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.
Her look suggested she had heard a few oaths in her day. She inclined her head slightly to indicate that he should follow her so he climbed the steps and crossed the hall in her wake, to the doorway he’d never passed through but from whence wine had been served, and stools brought.
She led him down a corridor lined with doors and up a tightly winding stair with a central pillar of richly carved stone, to an elegant blue door. She knocked, opened the door and bowed.
The captain passed her, returning her bow. He wasn’t too tired for courtesy, it appeared. His mind seemed to be coming back to him and he found that he was sorry to have blasphemed in the hearing of the nun.
It was like the feeling returning to an arm he’d slept on – the gradual retreat of numbness, the pins and needles of returning awareness, except that it was emotion returning, not his senses.
The Abbess was sitting on a low chair with an embroidery frame. Her west window caught the mid-day rays of the spring sun. Her scene showed a hart surrounded by dogs, a spear already in his breast. Bright silk-floss blood flowed down his flank.
‘I saw you come in. You lost your horse,’ she said. ‘You stink of phantasm.’
‘You are in great peril,’ he replied. ‘I know how that sounds. But I mean it, just the same. This is not a matter of a few isolated creatures. I believe that some force of the Wild seeks to take this fortress and the river crossing. If they cannot take it by stealth and subterfuge, they will come by direct assault. And the attack could come at any hour. They have massed, in large numbers, in your woodlands.’
She considered him carefully. ‘I assume this isn’t a dramatic way of increasing your fee?’ she asked. Her smile was subtle, betraying fear and humour in the same look. ‘No?’ she asked, with a catch in her voice.
‘My huntsman and I followed the spore – the Hermetical spore – of the daemon that murdered Hawisia,’ he said.
She waved him to a stool, and he found a cup of wine sitting on the side table. He drank it – the moment the cup touched his lips, he found that he was tilting it back, feeling the acid fire rush down his gullet. He put the cup back down, a little too hard, and the horn made a click on the wood that caused the Abbess to turn.
‘It is bad?’ she asked.
‘We found a man’s corpse first. He was dressed as a soldier – as a Jack.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Do you remember the Jacks, Abbess?’
Her eyes wandered far from him, off into another time. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘My lover died fighting them,’ she said. ‘Ah, there’s a reason for penance. My lover. Lovers.’ She smiled. ‘My old secrets have no value here. I know the Jacks. The secret servants of the Enemy. The old king exterminated them.’ She raised her eyes to his. ‘You found one. Or at least you showed me a leaf.’
‘Dead. Looked as if he had been killed, quite recently, by one of his own.’ The captain found a flagon of wine and poured a second cup. ‘I’m going to wager that he died a few hours after Sister Hawisia. Killed by another of his kind, as if that makes sense.’ He shook his head. ‘Then we went west, still following the spore.’
He sat down again, a little too hard.
She watched him.
‘Then we found the creature.’ He stared at her. ‘An adversarius. You know what they are?’ he asked.
‘Every person of my generation knows what they are.’ She covered her eyes with her hand for a moment. ‘Daemons. The Wardens of the Wild.’
He let another long breath go. ‘I thought they had been exaggerated.’ He looked out the window. ‘At any rate, there were two of them. I can only assume that the Jacks and the daemons are working together. If they are, this cannot be a random incident – I believe they’re the harbingers of an attack, testing your strength, and I assume that your fortress is the target. It certainly has immense strategic value. I need to ask you to let my troops in, close the gates, place yourself in a posture of defence, and victual the fortress – call in your people, of course. And send word to the king.’
She looked at him for a long time. ‘If you planned to take my fortress yourself . . .’ she said. And left it there.
‘My lady, I agree that it would be a brilliant stratagem. I even agree that I might try something like. I have fought in the East – we did such things there.’ He shrugged. ‘This is my country, my lady. And if you doubt me – and you have every reason to doubt me – you have only to look at what my archers are putting up outside the gates of our camp.’
She looked out the window.
