The Red Knight ttsc-1

by Miles Cameron

  Adam appeared to hold his horse. ‘A king’s knight is very welcome here,’ he said through his grin. Adam liked to serve a great man – it rubbed off. Especially forty leagues north of the city.

  A prosperous man, razor thin, wearing a fine woollen hood lined in silk and edged with silver crosses and a fur band, swept off the last and bowed to the ground. ‘Edard Blodget, m’lord. At your service. I won’t call my inn humble – it’s the best inn on the Highway. But I do like to see the king’s knights.’

  Gawin was startled to see a commoner so well dressed and so frankly spoken – startled, but not displeased. He returned the bow, all the way to the ground. ‘Ser Gawin Murien,’ he said. ‘Knighthood doesn’t necessarily make a man rich, Master Blodget. May I enquire – ?’

  Master Blodget gave a tight lipped smile. ‘Your own room for a silver leopard. Share with your squires for two cats more.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I can make it cheaper, m’lord, but it will be in a common room.’

  Gawin mentally reviewed his purse. He had a good memory, well-trained, and so he could almost literally see the contents – four silver leopards and a dozen heavy copper cats. And gleaming among them, a pair of rose nobles, solid gold, worth twenty leopards apiece. Not a fortune, by any means, but enough that he needn’t stint on his first night on the road, or on the second.

  ‘Adam will take care of it, then. I would prefer we were all in a room. With a window, if that’s not too much to ask?’

  ‘Clean linen, window, well-water, and stabling for three horses. The pack horse will cost another half a cat.’ Blodget shrugged, as if such petty amounts were beneath him, which they probably were. The Two Lions was at least a third of the size of the massive fortress of Strathnith, and was probably worth – Gawin tried to do the mathematics in his head – wished for his tutor – and finally arrived at a figure that had to be recklessly wrong.

  ‘I’m flattered you came to greet me in person,’ Gawin said with another bow.

  Blodget grinned from ear to ear.

  Another thing I learned at court – men like to be flattered just as much as ladies, Gawin thought.

  ‘I have a group of singers tonight, m’lord – on their way to court, or so they hope. Will you join us for dinner in the common room? It ain’t a great hall – but it’s not bad. And we’d be honoured to have you sit with us.’

  Of course, I’m as fond of flattery as the next man.

  ‘We will join you for dinner and music,’ he said with a slight bow.

  ‘Evensong at Saint Eustachios. You’ll hear the bell,’ the innkeeper said. ‘Dinner follows the service directly.’

  Harndon City – Edward

  Master Pyle appeared in the yard after evensong and asked for a volunteer.

  Edward had a girl, but she worked, too. She would have to understand, because a chance to work with the master was every apprentice’s dream.

  The master mixed the powder differently this time. Edward didn’t see how. But he moved a heavy iron pitch-bowl for repousse work into the yard, and cleared a lot of old rubbish – bits of ruined projects and soft wood for making temporary moulds and hordles – out of the way, in case they should catch fire. It wasn’t skilled work, but he was still working for the master.

  The smoke was thicker this time, and the flame burned whiter.

  Master Pyle looked at it, fanning his face to get the evil smelling smoke to clear. He had a bit of a smile.

  ‘Well,’ he said. He looked at Edward. ‘Are you ready for your examination, young man?’

  Edward took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ he said. And hoped that didn’t sound too cocky.

  But Master Pyle nodded. ‘I agree.’ He looked around the yard. ‘Clear all this up, will you?’

  That night in the loft, the apprentices whispered. The older boys knew when the master was making progress. They could tell just be the way he held his head. And because rewards suddenly emerged from the master’s purse, and boys got new work, and apprentices were suddenly tested to be journeymen. Lise, the eldest female cutler, had gone to the masters the week before. She’d passed.

  And so Edward Chevins, senior apprentice and sometime shop boy, found himself up for journeyman. It was so sudden it made his head spin, and before the next morning was old enough to drink his beer, the Guild Hall had checked his papers, the Guild Masters examined him, his nerves were wracked, his hands shook – and he was left to sweat, alone, in a richly decorated room fit to entertain a king. It was plenty to overawe a seventeen-year-old blade smith.

