As bewildered as a newborn, Jamie forced a polite smile. All he wanted was to return to camp and find his comrades, but he was stuck here until her noble drunkenness decided to release him.
“Trevisa took a liberty with me all those years ago. That’s why they called him the Fox; he was always stealing into the chicken coop.” She breathed a gentle sigh. “When my lover, my angel, challenged him, Trevisa had him killed. Back then I was without influence, and nobody else cared a whit about the murder of a vagabond knight. Ah, but it broke my heart, and set me on an…interesting path.”
She handed her glass to her body servant, and dabbed a kohl-stained tear from her cheek. Jamie noticed that the servant’s knuckles were crisscrossed with dozens of pale scars, and that he had a very workmanlike hunting knife hanging from his belt that was quite at odds with the satin breeches and ill-fitting wig.
The Countess smoothed faint creases from her gown. Her hands were small, plump…scarred. “I have waited almost thirty years for this day. Patience, dear Jamie, can remain a faithful virtue when all others are lost to you.” She took his hand in hers. “Thank you for your patience and for reminding me of the only person I have ever loved. I’m pleased you were here to share the moment when I finally saw him avenged. That you are so like him, and that your comrades were my weapons only sweetens the cup. Now, Jamie dear, I have two little gifts for you.”
“There really isn’t any need, I—”
“No, I insist, and not even kings can resist me when I am adamant. You must take them. I had a…” She smiled. “Suffice to say, I no longer need them, but you might.” She unfastened a fine, gold locket and chain from around her neck and dropped it in his palm. She then unfastened another, this time of silver with a carved piece of horn hanging from it.
“The locket is just a keepsake, a little something to remind you of me. The other is more useful. I fear you have some dark roads to walk, Jamie dear. It won’t save a life, but it will keep it for a time. Goddess forbid, you should ever need it.” She wrapped his hand around the gifts. “Do as you will with the locket, but look after the horn. ‘Tis old magic—good magic.”
“Magic is outlawed in Suvia. Aren’t you afraid of the Redemption?”
She giggled. “Surely you’ve learnt that there is only one law in Suvia, if not the entire world?”
Jamie smiled. “Don’t get caught?”
“Precisely. Now go, I release you. I can see you’re itching to be away. Please pass on my congratulations to Captain Stenna.” The Countess kissed his cheek before drifting over to the pavilion. Her servant gave him a knowing smile and followed her.
Jamie wasn’t sure, but he got the distinct impression that he’d been a pawn in a game he hadn’t realised he’d been playing.
To take his mind off his embarrassment he opened the locket. Pressed behind glass was a curl of hair that had faded to the colour of dried blood. Painted on the other half of the locket was the portrait of a young woman. She had an unremarkable face, except for her eyes. Even though the years had blurred and cracked the paint they still stood out. Bright as pins, and as sharp as needles; the young girl crossed the decades and fixed him with a penetrating gaze.
The Antian camp that had earlier been mired in sullen anxiety erupted in cheers of joy and relief when the Hammer and the Anvil returned in triumph. It took Alyda half an hour to make her way through the jubilant crowd and back to her command tent, by which time her side was a constant, throbbing ache that pulsed pain with every breath. She lifted the tent flap to find that Vorbek had beaten her back. The Northerner was already sprawled in a chair, mug of ale in hand, a broad grin plastered across his bloodied face. Alyda tugged off a gauntlet, but she’d need help with the rest of her armour. She was about to shout for Polyn, when Jamie hobbled in, sweating like a cob stallion.
“Sorry I’m late, Captain—the road was choked with Suvi prisoners on their way to Lemarasch Keep,” he said and set about unbuckling her armour.
Alyda took off her helm and sweat drenched arming cap. Long, black braids uncoiled down her back, sodden and heavy. Vorbek also wore his hair in the triple braids, as was the tradition in the Guards. Not only were they an easy way of identifying the various ranks, but they also provided excellent padding under a coif—something Alyda was most grateful for given how much her ears were ringing. Vorbek’s squire, Keris, was struggling to remove the knight’s dented breastplate. The task wasn’t made any easier by Vorbek reaching over her for a jug of ale that was on the table.
