The Red Knight

And the captain found his services very much in demand. He accepted a contract in the east, serving among the Moreans with Ser Alcaeus. They concluded the contract just a week after the day of the battle, after an hour of loud and apparently angry bargaining that had featured several cups of wine and a warm embrace at the end.

Then he picked up the staff of his command and walked out of his tent – the company were back in their tents on the plain, so that the Royal Household could occupy the fortress – and mounted a pretty Eastern mare that had belonged to Master Random. No amount of miraculous healing could fix his partially-eaten leg, so the merchant would be bed-ridden for some time. He’d been delighted to sell the mare for a profit.

The captain rode up the familiar road to the main gate. Royal Guardsmen held the post, and he saluted them. They returned the salute.

He gave his horse to a newly minted Royal Squire – somebody’s younger son – and climbed the steps to the Commandery. No longer his office.

The Prior was at prayer.

The captain waited patiently.

Eventually, the Prior rose and put his rosary back around his waist. He smiled.

‘Your servant, Captain.’

The captain smiled back, reached into his wallet and fetched forth a pair of heavy gilt-bronze keys. ‘The keys to the fortress and the river bridge,’ he said. ‘They were placed in my keeping by the Abbess. I relinquish them to you in peace and triumph,’ he said formally. And then added, with a smile, ‘You owe me a sizeable sum of money.’

The Prior took the keys and settled into a seat. He waved the captain into another, and the captain had the oddest feeling – one of having lived this moment before, perhaps from the other side of the desk.

The Prior took a writing set, checked the pen for sharpness, used a little ink and began to write.

‘You would not consider turning to God, my son? Become a knight of my order?’ he asked, raising his eyes briefly.

‘No,’ the captain said.

The Prior smiled. ‘So proud. Amicia tells me that you see God as your enemy.’ He shook his head.

‘Amicia has misinterpreted the information with which she was provided,’ the captain said. Then he shrugged. ‘Or maybe not. Your God and I are not friends.’

‘Ahh,’ said the Prior. He shook sand over the paper, shook it, and blew on it. Then, after struggling with a candle, he managed to drip heavy black wax on the document and he affixed the great seal from the ring on his thumb. ‘Your defence here will never be forgotten by my knights.’ He shrugged. ‘Even if outside these walls men say the king won the battle, and defeated the Wild.’ He handed over the parchment. ‘My God loves you, and every other living thing, Captain. My God loves the sick, the blind, the leper, the unclean – the irk, the boglin, and the witch.’

The captain glanced at the sum, drawn on the Church – a draft redeemable at any bank, anywhere – and nodded. He even smiled.

‘This is more than I contracted for,’ he said.

‘I supposed that you contracted for the loss of men and horses, and for the usual victory bonus,’ the Prior said.

The captain shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I had no idea what I was getting into,’

The Prior nodded. ‘I don’t know what your problems are with my God,’ he said. ‘But I won’t let you add ingratitude to your list of His inadequacies. Without you and the sacrifice of your company, this place would have been lost and all humanity would have suffered for it.’

The captain rose and bowed. ‘You do me too much honour. For my company-’ He found himself unable to speak. When he was master of himself, he said, ‘I will recruit more.’

‘Easily, I predict,’ the Prior said. ‘Listen, young man. You have interests beyond the mundane. You will not turn to God. So be it. But you have a brain, and it’s a keen one. Did we win here?’

The captain hadn’t expected this turn of conversation. He stood in the doorway with his payment in his hand.

The Prior rose and poured two cups of wine. ‘Sit.’

He sat and drank. ‘No?’

The Prior shook his head. ‘Of course we did. Had we lost the king would be dead, the Alban border would be south of Albinkirk and the Royal Host would be shattered.’ He crossed himself. ‘But of course, we didn’t win either, did we?’

‘Thorn burned every house and barn from here to Albinkirk,’ the captain said. ‘And hit the population hard.’

The Prior nodded.

‘Most of the survivors will leave. Move south.’ The captain sipped some more wine. ‘That’s why – I’m guessing – there was no fight at the wall first. Thorn never intended to fight there. He went deep-’

‘Stop saying his name,’ the prior said. ‘He still lives, licking his wounds.’

‘He still lives, and nothing died out there but this year’s crop of boglins,’ the captain said bitterly. ‘Sixteen trolls, a dozen wyverns and some daemons.’ He rubbed his beard. ‘We’re losing the exchange.’