‘You could tell me that there’s an angel of the Lord outside the gates of your camp, telling your archers that I’m the most beautiful woman since Helen, and I couldn’t see it well enough to believe you,’ she said. ‘But – I have seen you. I can smell the power on you. And – now I understand other things I have seen.’
‘You are an astrologer,’ he said. I am slow, he thought.
‘Yes. And you are very difficult to read, as if – as if you have some protection from my art.’ She smiled. ‘But I am no novice, and God has given me the power to look at souls. Yours is rather curious – as I expect you know.’
‘Oh, God has been very good to me,’ he said.
‘You mock and are bitter, but we face a crisis, and I am not your spiritual mother.’ Her voice changed, becoming sharper, and yet deeper. ‘Although I would be, if you would let me in. You need His spirit.’ She turned away. ‘You are armoured in darkness. But it is a false armour, and will betray you.’
‘So people tell me,’ he said. ‘Yet it’s served me well so far. Answer me this, Abbess. Who else was at that manor?’
The Abbess shrugged. ‘Later . . .’
The captain looked at her for a long time. ‘Who else was there?’
She shook her head. ‘Later. It is not the issue now, when I have a crisis of my tenure. I will not fail. I will hold this place.’
He nodded. ‘So you will put this fortress in a posture of defence?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘This minute.’ She raised a hand bell and rang it.
The elderly nun came immediately.
‘Fetch the gate warder and the sergeant at arms. And ring the alarm,’ the Abbess ordered in a firm voice. She went to the mantel on her fireplace, and opened a small box of ivory carved in the Cross of the Order of Saint Thomas. In it was a slip of milk-white birch bark.
‘You’re sure about this?’ she whispered.
‘I am,’ he said.
‘I need to share your assurance,’ she said.
He sat back. ‘I could not make this up. You say you smell the power of the phantasm on me-’
‘I believe that you have met and defeated another monster. It is possible that you found a dead Jack.’ She shrugged. ‘It is possible I have a traitor inside my walls. But once I cast this summoning, the Master of My Order will come with all his knights. He will probably demand that the king raise an army.’
‘That’s is just about what is required here,’ said the Red Knight.
‘I cannot have them come to my aid for nothing,’ she said.
The Red Knight sat back. His back hurt, and his neck hurt, and he felt the dull anger of complete fatigue. He bit back a retort, and then another.
‘What will satisfy you?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘I believe you. But I must be sure.’
He nodded. Irrationally angry.
‘Fine,’ he said. He rose, and bowed.
She reached for his hand.
He stepped back. ‘No time like the present,’ he spat.
‘Captain!’ she said. ‘You are not a small child.’
He nodded, held onto his anger, and stalked out.
‘What did she say?’ Tom asked.
‘She wants us to find their army, not just the signs of it,’ the captain said.
Tom grinned. ‘That will be a mighty feat of arms,’ he said.
Ser Milus had the banner, and the rest of his entourage was ready to mount. But the sergeant at arms stood in the gate with only the postern open. They would have to walk their horses out the gate. Even while cursing this delay, the captain commended the old witch. She took his warning seriously.
‘Captain!’
He turned to see Amicia running barefoot across the courtyard.
‘Let’s go,’ Tom grunted. ‘I’ll get a convoy together.’
‘Twenty lances,’ the captain said.
‘Aye,’ said Tom. He winked as he left.
Amicia reached him. He felt her through the aether as she came up. He could smell her, an earthy, female smell, clean and bright, like a new sword. Like a taste of the Wild.
‘The Abbess sends this,’ she said levelly. She held out a small scroll. ‘She says she will take immediate steps, so you are not to think yourself ignored.’
He took the scroll from her hand.
‘Thank you,’ he said. He managed a smile. ‘I am tired and difficult.’
‘You have fought for your life,’ she said. Her eyes held his. ‘There is no fatigue like that of fear and war.’
