The Red Knight

De Vrailly drank more wine, put the cup down on the sideboard, and shrugged out of his right arm harness as his younger squire opened the vambrace. ‘Who can know what an angel desires?’ he said quietly. ‘But the Wild here must be destroyed. That’s what the king’s father intended. You know they burned swathes of the wood between the towns to do it? They waited for windy days and set fires. The old king’s knights fought four great battles against the Wild – and what I would give to have been part of that. The creatures of the Wild came forth to do battle – great armies of them!’ His eyes shone.

Gaston raised an eyebrow.

‘The old king was victorious in the main, but eventually, he sent to the East for more knights. His losses were fearsome.’ De Vrailly looked as if he could see it happening. ‘His son – now the king – has fought well to hold what his father gained, but he takes no new land from the Wild. My angel will change that. We will throw the Wild back beyond the wall. I have seen it.’

Gaston released a long-held breath. ‘Cousin, just how fearsome were these losses?’

‘Oh, heavy, I suppose. At the Battle of Chevin, King Hawthor is said to have lost fifty thousand men.’ De Vrailly shrugged.

Gaston shook his head. ‘Numbers that large make my head ache. That’s the population of a large city. Have they replaced their losses?’

‘By the good Saviour, no! If they had, do you think we could challenge for the rulership of this land with three hundred lances?’

Gaston spat. ‘Good Christ-’

‘Do not blaspheme!’

‘Your angel wants us to take this realm with three hundred lances so that he can launch a war against the Wild?’ Gaston stepped close to his cousin. ‘Should I slap you to wake you up?’

De Vrailly rose to his feet. With a gesture, he dismissed his squires. ‘It is not seemly that you question me on these matters, cousin. It is enough that you summoned your knights and now you follow me. Obey me. That is all you need to know.’

Gaston made a face like a man who has discovered a bad smell. ‘I have always followed you,’ he said.

De Vrailly nodded his head.

‘I have also saved you from a number of mistakes,’ Gaston added.

‘Gaston,’ de Vrailly’s voice suddenly softened. ‘Let us not disagree. I am advised by heaven. Do not be jealous!’

‘Then I should like to meet your angel,’ Gaston said.

De Vrailly narrowed his eyes. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘perhaps my angel is only for me. After all – I alone am the greatest knight.’

Gaston sighed and moved to the window where he looked down at the lone figure kneeling on the smooth stones of the courtyard. The bodies had been taken, laid out and wrapped in linen ready for burial, but still the Alban knight knelt in the courtyard.

‘What do you plan to do with that man?’ Gaston asked.

‘Take him to court to prove my prowess. Then I’ll ransom him.’

Gaston nodded. ‘We should offer him a cup of wine.’

De Vrailly shook his head. ‘He does penance for his weakness – for the sin of pride, in daring to face me, and for his failure as a man-at-arms. He should kneel there in shame for the rest of his life.’

Gaston looked at his cousin, his face half turned away. He fingered his short beard. Whatever he might have said was interrupted by a knock on the door. Johan put his head in.

‘An officer of the town, monsieur. To see you.’

‘Send him away.’

After a pause in which Gaston poured himself wine, Johan reappeared. ‘He says he must insist. He is not a knight. Merely a well-born man. He is not in armour. He says he is the sheriff.’

‘So? Send him away.’

Gaston put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. ‘Their sheriff’s are king’s officers, are they not? Ask him what he wants.’

Johan could be heard speaking, and then shouting, and then the door slammed open. Gaston drew his sword, as did de Vrailly. Their gentlemen poured in from adjoining rooms, some still fully armed.

‘You are Jean de Vrailly?’ asked the newcomer, who didn’t seem to care that he was surrounded by armed foreigners who topped him by a head or more. He was in doublet and hose, with high boots and a long sword belted at his waist. He was fiftyish and running to fat, and only the fur on his hood, his bearing and the sword at his hip suggested he was a man of any consequence. But he glowered.

‘I am,’ de Vrailly answered.

‘I arrest you in the name of the king for the murder of-’

The sheriff was knocked unconscious with a single blow from Raymond St David, who let the body fall to the floor. ‘Bah,’ he said.

‘They are soft,’ de Vrailly said. ‘Did he bring men-at-arms?’

‘Not one,’ Raymond said. He grinned. ‘He came alone!’

‘What kind of a country is this?’ Gaston asked. ‘Are they all insane?’

In the morning, Gaston’s retainers collected the dull-eyed Alban knight from the courtyard and packed him onto a cart with his armour; his horses were tethered behind. He tried to engage the Alban in conversation and was repelled by the man’s look of hatred.