He snagged the pitcher and poured Alyda a drink. They charged their mugs, splashing froth over the maps spread across the table. The two squires rushed to save them. Alyda couldn’t care less, the long anticipated battle, and probably the war was over, and they’d won. She gulped the ale. It was sweet and cool, and gone all too quickly. She held out her tankard and Vorbek obliged her with a refill.
“I was feeling a mite lonely for a while there, Stenna,” he said.
Alyda raised an eyebrow. “You’d better not be complaining. Some of us have fought two battles today.”
They laughed—victory more intoxicating than any ale. Alyda looked at Trevisa’s magnificent standard propped in the corner of the tent. It would also be going back to Antia; the question was, with whom?
The Captain of the Hammer snatched a coin off the table, and gestured to the captured colours. “Heads or tails?”
Vorbek scratched his matted beard before answering. “Tails.”
Alyda flipped the coin, sparking a golden trail through the air. It hit the table, pirouetted, and finally came to rest with the stern face of King Daris uppermost.
Alyda flashed Vorbek a grin. “Don’t feel bad, old friend—I just can’t lose today.”
Vorbek laughed. “Aye, so it seems. Enjoy it, Shorty. There are too few days in a lifetime when everything falls just right.”
The tent flapped open. Trenham breezed in wielding a wine bottle instead of a bow. Alyda probed her side, cautiously exploring the extent of her injury. The mercenary flopped onto a chair and dragged the cork from the bottle with his teeth, before spitting it away.
“You should get your surgeon to take a look at that, or perhaps use some o’that heathen magic to heal yourself.” said Trenham, grinning.
Alyda gave him a dead-eyed look. “You’re about as funny as pox. As for this, I can wait. Gedthis has a tongue sharper than any blade. Let me at least—”
Vorbek coughed, and indicated with a frown that someone was behind her. Even before she turned around she knew who it was.
Gedthis stepped into view and glared daggers at her. “I’ll get to work, shall I?”
Vorbek and Trenham declined the surgeon’s invitation to leave while he worked. They decided to stay and offer ale, wine, and advice. Alyda accepted the wine, but the medical advice and alcohol were pointedly refused by the surgeon.
Gedthis cut open Alyda’s bloody shirt and poked at the gash where the spear had sawed along her ribs. “I had hoped you wouldn’t end up being skewered this time, Captain. Don’t you do all that practicing to prevent this sort of thing from happening?”
“I’m obviously not very good yet, Gedthis,” said Alyda through gritted teeth.
“Luckily for you, I am.”
“So, Squire Turlowe, did you enjoy being in the company of the Black Countess?” Trenham enquired.
Jamie frowned at the mercenary. “Do you mean Countess Duvessi?”
“Aye. Not that I’d call her the Black Countess to her face—I’m too fond of breathing.” He winked at Alyda. “I heard she was quite taken with you, Jamie lad. Must be those flaming locks, eh? All women of taste find us redheads irresistible—isn’t that right, Captain Stenna?”
Though it hurt, Alyda had to laugh. The Irregulars had been attached to the Guards since they’d arrived in Suvia three months ago. During that time she’d got to know Trenham and his company. Despite his terrible sense of humour, he’d proven himself to be an excellent commander of competent fighters
. He also knew her father, which was enough for Alyda to stay on friendly terms with him, even if she didn’t trust the mercenary as far as she could spit.
“I must thank the Countess,” she said. “Short of telling us what colour breeches the Beast would be wearing, she was right about everything else. She’s a damn good intelligencer.”
Trenham nodded in agreement. “Aye, she’s done well for us and her prince. Although, she’s made an enemy of the Brotherhood and they have long memories.” He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Tell me, d’you know what happened to Prince Jerim’s troops? I heard they didn’t even disembark.”
Alyda and Vorbek exchanged a look of caution. Despite his affability, Trenham was still a mercenary, and they were always sniffing around for information that might lead to the next contract. Alas, it wasn’t a secret that Prince Jerim and his brother, King Daris were at odds, but she wasn’t going to be drawn on the subject by Trenham.
“The Governor of Cathlan fell ill and returned home on the orders of the King.” She wasn’t one for lying and didn’t think she’d convinced Trenham of anything other than her loyalty.