He might have denied it. Knights don’t admit to fear. But her gentle voice held an absolute certainty. It was healing. It was forgiving.
It was admiring.
He realised that he had been holding her hand the whole time. She flushed, but did not snatch it away.
‘Lady, your words are a tonic to a tired man.’ He bowed and kissed her hand. It was a tonic. That or she had cast a spell on him unnoticed.
She laughed. ‘I am no lady, but a simple novice of this house,’ she said.
He tore himself away from her, or they might have stood far too long in the courtyard, with the first sun of the spring resting on them.
He read the scroll as he rode down the gravel path from the main gate to the Lower Town. Much of the path was walled, and some of it paved, making a fortified road, itself a defence.
Someone had put a great deal of money into this fortress.
He cantered through the town. His shoulder didn’t hurt at all. But his right hand tingled for another reason entirely, and he laughed aloud.
Harndon Palace – Desiderata
Desiderata led her knights and ladies out into the spring.
It was early days yet, and even the heartiest of her bold young friends would not slip into the river naked today. But it was warm enough to ride fast, and to lay a picnic out on blankets.
Lady Mary directed the laying out of the food. Spontaneity, with Desiderata, often involved careful preparation and a great deal of work. Usually by Lady Mary.
Lady Rebecca Almspend, the Queen’s bookish secretary, sat behind her, ticking items off as they were unpacked. They were old allies and childhood friends.
Rebecca kicked off her shoes. ‘It is spring,’ she said.
Mary smiled at her. ‘When a young man’s fancy turns to war,’ she said.
‘Too true. They’ve left us for the first foe in the field, and that is enough to turn any girl’s head.’ Rebecca frowned. ‘I think he’ll offer for me. I thought he might before he left.’
Mary pursed her lips, looking at the two stone jars of marmalade – the
Queen’s favourite. She could eat a great deal of marmalade. ‘Did we really bring just two jars?’
‘Honestly, Mary, the stuff costs the earth – oranges from the south? White sugar from the Islands?’ Rebecca tossed her head. ‘She’ll have no teeth when she’s thirty.’
‘No one would notice,’ Mary said.
‘Mary!’ Rebecca was appalled to find her friend weeping. She slipped off her stump, and threw her arms around Mary. She was widely known as sensible, which seemed to mean that all of them could cry on her shoulders. In this case, she stood with her stylus in one hand and her wax tablet in the other, clutched to her friend’s back, feeling a little foolish.
‘He left without so much as a good-bye!’ Mary said, fiercely. ‘Your hillman loves you, Becca! He’ll come back for you, or die in the attempt. Murien only loves himself, and I was a fool-’
‘There, there,’ Rebecca muttered. Over by the willows that lined the river, there was laughter – the flash of the queen’s hair.
‘Look, she has her hair down,’ Mary said.
They both laughed. The Queen tended to let her hair down out of its coif at the least excuse.
Rebecca smiled. ‘If I had her hair, I’d let it down too.’
Mary nodded. She stepped back from their embrace and wiped her eyes. ‘I think we’re ready. Tell the servants to start laying plates.’ She looked around at the trees, the angle of the sun. It was beautiful – as spring-like as could be imagined, like a scene in an illustrated manuscript.
At her word, Mastiff, the Queen’s man, stepped out from behind a tree and bowed. He snapped his fingers, and a dozen men and women moved with the precision of dancers to lay out the meal. They were done in the time it would take a man to run to the river.
Mary touched Mastiff’s elbow. ‘You work miracles, as always, ser,’ she said.
He bowed, obviously pleased. ‘You are too kind, my lady,’ he said. He and his team melted back into the trees, and Mary summoned the Queen and her friends to lunch.
The Queen was barefoot, lightly clad in green with her hair free down her back and her arms bare in the new sun. Some of the young men were fully clad, but two of them, both knights, wore simple homespun tunics and no leggings, like peasants or working men. The Queen seemed to be favouring them – and the short tunics and bare legs did show off their muscles to good advantage.
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