The Red Knight

The man looked startled to be addressed.

In that moment, Random realised he wasn’t a broken man at all but a dirty gentleman. The differences were clear in his quality – the man had a superb leather-covered jupon worth a good twenty leopards, even covered in dirt. Hip boots with gold spurs. Even if they were silver gilt, they were worth a hundred leopards by weight.

The man sighed. ‘And to you, messire.’

He rode on.

Random hadn’t come to relative riches in the cut-throat world of Harndon’s shippers and guilds without having some willingness to grab at Fortuna’s hairs. ‘You’re a knight,’ he said.

The man didn’t rein in, but he turned his head and, feeling the weight shift, his horse stopped.

The man turned to look at him, and the silence was painful.

What have we here? Random wondered.

Finally, the young man – under his despair, the man was younger than Random by a generation – nodded.

‘I am a knight,’ the young man said, as if confessing a sin.

‘I need men,’ Random said. ‘I have a convoy on the road and if you wear spurs of gold, I’d be honoured to have you. My convoy is fifty good wagons headed north to the fair, and there’s no dishonour in it. I fear only bandits and the Wild.’

The man shook his head minutely and turned away, and his horse ambled on, a good war horse which was over-burdened with man and armour, the weight ill-distributed and ruining the horse’s posture.

‘Are you sure?’ Random asked. It never hurt to try.

The knight kept riding.

Random let his drovers stop for lunch, and then they pushed on – into the evening and even a little after dark.

In the morning, they rose and were moving on before the sun was a finger above the river which curved, snake-like, to the east. Later in the morning they descended into the vale and crossed the Great Bridge, the edge of the Inner Counties. He had a fine meal at the Crouching Cat with his drovers, who were honoured by his willingness to join them and pleased to eat so good a meal.

After lunch they crossed Great Bridge, twenty-six spans built by the Archaics and painstakingly maintained. And then climbed the far bank for an hour, with the drovers leading the horses. They crested the far bank, and Random saw the knight again, kneeling at a roadside chapel, tears cutting deep channels in the road-dust on his face.

He nodded to him, and rode on.

By evening he caught up the rest of the convoy, already in camp, and he was welcomed back by the men he’d left. His drovers regaled their peers with the minutiae of their days, and Guilbert saluted and told him how the column had proceeded, and Judson was resentful that he was back so soon.

Business as usual.

A little after dark, one of the goldsmith boys came to his wagon and saluted like a soldier. ‘Messire?’ he asked. ‘There’s a knight asking for ye.’ The boy had a crossbow on his shoulder, and was obviously puffed with pride at being on watch, on convoy, and in such an important role. Henry Lastifer, the name floated up from the merchant’s storehouse of ready knowledge.

Random followed the boy to the fire. Guilbert was there, and Old Bob, another of the men-at-arms.

And the young knight from the road, of course. He was sitting, drinking wine. He rose hurriedly.

‘May I change my mind?’ he, blurted.

Random smiled. ‘Of course. Welcome aboard, Ser Knight.’

Guilbert smiled broadly. ‘M’lord, is more like. But he’s the king’s mark. And that’s a sword.’ He turned to the knight. ‘Your name, m’lord?’

The young man waited so long it was obvious he was going to lie. ‘Ser Tristan?’ he said, wistfully.

‘Fair enough,’ Guilbert said. ‘Come wi’ me, and we’ll see to it you have a place to sleep.’

‘Mind you,’ said Random. ‘You work for Guilbert and then for me. Understand?’

‘Of course,’ said the young man.

What am I getting myself into? Random thought. But he felt satisfied with the man, broken or not. King’s knights were trained to a high level – especially trained to fight the Wild. Even if the young man was a little addled . . . well, no doubt he was in love. The gentry were addicted to love.

He slept well.

North of Lorica – Bill Redmede

Bill Redmede led his untrained young men up the trail. Their irk stayed well ahead, moving like smoke through the thick trees. He tended to return to the column from the most unexpected directions, even for a veteran woodsman like Bill.

The lads were all afraid of him.

Bill rather liked the quiet creature, which spoke only when it had something to say. Irks had something about them. It was hard to pin down, but they had some kind of nobility

‘Right files watch the right side of the trail,’ Bill said, automatically. ‘Left files watch the left side.’ Three days on the trail and all he did was mother them.

‘I need a break,’ whined the biggest and strongest of them. ‘Christ on the Cross, Bill! We’re not boglins!’

‘If you was, we’d move faster,’ Redmede said. ‘Didn’t you boys do any work on the farm?’