  Edward was a tall, gangly young man with sandy red hair and too many freckles. Standing under the stained glass of Saint Nicholas, he could think of twenty better answers he might have given to the question: ‘How do you achieve a bright, constant blue on a blade with a heavy forte and a needle point?’

  He groaned. The other four boys who’d been tested with him looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and hope. It was too easy to believe that someone else’s failure raised one’s own hopes of success.

  An hour later, the masters came into the hall. They all looked a little red in the face, as if they’d been drinking.

  Master Pyle came and put a ring on his finger – a ring of fine steel. ‘You’re made, boy,’ he said. ‘Well done.’

  Lorica – Ser Gawin

  Gawin was awakened from his nap by the sound of men shouting in the courtyard. Angry voices have a timbre to them – especially when men mean violence.

  Adam was at his bed. He had a heavy knife in his hand. ‘I don’t know who they are, m’lord. Men from overseas. Knights. But-’ Squires didn’t speak ill of knights. It was never a good idea. So Adam shrugged.

  Gawin rolled off his bed, wearing only his braes. He pulled a shirt over his head, and with Thoma’s help got his legs into his hose and his torso laced into his pourpoint and his hose tied on.

  Down in the courtyard one voice sounded clear above the others. Accented, but powerful controlled, elegant. The words ended with a long, clear laugh that sounded like bells.

  Gawin went to his window and threw it open.

  There were a dozen armoured men in the courtyard. At least three were true knights, and wore armour as good as Gawin’s own. Their men-at-arms were nearly as well armoured. It was possible they were all knights.

  They all wore the same badge – a rose, gules, on a field d’or.

  Not anyone he knew.

  The leader with the magnificent laugh had silver-gilt hair and fine features – in armour, he looked like a statue of Saint George. He was beautiful.

  Gawin felt ill-dressed and somewhat doltish in comparison.

  Master Blodget stood in front of this saint with his hands on his hips.

  ‘But,’ the knight had a smile on his face, ‘But that is the room I want, Master Innkeeper!’

  Blodget shook his head. ‘There’s a gentleman in that room – a belted king’s knight, in that room. First come, first served, m’lord. Fair is fair.’

  The knight shook his head. ‘Throw him out, then.’

  Toma had his master’s doublet and helped him into it. While Adam did the laces, Toma fetched his riding sword.

  ‘Follow me,’ Gawin snapped at the scared boy, and sprang down the stairs. He went through the common room – empty, because every man in the inn was in the courtyard watching the fun.

  He stepped through the door and the knight turned to look at him. He smiled.

  ‘Perhaps I don’t wish to leave my room,’ Gawin called. He hated that his voice wavered. There was nothing to fear, here – just a misunderstanding, but the kind wherein a knight had to make a good show.

  ‘You?’ he asked. His tone of disbelief wasn’t mocking – it was genuine. ‘You are a king’s knight? Ah – Gaston, they need us here!’

  Closer up, the men in the courtyard were huge. The smallest of them was a head taller than Gawin, and he was not a small man.

  ‘I have that honour,’ Gawin said. He tried to find something wittier to say, but he was more in
terested in defusing the tension than in scoring points.

  The one called Gaston laughed. The rest laughed too.

  The beautiful knight leaned down from his saddle. ‘Have your man clear your things from that corner room,’ he said. And then, in a particularly annoying tone, he added, ‘I would esteem it a favour.’

  Gawin found that he was angry.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘That was ill-said, and not courteous,’ the knight answered him with a frown. ‘I shall have it. Why make this difficult? If you are a man of honour then you may cede it to me with a good grace, knowing I am a better man than you.’ He shrugged. ‘Or fight me. That would be honour too.’ He nodded to himself. ‘But to stand here and tell me I can’t have it; that makes me angry.’

  Gawin spat. ‘Then let us fight, ser knight. Give me your name and style, and I will name the weapons and the place. The king has announced a tournament in a two months, perhaps-’ Even as he spoke, the man was dismounting.

  He gave his reins to Gaston and turned, drawing his sword – a four-foot long war sword. ‘Then fight.’