“Ah, I see.” The mercenary smiled. “Well, as pleasant as this has been, I’d best be going. It’s a long way back to Careth. We must do this again sometime; it’s been both enjoyable, and profitable.” He patted his coin pouch, tipped the knights a salute, and left.
Alyda took another swig of wine, but it was doing little to numb the pain Gedthis seemed intent on inflicting. “Asha’s Paps, Gedthis! It hurts more now than when it fucking happened.”
“I doubt that very much, Captain.” He got up and wiped his hands on his apron. “I need to get something from my tent. Try not to do anything, or go anywhere while I’m gone.”
“That cowardly fa’cachta,” Alyda swore in Tamalak when she was sure Gedthis was out of earshot.
“I take it you mean Jerim and not the sawbones?” Vorbek asked.
“Aye, Gedthis isn’t averse to bloodshed.”
“I think we may be sent to chastise a certain younger brother when we get home.”
“Probably. Although you never know—Jerim might really be ill.”
They were still laughing when Gedthis returned with a cloth covered bowl.
“That’s very kind of you Gedthis, but I’m really not hungry at the moment,” said Alyda.
“I’m glad you’re in high spirits, Captain. There are other wounded who aren’t feeling quite so light-hearted.”
“I’m not surprised if he’s been ministering to ‘em.” Althus side-mouthed.
The surgeon narrowed his eyes and whipped the cloth off the bowl. Alyda was relieved to see that it contained nothing more sinister than hot water and herbs. Gedthis fished a threaded needle from the water. It looked unnecessarily long.
“Lean over to the side please, Captain,” said Gedthis as he expertly twisted a knot in the steaming, linen thread.
Alyda did as he asked, and hoped she looked more at ease than she felt. Althus gave her a reassuring nod; he knew the drill.
“Squire Turlowe!” Gedthis snapped. “For gods’ sakes, hold the damn lamp still. I’m good, but not even I can work in the dark. This might sting a little, Captain.” He wrinkled his nose and uncorked a small bottle of something that smelled like wine vinegar.
“So when do you think you’ll be ready to leave for Toresta?” Alyda asked Vorbek.
She knew he answered because she could see his lips moving, but she didn’t hear a word he was saying. As Althus started to speak, Gedthis poured the liquid over her side. Pain dug fiery talons into her flesh and stole the breath from her lungs. She didn’t cry out, like all knights in the Guards she took the pain, dragged it into her gut and held it there until it died.
A welcome breeze wafted into the tent, cooling the sweat that was running down her face. Alyda looked to the entrance and saw a shock of white blonde hair; it was Della, one of the company heralds. Alyda beckoned her in.
The herald limped in and peered at Alyda’s side. “That looks nasty. I thought you said it was a scratch, Gedthis?”
Alyda glared at the surgeon. Now she wanted to call him a fa’cachta.
“It is a scratch,” he snapped as he deftly stitched the stinging flesh together. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
Della smiled apologetically at Alyda. “I’m sorry, Captain, but there’s some Suvies outside. Shall I tell them to come back when he’s finished or…?”
Alyda shook her head and blessed Gedthis with a barbed stare. “No, bring them in. It’s only a scratch.”
Vorbek stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened his braids. The herald showed two Suvians into the tent; dressed in their finery they looked as out of place as snowdrops in a desert. Alyda knew Count Lemarasch; he was an aide to Prince Ranulfi. He always seemed a decent sort and, unlike most of the prince’s staff, possessed of more than half a brain. She had no idea who the other one was, but judged that if he’d ever been a warrior it had been a long time ago. The stranger had a full, almost perfectly round belly, and was wearing possibly the most elaborate uniform she’d ever seen. If martial prowess was measured in gold braid he must surely be a god of war.
Round Belly swept past Lemarasch, “My dear Antian friends, I—”
He began boldly enough, but on seeing the surgeon’s red work, he choked. His eye widened, his mouth closed, then opened, then closed again, making him look like a freshly landed fish.
Alyda wasn’t in the mood to deal with idiots, and gave Lemarasch a questioning look. He shrugged apologetically and stepped past the gasping Round Belly.
