The Red Knight ttsc-1

by Miles Cameron

  A small, and very beautiful ring, gleamed in the bottom of the bag. It said ‘IHS’. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘This is too much,’ he said quietly, and flung the bag across the room.

  It bounced off the wall.

  He went back to his cards.

  In the morning, when he went to pay the Keeper, he found the ring among his coins.

  Give it up said the magister. He wants her, as well. You two are not done with each other, it seems.

  He embraced the Keeper. ‘Got anyone going west to Lissen Carak?’ he asked.

  The Keeper grinned. ‘In the autumn, maybe, and then only with twenty swords,’ he said.

  The captain wrote a brief note on parchment. ‘Send this, then.’ He wrapped the ring in the parchment. It gave him the oddest feeling.

  ‘Go well, Captain,’ said the Keeper. ‘Stop here when you come west for the tournament.’

  The captain raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You are a famous knight,’ the Keeper said with his child-like delight in knowing news the others didn’t know. ‘The Queen has ordained that there will be a great tournament at Lorica, at Pentecost in the New Year.’

  The captain rolled his eyes. ‘Not my kind of fight, Keeper.’

  The Keeper shrugged. ‘So you say.’

  They spent five days riding over the mountains to Morea. They came down the pass north of Eva and the captain took them south and then east over the hills to Delf. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Gawin and Alcaeus were of the same mind, and Tom and Ranald saw the whole trip as an adventure, riding high on the hillsides, searching out caves . . .

  ‘Looking for a fight,’ Mag said in disgust. ‘Can we get home?’

  ‘Home to our company of hired killers?’ said the captain.

  Mag looked at him and shook her head. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you must. Aren’t you – excited? Hopeful? Interested?’

  He was watching the two hillmen ranging high above them. Alcaeus had purchased a good goshawk from a peddler and was flying him at doves. Gawin was riding ahead, feet crossed over the pintle of his saddle, reading.

  He shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve just been enlisted by one mighty Power to fight another in a war not of my making, over things I don’t understand.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I swore off being a tool when I was a child.’

  ‘The Wyrm is good.’ Mag put a hand on his arm. ‘I can feel it.’

  The captain shook his head. ‘Mag, what do my thoughts of good and evil mean to the worms in the road? I can be the most honourable knight who ever lived, and my horse’s iron-shod hooves will crush their soft bodies every step, after a rain.’ He smiled at her. ‘And I won’t even know.’

  Down in the deep valley ahead of them, he could see rows of tents; a palisade; neat circles of heavy wagons, and over all, a banner, black, with lacs d’or worked in gold.

  ‘Damn you,’ she said. ‘Why can’t we just act? Why can’t we simply win?’

  The captain sighed. ‘Men love war because it is simple,’ he said. ‘Winning is never simple. I can win a fight – together, we can win a battle.’ He rubbed his beard. Down in the valley, men were pointing and messengers were mounting horses. ‘But turning victory in battle into something that lasts is like building a place to live. So much more complicated than building a fortress.’

  He pointed at the riders. ‘Luckily for me, those men are bringing me word of our contract. A nice little war.’ He forced a smile. ‘Something we can win.’

  Harndon City – Edward

  Edward finished his first rondel dagger – a fine weapon with a precise triangular blade and an armour-piercing point – and handed it to Master Pyle with trepidation. The older man looked it over, balanced it on the back of his hand, and threw it at the floor, where it stuck with a satisfying thunk.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Hand it to Danny to be hilted. I’ll have a project for you in a few days – until then, cover the shop.’

  Well – shop work was clean and dull, but Edward was courting his Anne in the long summer evenings, and shop work allowed him to dress well – fine hose, a good doublet, not shop-worn linen stained in nameless chemicals and burned with a thousand sparks.

  Anne was a seamstress, and her hands were always clean.

  Most evenings she would dance in the square by her house, and Edward would swagger his sword and buckler against other journeymen – he was becoming a good blade.

  He was designing himself a fine buckler – sketching in a sure hand with charcoal – when the shop door opened and a small man came in. He was middling. And not very memorable.

  He smiled at Edward. He had odd black eyes, and he tapped a gold coin on the heavy oak table where customers examined the wares. ‘Fetch me your master, young man,’ he said.

