’ He managed a smile. ‘No one can do more than to give his life for his friends. Every drink of wine you ever taste, every time you get laid, every time you wake and breathe the spring air, you owe that to these – who lie here in the ground.’ His eye caught the smallest bundle – Low Sym. ‘They died heroes – no matter how they lived.’ He shrugged and looked at the Prior. ‘I suspect it’s bad theology.’ He had more to say, but he was crying too hard, and he found that he was kneeling by the mound of damp earth that was Jacques.

Who had saved his life so many times.

‘Jesus said, I am the way, and the life,’ said the Prior in a calm, low voice.

The captain shut out the sound of his company praying.

And eventually, there was a hand on his shoulder. It was a light hand. But he didn’t have to open his eyes to know to whom it belonged.

He rose, and she stepped back. She smiled at the ground. ‘I thought you’d just hurt your back again, with all that kneeling,’ she said.

‘Marry me?’ he asked. His whole face ached from crying – and he knew she didn’t care how he looked, or sounded. It was the most remarkable thought.

She smiled. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow,’ she said lightly. ‘Open to me?’ she asked, and he thought he heard an immense strain in her voice. He put it down to fatigue, and he opened his door, and she entered in. She kept her distance from Harmodius, and instead she pulled him out his own door and into the green wonder of her bridge – but it was no longer a simple green. Overhead, the sky was a golden blue, and the sun shone in splendour in heaven and the water that rushed under her bridge was clear as diamonds and the spray was as white as a the brightest cloud. The leaves of the trees were green and gold, and every tree was in flower. The smell was of clean water and brilliant air and every flower scent he’d ever imagined or smelled.

‘God,’ he said, involuntarily.

She smiled at him with her slightly tilted eyes, and she passed her hands over him, and a dozen small knots were eased, and the lump at the back of his throat passed away.

‘I’m not so arrogant as to heal your sorrow,’ she said.

He caught her hands. ‘You will heal my sorrow,’ he said.

She smiled, and put her lips on his, her eyes closed.

And after a time, she pulled away. ‘Goodbye,’ she said.

‘Until tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I – I love you.’

She smiled. ‘Of course you do,’ she said with a little of her old tone. Then she softened. ‘I love you, too,’ she said.

She walked away into the rain, and he watched her until the grey of her cloak merged with the sky and the stone and the hillside.