  Gawin squeaked. He wasn’t proud of the squeak, but he was unarmoured and had only his riding sword – a good blade, but a single handed weapon whose only real purpose was to mark your status in life and keep riff-raff at arm’s length.

  ‘Garde!’ the man called.

  Gawin reached out and drew his sword from the scabbard Toma held, and brought it up in a counter cut that just stopped his opponent’s first heavy overhand blow. Gawin had time to bless his superb Master at Arms – and then the giant cut at him again and he slipped to the side, allowing the heavier sword to slide off his own like rain off a roof.

  The bigger man stepped in as quick as a cat and struck him in the face with one gauntleted hand, knocking him to the ground. Only a turn of his head saved him from spitting teeth. But he was a knight of the king – he rolled with the impact, spat blood, and came to his feet with a hard cut at his opponent’s groin.

  A single-handed sword has advantages in a fight with a heavier sword. It is quicker, even if the wielder is smaller.

  Gawin funnelled his anger into his sword and cut – three times, on three different lines, trying to awe the giant with a flurry of blows. The sword rang off the mirrored finish of his opponent’s armoured wrist on the third cut. It was a fight ending blow.

  If his opponent wasn’t covered in steel.

  The giant attacked, drove him back two steps, and then Toma screamed. The boy had been unprepared for a fight and stood frozen, but now tried to turn and run he’d became entangled with his master’s defensive flurry. Gawin almost fell, and the bigger man’s long sword licked out, caught his, and drove his thrust deep into Toma.

  He kicked Gawin in the groin when he turned to look at Toma, whose head was cut nearly in half by the blade. Gawin fell, retching with the pain, and the big knight showed no mercy; knelt on his back, and pushed his nose into the mud in the courtyard. He stripped the sword from Gawin’s hand.

  ‘Yield,’ he said.

  Northerners were reputedly stubborn and vengeful. Gawin, in that moment, swore to kill this man, whomever he might be, if it cost him his life and his honour to do it.

  ‘Fuck yourself,’ he said through the mud and blood in his mouth.

  The man laughed. ‘By the law of arms, you are my prisoner, and I will take you to your king to show him how very much he needs me.’

  ‘Coward!’ Gawin roared. Even as part of his mind suggested that slumping in pretended swoon might be the wiser course.

  A gauntleted hand rolled him over and pulled him up. ‘Get your things out of my room,’ he said. ‘I will pretend I did not hear you say such a thing to me.’

  Gawin spat blood. ‘If you think you can take me to the king and not be bound for murder-’

  The blond man sniffed. ‘You killed your own squire,’ he said. He allowed himself just the slightest smile at the words and, for the first time, Gawin was afraid of him. ‘And calling a man who has bested you in a test of arms “coward” is poor manners.’

  Gawin wanted to speak like a hero, but rage, sorrow, fear, and pain spat his words out ‘You killed Toma! You are no knight! Attacking an unarmoured man? With a war sword? In an inn?’

  The other man frowned. He leaned close.

  ‘I should strip you and have you raped by the grooms. How dare you call me – me! – an unfit knight? Little man, I am Jean de Vrailly, I am the greatest knight in the world, and the only law I recognise is the law of Chivalry. Yield to me, or I will slay you where you stand.’

  Gawin looked into that beautiful face – unmarred by anger, rage, or any other emotion – and he wanted to spit in it. His father would have.

  I want to live.

  ‘I yield,’ he said, and hated himself.

  ‘All these Alban knights are worthless,’ de Vrailly laughed. ‘We will rule here.’

  And then they all dismounted, leaving Gawin alone in the courtyard with the body of his squire. The boy was quite dead.

  I killed him, Gawin thought. Sweet Christ.

  But it wasn’t over yet, because Adam was a brave man, and he died one in the doorway of their corner room.

  One of the foreigners threw all his kit through the window after he heard his squire die. They laughed.

  Gawin knelt on the stones by Toma and, after an hour, when the bells rang for evensong, the innkeeper came to him.

  ‘I’ve sent for the sheriff and the lord,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry, m’lord.’

  Gawin couldn’t think of anything to say.

  I killed my brother.

  I killed Toma.

  I have been defeated and yielded.

  I should have died.