  Edward nodded. He rang a bell for another shop boy and sent him to the yard, and Master Pyle appeared a few minutes later. The dark-eyed man had spent the time looking out the window. Edward couldn’t tear his eyes away, because the man was so very difficult to look at.

  He turned just a moment before the master appeared, and met him at the counter.

  ‘Master Pyle,’ he said. ‘I sent you some letters.’

  Master Pyle looked puzzled. Then he brightened. ‘Master Smith?’

  ‘The very same,’ said the odd man. ‘Did you try my powder?’

  ‘I did. Scary stuff, and no mistake. Shot a hole in the roof of my shed.’ Master Pyle raised an eyebrow. ‘Not very consistent, though.’

  The man’s dark eyes sparkled. ‘Mmm. Well, perhaps I didn’t explain entirely. Try wetting it with urine after you’ve mixed it. Dry it in the sun – far from fire, of course. And then grind it back to coarse powder, very carefully.’

  ‘If I was an alchemist, all this might entertain me, Master Smith. But I’m a blade smith, and I have many orders.’

  Master Smith appeared confused. ‘You make weapons, though.’

  ‘All kinds.’ Master Pyle nodded.

  ‘The very best in Alba, I’ve been told,’ Master Smith said.

  Master Pyle smiled. ‘I hope so.’

  Master Smith rocked his head back and forth. ‘Is this a matter of more money?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Master Pyle shook his head. ‘It’s just not my trade.’

  Smith let out a sigh. ‘Why not?’

  Edward looked at Master Pyle very hard, willing him to turn his head.

  ‘I have more orders than I can manage, and this is very untested.’ Master Pyle shrugged. ‘It would take months, perhaps years, to perfect.’ Smith shrugged. ‘So?’

  Edward was all but hopping up and down. Master Pyle turned his head and glared at him. But it wasn’t his hard glare.

  ‘This is my journeyman, Edward. He made both of the test devices. He’s very competent, and perhaps he’d be willing to do the work for you.’ Master Pyle looked at Edward. ‘Want to try, Edward? Your own commission?’

  Edward beamed.

  The odd, dark-eyed man rocked his head again. ‘Excellent, then.’ He put two sheets of vellum down on the shop counter. ‘Have a look at these, and see what you think,’ he said. ‘Tube, stock, powder, and match. I want you to make them all.’

  ‘Just one?’ Edward asked. ‘Delivered where?’

  ‘Oh, as to that, I’ll send you my directions. It is for some friends.’ He laughed. ‘Just one, and then you destroy all your notes. Or I will find you. Understand?’

  Edward looked at the man. He didn’t seem very dangerous. And yet, he did. And just for a moment, he seemed to have scales on the backs of his hands.

  ‘How much?’ Edward asked carefully. ‘Do I get paid?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ the strange man said. ‘Fifty gold nobles in advance. Fifty more on completion.’

  Edward had to struggle to breathe.

  Master Pyle shook his head. ‘I’ll get a notary.’

  Harndon Palace – The King

  Just above them, in the great fortress of Harndon, Master Pyle’s f
riend the king lay with his wife. He had two new scars on his heavily muscled thighs. She had one on her back.

  Neither found the other a whit less fascinating.

  When the king had done his thorough worship of her, he licked her leg and bit her gently and rose. ‘Men will mock me,’ he said. ‘A king who loves only his wife.’

  She laughed. Stretched like a cat, fists clenched and turned inward to the best advantage of her breasts and back. ‘I,’ she purred, ‘beg leave to doubt your Majesty.’

  He laughed and threw himself back down by her like a much younger man. ‘I love you,’ he said.

  She rolled atop him and kissed him. ‘And I you, my lord.’

  They lay for a while in companionable silence, until royal squires in the hall started to make noises that indicated that they had royal work to do.

  ‘I have set the date for your tournament at Lorica,’ the king said. He knew how much she wanted it. ‘It will help – after the battle. After Pentecost next.’

  She took in a deep breath, also to her advantage, and clapped her hands together.

  ‘And I ordered Master Pyle to build two of your military carts with the Wagoner’s Guild,’ he said. ‘To test the concept. I’ll show them at the tournament. Ask men with retinues to build to the pattern.’ He shrugged. ‘It will be a start.’