“Captain Stenna, Captain Vorbek, allow me to congratulate you on the Prince’s behalf. It was a fine victory, but this is clearly not the appropriate time to discuss business with you, Captain Stenna. Please, forgive our interruption.” In a whisper intended only for Alyda he added: “I’m really very sorry about this.” Then in a louder voice: “Captain Vorbek, perhaps you could assist us?”
“What can I do for you, Count Lemarasch?” Althus asked.
The old nobleman frowned. “It’s the standard you took—that of General Trevisa. General Calvigneri…” he indicated Round Belly, who inclined his head very slightly to the captains, “…would like to know how much you would be willing to take for it.”
“Ah, well. I’m afraid you’ll have to come back later and speak to Captain Stenna after all, for ‘tis the First that has claim to those colours.”
Gedthis dropped the needle in the bowl and rinsed his hands turning the water pink. “Another excellent job, even if I say so myself. Please keep it clean, Captain. I’ll be back later to check on it.”
Alyda grunted and sat back. The stitches pulled, and her side felt raw, which did nothing to improve her rapidly deteriorating mood.
Round Belly produced a silver vinaigrette from his sleeve and took a sniff before clearing his throat. “Captain Stenna, how much do you want for the standard? I’ll pay handsomely for it, in gold. ‘Tis just a pity I was delayed, or I would have taken it from the field of honour myself.” He tried to thrust out his chest, but merely succeeding in presenting his belly like a proud mother-to-be.
Take it himself? Alyda looked at Althus. The Captain of the Anvil shrugged. Round Belly was dressed in a theatrical fantasy of a military uniform. The man reeked of perfume and self importance. His white gloved hand rested on the jewelled hilt of a sword that looked more suited to peeling apples than spilling blood. She’d wager a month’s pay that he’d never even seen a battlefield, let alone fought on one.
“I’m sorry, General, but the standard is going back to Antia with the First.” She was too tired to go into detail about what she thought of his offer, or in which orifice he could shove it.
Calvigneri’s sickly smile vanished. “Captain, I must insist that you sell me the standard. I’m sure you understand it cannot be taken from Suvian soil. Honour is at stake, I must return with it to our Prince’s headquarters, I absolutely
must!”
Alyda was on her feet before she knew it. She took a step towards Calvigneri. Startled, he hopped back.
“General Calvigneri, that…” she stabbed a finger at Trevisa’s colours, “is a battle standard, taken in combat and paid for with blood. It will hang in a place of honour at Trelanlith Arth so that in years to come, when this day has been forgotten and we have long since turned to dust, the knights who come after will see it and remember those who fell in its taking.”
Calvigneri’s gaze flicked nervously from Alyda to the standard and back again. He gulped. “S…so you won’t sell it?”
“No.”
After an uncomfortably long silence, Lemarasch rescued Calvigneri. “My Lord, I believe it’s time to inspect the troops.”
“Yes! Yes, of course,” Calvigneri spluttered. “Why didn’t you remind me earlier, Lemarasch? Captain Stenna, Captain Vorbek, I cannot say that it has been a pleasure.” The General almost tripped over his sword in his haste to leave. When he’d gone, a wide grin spread across Lemarasch’s angular face.
“Thank you, Captain—I’ll dine out for months on this tale.” He bowed and left.
Althus chuckled. “You’re a born diplomat, Ali.”
She sat back down and put her feet on the table. “Aye. ‘Tis a gift.”
Chapter Two
Lord Hyram prayed a silent prayer to no god in particular that the day would pass quickly and uneventfully. He loathed parades, disliked public holidays, and despised wearing heavy robes and chains of office on hot July days. Acid burned his gullet while he waited for Daris to finish reading his report. He looked out of the window to pass the time, but the impressive view of the capital afforded him little pleasure. Far below, beyond the garland decked walls of Weyhithe Arth, the winding streets were thronged with what looked to be the entire population of the city and every town and village for miles around. The air hummed with excitement, as the great unwashed waited to greet the knights of the 1st and the 2nd on their triumphant return from Suvia. Hyram wanted to vomit. He traced the path the parade would take from the city gates to the Arth, if everything went to plan. His stomach lurched when he considered what would happen if it didn’t.
The Red Knight Page 3