  Why had he yielded? Death would have been better than this. Even the innkeeper pitied him.

  Lorica – de Vrailly

  Gaston was wiping the blood from his blade, fastidiously examining the last four inches where he’d hacked repeatedly into the young squire’s guard, battering his defences until he was overwhelmed and then dead. His blade had taken some damage in the process and would need a good cutler to restore the edge.

  De Vrailly drank wine from a silver cup while his squires removed his armour.

  ‘He cut you, the man in the courtyard,’ Gaston said, looking up from his task. ‘Don’t try to hide it. He cut you.’

  De Vrailly shrugged. ‘He was swinging wildly. It is nothing.’

  ‘He got through your guard.’ Gaston sniffed. ‘They aren’t really so bad, these Albans. Perhaps we will have some real fights.’ He looked at his cousin. ‘He hit you hard,’ he pointed out, because de Vrailly was rubbing his wrist for the third time in as many minutes.

  ‘Bah! They have little skill at arms.’ De Vrailly drank more wine. ‘All they do is make war on the Wild. They have forgotten how to fight other men.’ He shrugged. ‘I will change that, and make them better at defeating the Wild as I do. I will make them harder, better men.’ He nodded to himself.

  ‘Your angel has said this?’ Gaston asked, with obvious interest. His cousin’s encounter with an angel had benefited the whole family, but it was still a matter that puzzled him.

  ‘My angel has commanded it. I am but heaven’s tool, cousin.’ De Vrailly said it without the least irony.

  Gaston took a deep breath, looking for his great cousin to show a little humour, and found none. ‘You called yourself the best knight in the world,’ he said, trying to raise a smile.

  De Vrailly shrugged as Johan, his older squire, unlaced his left rerebrace and began to remove the arm harness over the wound on his wrist. ‘I am the greatest knight in the world,’ he said. ‘My angel chose me because I am the first lance in the East. I have won six battles; I have fought in twelve passages of arms and never been wounded; I have killed men in every list in which I’ve fought; in the melee at Tours-’

  Gaston rolled his eyes. ‘Very well, you are the best knight in the world. Now tell me why we’ve come to Alba, besides
bullying the locals.’

  ‘Their king will proclaim a tournament,’ de Vrailly said. ‘I will win it, and emerge as the King’s Champion.’ He nodded, ‘and then I will be the king, to all intents and purposes.’

  ‘The angel has said this?’ Gaston asked.

  ‘You question my angel, cousin?’ De Vrailly frowned.

  Gaston rose and sheathed his sword. ‘No, I merely choose not to believe everything I’m told – by you or any other man.’

  De Vrailly’s beautiful eyes narrowed. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

  Gaston smiled a crooked smile. ‘If we continue like this we will fight. And while you may be the best knight in the world, I believe I have bloodied your knuckles more than once – eh?’

  Their eyes crossed, and Gaston saw the glitter in de Vrailly’s. Gaston held his gaze. Few men could do it. Gaston had the benefit of a lifetime of practice.

  De Vrailly shrugged. ‘You couldn’t have asked this before we left home?’ he asked.

  Gaston wrinkled his nose. ‘When you say fight, I fight. Yes? You say: gather your knights, we go to conquer Alba. I say: lovely, we shall all be rich and powerful. Yes?’

  ‘Yes!’ de Vrailly said, through his smile.

  ‘But when you tell me that an Angel of God is giving you very specific military and political advice-’ Gaston shrugged.

  ‘We are to meet the Earl of Towbray in the morning. He will engage us in his mesne. He desires what my angel desires.’ For the first time, de Vrailly seemed to hesitate.

  He pounced. ‘Cousin – what does your angel desire?’

  De Vrailly drank more wine, put the cup down on the sideboard, and shrugged out of his right arm harness as his younger squire opened the vambrace. ‘Who can know what an angel desires?’ he said quietly. ‘But the Wild here must be destroyed. That’s what the king’s father intended. You know they burned swathes of the wood between the towns to do it? They waited for windy days and set fires. The old king’s knights fought four great battles against the Wild – and what I would give to have been part of that. The creatures of the Wild came forth to do battle – great armies of them!’ His eyes shone.