  ‘And the Red Knight?’ she said.

  He reacted as if he’d been stung.

  She shook her head. ‘His company had standard wagons, built to the purpose in Galle.’ She dimpled. ‘So I didn’t invent the idea, apparently.’

  He shook his head. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  She shrugged, again to her advantage.

  ‘If you don’t get dressed, the new ambassador from the Emperor will find me a most tardy host.’ He reached for her.

  ‘I’ve taken the liberty of inviting him to the tournament,’ the Queen said. She watched the king like a hawk.

  He didn’t flinch.

  ‘Ah,’ he said.

  Morea – The Red Knight

  The camp was snug on the late summer evening. And the return had been enough like a homecoming to make him cry. He smiled a great deal, and rode through the camp.

  Gelfred was sitting on a wagon, feeding-

  ‘Goodness gracious, Gelfred! Do we have Parcival?’ The captain slid down from his riding horse and shocked his hunt master with an embrace.

  The eagle bated and said squaaack.

  Gelfred nodded. ‘Wonderful bird.’ He looked around. ‘Not quite right, of course. Neither you, nor, pardon me, the Abbess is a king. Or queen.’ He grimaced.

  The captain gave him a quick nod. ‘We’ll ask the Emperor for a special chrysobull, shall we?’ he laughed. ‘Although, to be honest, I’m pretty sure the Abbess almost was the Queen.’

  Gelfred looked shocked.

  Ser Alcaeus nodded. ‘I suspected the same.’

  Ser Gawin looked at the captain. ‘I’ll be the slow brother. What are we talking about?’

  In the captain’s head, Harmodius laughed. A nasty, gossipy laugh. So! You did see who she was.

  ‘The old king’s mistress, Gelfred. That’s what men called her. Sophia Rae. To whom Hawthor the Great offered marriage after the Battle of Chevin, and was refused.’ The captain smiled. ‘Imagine having been Hawthor’s lover and Richard Plangere’s at the same time.’ He shook his head. ‘And then an Abbess for thirty years.’ He reached out and smoothed the bird’s plumage. ‘Hawthor must have given her the bird. He must be quite ancient.’

  The bird’s eyes were fathomless and gold, with a black centre.

  ‘I’ve heard of them living fifty years,’ said Gelfred.

  The bird’s grumpy eyes locked with the captain’s.

  ‘I see,’ he said.

  Mag sat with Johne the Bailli in the last of the light. He had camp stools – comfortable enough, but backless, and she wasn’t getting any younger. He was watching the stars.

  ‘I see a lot of unfamiliar faces,’ she said, watching two men-at-arms go by. They paused in the light of Johne’s lanterns, gave her an appraising look, and bowed.

  ‘We did some recruiting,’ he admitted. He ran a hand down her back. Turned his head, and smiled. ‘All right, they all but attacked us. As soon as we made camp – every younger son in the North Country. Some Moreans, too. By the Saviour I would expect we have a hundred lances.’

  She sighed. ‘So many,’ she said.

  He sat back. ‘Won’t he be pleased? The young captain?’

  She leaned over and kissed him gently. ‘I’m a sinful old woman, and I don’t need to be seduced, if that’s what your hand is supposed to be doing.’

  He stiffened, but then grinned. ‘My lady, I am out of practice.’

  They didn’t talk much, for a moment.

  ‘Am I clumsy?’ he murmured.

  ‘No,’ she said. She was thinking of blowing out the lanterns and lying on the carpet shamelessly. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘What then?’ he asked.

  She made a dismissive gesture and went to blow out the candles.

  ‘You can tell me,’ he said.

  ‘I’m just thinking of the captain. Of him being pleased.’ She shrugged. ‘You all think he’s fine, and he is not. He’s like a horse that’s taken a wound, and keeps going. He looks fine, right up until he falls stone dead.’ She found she was leaning back into him.

  He held onto her. ‘When I was young, I wanted nothing so much as to be a knight,’ he said. ‘I wanted it, and I fought for it. And I did not get it. And after more time and some bad things, I met your husband, and we survived a bad time. And then I became a decent man in a small town. I had some dark days and some good days.’ He shrugged. ‘And now – par dieu, now it seems that I may get to be a knight. And I may have you, my lady.’ He held her tight. ‘Which is by way of saying – our little captain will take many hurts. If they break him?’ he shrugged. ‘Then they do. That is the way of it.’

