The Red Knight

Mag didn’t ask foolish questions. Before the horses rode into their little town square, shaded by an ancient oak, she had two baskets packed, one of work and one of items for sale. She filled her husband’s travelling pack with spare shifts and clothes, and took her heaviest cloak and a lighter cloak – for wearing and sleeping, too. She stripped her bed, took the bolster and rolled the blankets and linens tightly around it to make a bundle.

‘Listen up!’ called a loud voice – a very loud voice – from the village square.

Like all her neighbours she opened the upper half of her front door and leaned through it.

There were half a dozen men-at-arms in the square, all mounted on big horses and wearing well-polished armour and scarlet surcotes. With them were as many archers, all in less armour with bows strapped across their backs, and as many valets.

‘The lady Abbess has ordered that the good people of Abbington be mustered and removed into the fortress immediately!’ the man bellowed. He was tall – huge, really, with arms the size of most men’s legs, mounted on a horse the size of a small house.

Johne the Bailli, walked across the square to the big man-at-arms, who leaned down to him, and the two spoke – both of them gesturing rapidly. Mag went back to her packing. Out the back she scattered feed for her chickens. If she wasn’t here for a week, they’d manage, longer, and they’d all be taken by something. She had no cow – Johne gave her milk – but she had her husband’s donkeys.

My donkeys, she reminded herself.

She’d never packed a donkey before.

Someone was banging at her open door. She shook her head at the donkeys, who looked back at her with weary resignation.

The big man-at-arms stood on her stoop. He nodded. ‘The Bailli said you’d be ready to move first,’ he said. ‘I’m Thomas.’ His bow was sketchy, but it was there.

He looked like trouble from head to foot.

She grinned at him, because her husband had looked like trouble, too. ‘I’d be more ready if I knew how to pack a donkey,’ she said.

He scratched under his beard. ‘Would a valet help? I want people moving in an hour. And the Bailli said that if people saw you packed, they’d move faster.’ He shrugged.

Off to the right, a woman screamed.

Thomas spat. ‘Fucking archers,’ he snarled, and started back out the door.

‘Send me a valet!’ she shouted after him.

She got a produce basket down from the shed and began to fill it with perishable food, and then preserves. She had sausage, pickles, jam, that was itself valuable -

‘Good wife?’ asked a polite voice from the doorway. The man was middle-aged, and looked as hard as rock and as sound as an old apple. Behind him was a skinny boy of twelve.

‘I’m Jaques, the captain’s valet. This is my squire, Toby. He can pack a mule – I reckon donkeys ain’t much different.’ The man took his hat off and bowed.

Mag curtsied back. ‘The sele of the day to you, ser.’

Jacques raised an eyebrow. ‘The thing of it is, ma’am – we’re also to take all your food.’

She laughed. ‘I’ve been trying to pack it-’ Then his meaning sunk in. ‘You mean to take my food for the garrison.’

He nodded. ‘For everyone. Yes.’ He shrugged. ‘I’d rather you made it easy. But we will take it.’

Johne came to the door. He had a breast and back plate on and nodded to Jacques. To Mag, he said, ‘Give them everything. They are from the Abbess, we have to assume she will repay us.’ He shrugged. ‘Do you still have Ben’s crossbow? His arming jack?’

‘And his sword and dagger,’ Mag said. She opened her cupboard, where she kept her most valuable things – her pewter plates, her silver cup, her mother’s gold ring, and her husband’s dagger and sword.

Toby looked around shyly, and said to Jacques, ‘This is a rich place, eh, master?’

Jacques smiled grimly and gave the boy a kick. ‘Sorry, ma’am. We has some bad habits from the Continent, but we won’t take your things.’

But you would under other circumstances, and anything else you fancied, she thought.

Johne took her by her shoulders. It was a familiar, comfortable thing, and yet a little too possessive for her taste, even in a crisis.

‘I have a locking box,’ he said. ‘There’s room in it for your cup and ring. And any silver you have.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Mag, we may never come back. This is war – war with the Wild. When it’s done, we may not have homes to return to.’

‘Gentle Jesu!’ she let slip. Took a shuddering breath, and nodded. ‘Very well.’ She scooped up the cup and ring, tipped over a brick in her fireplace and took out all her silver – forty-one pennies – and handed it all to the bailli. She saved out one penny, and she gave it to Jacques.

‘This much again if my donkeys make it to the fortress,’ she said primly.