The Red Knight (109 page)

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.’

‘We’re losing, period,’ said the Prior. ‘In our order we have records that go back six hundred years. We are not winning this war.’ He shrugged. ‘If the Wild
were not so utterly divided against itself, they’d have swept over us a thousand years ago.’

In his head, Harmodius said,
Exactly. Who knew the Prior was a kindred spirit?

‘What can we do?’ the captain asked.

The Prior bent forward. ‘Well, at least you are interested. Where is your next contract?’

The captain leaned back. ‘Morea. A rebellion and a magus gone bad.’ He looked out the window. ‘What will you do with this place?’

‘Put a garrison into it, for a while. I don’t quit easily – I’ll offer a sizeable benefit and a total remission of tithes to any family who will stay here and rebuild.
And I, too, will recruit – there must be younger sons south of the river looking for farms. I’ll find them.’

‘That will cost a fortune,’ the captain said.

‘I have a fortune,’ said the Prior. He leaned forward. ‘You have power.’

The captain shrugged.

The Prior shook his head. ‘Your power comes from the Wild. I’ve seen it.’

Again, the captain shrugged.

The Prior nodded. ‘Very well. But if you ever choose to talk about it there are many knights of the order who channel the Wild. We know more about it than you might think.’

The captain finished his wine, rose, accepted the Prior’s embrace and even stayed still while the man blessed him.

‘Will you not tell me why you turn your back on God?’ the Prior asked.

The captain looked at him, smiled and shook his head. ‘When you offered to make me a knight of the order, just now—’ he said.

‘The offer remains open,’ said the Prior.

‘—I’ll treasure that,’ he finished.

‘Your brother turned me down, as well,’ the Prior said.

The captain nodded. ‘Gawin is riding east with me,’ he said.

He walked out of the Commandery, and down the stone steps. A valet in de Vrailly’s arms stood by the steps up to the Hall, holding a beautiful destrier – tall and grey as steel. The
captain didn’t feel the slightest need to take leave of the king. Or the Queen. Or, for that matter, their new favourite the Captal de Ruth, already known as the Victor of Lissen.

Instead, he walked to the hospital, up the steps, and to Master Random’s bedside. A trio of local farmers stood by his bed, with Master Johne the Bailli.

‘A moment, good sirs!’ cried Master Random. ‘This worthy knight must always have first call on my time. Damn my foot,’ he said, trying to twist in the bed. ‘How can
it hurt so much when it isn’t there?’

The captain embraced the merchant. ‘You look better.’

‘I am better, my friend. That wonderful young lady poured her spirit into me, and I feel twenty years younger for it.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘Though if I was home, I daresay the
goodwife might tell you that the deal just struck with these worthies was part to my joy. Eh?’

The captain looked around. Master Johne had acquitted himself very well against the enemy, every farmer present had carried a spear or an axe. The captain knew them by name – Raimond,
Jaques, Ben Carter and young Bartholemew Lanthorn, a rogue, a scoundrel, and despite that, a very successful farmer.

‘He’s bought the whole grain crop,’ Johne the Bailli said. He smiled.

The captain glanced around. ‘Of course – it’s all in the cellars.’

‘A little messed about,’ Random noted. ‘But grain’s grain, and the need downriver – the price, when they hear of the battle and the burning of farms!’

‘How will you ship it?’ the captain asked, to be polite.

‘Boats!’ Random said. ‘All those boats which brought the Queen? Mine.’

The captain shook his head. ‘A coup, my friend. You will be rich.’

‘I’ll break even or a little better,’ Master Random said with a smile. ‘Drink with me,’ he said.

The captain nodded. ‘May I broach a small item of business, myself?’ he asked.

Random nodded. ‘Always open.’

The captain took the Prior’s note from the breast of his jupon. ‘You are a bank, are you not?’

Random sniffed. ‘Not of the size of the Etruscan banks, perhaps. But I do my – Gracious God!’ he said. His eyes snapped to the captain’s.

‘I’m investing in you,’ the captain said. ‘I may have to make some pay outs, and buy some horses, but three-quarters of this sum is at your service for at least a
year.’

The captain had a cup of wine, embraced all concerned, and met the Bailli’s eye. The man nodded.

He went back through the ward, to the bed where his brother lay reading. He had his feet up, but he was fully dressed and his kit was neatly packed in wicker hampers. ‘She’s not
here,’ he said. ‘Don’t even pretend you are here to see me.’

‘I won’t, then,’ the captain said. ‘Where is she?’

Gawin shrugged. ‘I need out of here, Gabriel. I’ll kill the foreigner if I stay.’

‘I’ll have another cot put in my pavilion. We ride tomorrow.’ He turned to go. ‘Where is she, Gawin?’

Gawin met his brother’s eye. ‘I’d tell you if I knew,’ he said.