  She nodded. And slipped a little closer to the carpet of their tent.

  The captain sat with Ser Alcaeus and his brother in the last light. The great eagle sat on a perch in the shaded end of the tent, head muffled, squawking softly. The captain went and petted the bird and calmed him, and while he was doing so, Toby poured him wine. Ser Jehannes knocked at the captain’s tent poles.

  ‘Come,’ said the captain.

  Ser Jehannes had Ser Thomas and Ser Antigone, and Toby poured them all wine. In the distance, Oak Pew slammed a fist into Wilful Murder’s head. The archer sat suddenly. The captain shook his head.

  ‘It’s good to be home,’ he said.

  Jehannes held out a leather wallet. ‘I know this is supposed to be a night to revel,’ he said. ‘But the messengers who brought these have been like bluebottles on horse manure, m’lord. Dispatches and letters,’ he said. He grimaced. ‘Most for our well-born recruit here.’ He motioned at Alcaeus. ‘Your uncle seems determined to hear from you.’

  ‘Your pardon,’ Alcaeus said, and broke the seal on a scroll tube of dark wood.

  While he did so, Jehannes handed an ivory tube to the captain. He glanced at the seal and smiled.

  ‘The Queen, gentlemen.’

  They all drank. Even Sauce.

  He broke the seal while Alcaeus was still reading.

  Alcaeus looked up. ‘M’lord,’ he said formally. ‘The situation has worsened. I must ask, in the Emperor’s name, that we ride with all dispatch.’

  The captain was till reading his own. ‘Relax, gentles,’ he said. ‘We aren’t riding anywhere tonight.’

  Alcaeus looked at white as a sheet. ‘The Emperor has been – taken. Hostage. A week and more ago.’

  The captain looked up and fingered his beard. ‘All right. That does constitute a crisis. Tom?’

  ‘Ready to ride at first light it is.’ Tom grinned. ‘Never a dull moment.’

  ‘We live in interesting times,’ the captain said. ‘Everyone get sleep. We will be moving fast. May I assume this is part
of the same – er – trouble for which your uncle is hiring us?’

  Alcaeus shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ He shuffled. ‘I don’t even know if he is alive, or still Emperor.’

  The captain nodded. ‘Dawn, then,’ he said. ‘We’ll pick up information as we go.’

  Jehannes looked at the other parchment. ‘And the Queen?’

  The captain sighed. ‘An invitation to a Deed of Arms,’ he said. ‘In the spring.’ He smiled. He looked out into the darkness. He was smiling. ‘Someone has kidnapped the Emperor, and we are going to be called on to save him,’ he said quietly. ‘I think we’ll have to miss the tournament.’

  He looked around the table. ‘Remember this night, friends. Breathe the air, and savour the wine. Because tonight, it’s all in the balance. I can feel it.’

  ‘What is?’ Sauce asked. She raised an eyebrow at Tom, as if to say Is he drunk?

  ‘Everything,’ the captain said. He laughed aloud. ‘Everything.’

  Acknowledgements

  This book is the culmination of thirty ears of study, chivalric martial arts, real life, and role-playing. To be fair to all my influences, I’d have to thank everyone I’ve ever known. There’s a Somali man who worked for me in Kenya in this book; a woman I met once in Marseille; a chivalric fighter I sparred with at a tournament a few years back – it’s like that.

  But several groups of people deserve my special thanks.

  First, the friends of my days in university. Joe and Regina Harley, Robert Sulentic, Robert Gallasch, Gail Morse, Celia Friedman, Steven Callahan, Jevon Garrett, and another dozen – who played in the original Alba campaign. I am an unashamed nerd. Without you people, there would be little life on these bones.

  Second, the friends of my reenactment hobby – most especially those who attend our yearly historic trek, where we wander off into the Adirondacks with eighteenth century equipment – or fourteenth century equipment – to learn what it is like to live with the past. We pack it in on our backs and we go places that – in some instances – no person has been in fifty years. These experiences have helped me write this book and I owe you all a debt of thanks for putting up with me. And all the people with whom I spar, in and out of armour – here, and in Ottawa and in Finland and Greece.