The Red Knight

The whole gully was a mass of churned earth and tracks.

‘It’s an army!’ Gelfred said.

‘Let’s move,’ said the captain. He turned and ran back to their clearing and settled his gear on the poor horse.

Then they were moving.

For a while, every shadow held a daemon – until they passed it. The captain didn’t feel recovered; he was cold, hungry, and afraid even to make tea. The horse was lame from the cold and from being insufficiently cared for on a cold, damp spring night, and they rode her anyway.

It turned out they didn’t have to go very far, which probably saved her life. The camp’s sentries must have been alert, because a mile from the bridge, they were met by Jehannes leading six lances in full armour.

Jehannes’ eyes were still bloodshot, but his voice was steady.

‘What in the name of Satan were you doing?’ Jehannes demanded.

‘Scouting,’ the captain admitted. He managed to shrug, as if it was a matter of little moment. He was very proud of that shrug.

Jehannes looked at him with the look that fathers save for children they intend to punish later – and then he caught sight of the head being dragged in the mud. He rode back to look at it. Bent over it.

His wide and troubled eyes told the captain that he had been right.

Jehannes turned his horse with a brutal jerk of the reins.

‘I’ll alert the camp. Tom, give the captain your horse. M’lord, we need to inform the Abbess.’ Jehannes’ tone had changed. It wasn’t respectful, merely professional. This was now a professional matter.

The captain shook his head. ‘Give me Wilful’s horse. Tom, stay at my back.’

Wilful Murder dismounted with his usual ill grace and muttered something about how he was always the one who got screwed.

The captain ignored him, got a leg over the archer’s roncey with a minimum of effort, and set off at a fast trot, Wilful holding onto another man’s stirrup leather and running full out, and then they stretched to a racing gallop across the last furlongs, with Wilful seeming to run alongside in ten league boots.

The guard had already turned out at the camp gate – a dozen archers and three men-at-arms, all in their kit and ready to fight. For the first time since he’d set his spear under his arm the day before, the captain’s heart rose a fraction.

The head dragged in the dirt behind Gelfred’s horse left a wake of rumour and staring.

The captain pulled up before his pavilion and dropped from the saddle. He considered bathing, considered washing the clots of ordure from his hair. But he wasn’t positive he had the time.

He settled for a drink of water.

Jehannes, who had paused to speak to the Officer of the Watch, rode up, tall and deadly on his war horse.

Two archers – Long Sam and No Head, were ramming the head down on a stake.

The captain nodded at them. ‘Outside the main gate,’ he said. ‘Where every cottager can see it.’

Jehannes looked at it for too long.

‘Double the guard, put a quarter of the men-at-arms into harness round the clock as a quarter-guard, and draft a plan to clear the villages around the fortress,’ the captain said. He was having trouble with words – he couldn’t remember being so tired. ‘The woods are full – full of the Wild. They have amassed an army out there. We could be attacked any moment.’ He seized an open inkwell on his camp table and scrawled a long note. He signed it in big capitals – good, educated writing.

The Red Knight, Captain

‘Get two archers provisioned and mounted as fast as you can – a pair of good horses apiece, and on the road. Send them to the king, at Harndon.’

‘Good Chryste,’ said Jehannes.

‘We’ll talk when I’ve seen the Abbess,’ the captain called, and Toby brought up his second riding horse, Mercy. He mounted, collected Bad Tom with a glance, and rode up the steep slope to the fortress.

The gate was open.

That was about to change.

He threw himself from Mercy and tossed the reins to Tom, who dismounted with a great deal less haste. The captain ran up the steps to the hall and pounded on the door. The priest was watching from his chapel door, as he always watched.

An elderly sister opened it and bowed.

‘I need to see the lady Abbess as soon as may be,’ the captain said.

The nun flinched, hid her eyes and closed the door.

He was tempted to pound on it with his fists again, but chose not to.

‘You and Gelfred killed that thing?’ Bad Tom asked. He sounded jealous.

The captain shook his head. ‘Later,’ he said.

Bad Tom shrugged. ‘Must have been something to see,’ he said wistfully.

‘You’re – listen, not now, eh? Tom?’ The captain caught himself watching the windows in the dormitory.

‘I’d ha’ gone wi’ you, Captain,’ Tom said. ‘All I’m saying. Think of me next time.’

‘Christ on the cross, Tom,’ the captain swore. It was his first blasphemous oath in a long time, so naturally, he uttered it just as the frightened, elderly nun opened the heavy door.