Their eyes locked, and Gawin motioned with a finger. A woman’s form was outlined in the curtain of the courtyard window.

The captain raised an eyebrow.

‘He’s not the enemy, Mary,’ Gawin said, and the Queen’s Lady in Waiting emerged. She was blushing.

‘You have other things to take up your time,’ the captain said.

Gawin laughed. ‘I really don’t know where she is,’ he admitted.

The captain turned with a wave, and headed out. He peeked into the dispensary and the apothecary, and he climbed the steps in the dormitory. No one had seen her. The smiles he left in his wake
pained him.

Finally, in the courtyard, he met Sister Miram. She smiled at him, and took him by the hand to her cell in the chapel. ‘You are going,’ she said, pouring him wine.

He tried to refuse the wine but she was a forceful woman, and a pleasant one, and her silence intimidated him. She waited him out. Finally, he drank it. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘We will celebrate the feast of Mary Magdalene tomorrow,’ she said. She smiled. ‘We will inter the old Abbess.’ Sister Miram looked at her hands. ‘I will be
ordained Abbess in her place.’

‘Congratulations,’ the captain said.

‘There is talk that the whole convent is to be moved south to Harndon,’ Sister Miram said. She looked the captain firmly in the eye. ‘I won’t have it.’

The captain nodded.

‘We will also accept the vows of novices advancing to the sisterhood of Christ tomorrow,’ she said.

Ice formed in the captain’s stomach.

‘She is performing her vigil at the moment,’ the sister said. ‘Drink your wine, Captain. No one is forcing her to.’

The captain took a breath.

‘We owe you so much,’ Sister Miram said. ‘Do you think we do not know it? But she is not for you, Captain. She is to be the bride of Christ; it’s what she wishes.’
She rose, went to her prie-dieu, and opened the triptych. From it she drew a folded piece of parchment. ‘She left this for you. If you should come.’

The captain took it with a bow. ‘Your servant, ma soeur. May I express my congratulations on your elevation, and my—’ He stopped. Swallowed. ‘I will make a donation to
the convent. Please give Sister Amicia my congratulations and my kindest regards.’

Somehow, he reached the courtyard.

Toby was holding his horse.

The captain took the reins, and vaulted into the saddle, aware, in that cursed part of him that was always awake, that he was on the stage of chivalry, and that half of the knights of Alba were
watching him.

Then he rode down the hill to his camp. He paused at the guard fire.

Don’t be a fool. Read it.

The Red Knight took the parchment from his breast, and threw it in the fire unread.

You idiot.

Michael was sitting in his tent. He leaped to his feet, obviously guilty about something. ‘Master Ranald is waiting for you,’ he said. ‘I was entertaining him!’

Ranald Lachlan sat with a mug of beer, and his cousin Tom sat across the captain’s camp table with another. They had dice on the table, and cards.

‘It’d be a pity to stop him playing,’ Tom said. ‘Especially as I’m taking all his money,’ he added.

‘I’m so pleased you two feel free to make use of my tent and table,’ the captain spat.

Tom raised an eyebrow. ‘Brother’s got something to say,’ he said.

Ranald rose. ‘I – need to make a great deal of money,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you’ll have me as a man-at-arms.’ He looked embarrassed to ask.

‘I’d have thought the king would’ve knighted you,’ the captain said.

Ranald shrugged.

‘All right,’ said the captain, sitting and pouring wine for himself. ‘Now deal me a hand.’

‘But first,’ Ranald said, ‘I have to pay a visit to the Wyrm of Erch.’

The captain gagged on his wine. ‘The Wyrm?’

‘Our liege lord in the hills, or so we call him,’ Ranald said, and Tom nodded.

The captain shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’ He frowned. ‘Possibly because I’m drunk.’

Tom shrugged. ‘The ways of the hills are easier on a man with drink in him. Tis like this, my lord: the Wyrm guarantees us peace for a tithe of the flocks. Tis been that way for twenty
generations of men or more. These Outwallers that killed Hector – the Sossag – they were serving a Power of the Wild called Thorn. Aye?’

‘Naming calls. But yes.’ The captain drank.

‘So I call him and he comes and I gut him,’ said Tom. ‘So?’

‘Excellent point,’ the captain said. ‘Go on.’

‘The Wyrm owes us for our loss,’ Ranald said.

The captain sat back. ‘I’m not drunk enough to believe that,’ he said.

Tom and Ranald sat with set faces.

The captain finished his cup. Michael poured him more, and he didn’t say no. And then he said, ‘She’s taking orders as a nun, Tom.’

Tom shrugged as if all women were one and the same. ‘Best find another one then,’ he said. And then, as if the collapse of the captain’s hopes was not the most important thing
in the world, he said, ‘So we want leave to go to the Wyrm.’

The captain shook his head. ‘I have a better idea,’ he said. ‘Let’s all go.’

Ranald looked at him and raised an eyebrow at his brother.