by J. P. Ashman
Chapter 60 – Longsword
‘Anything?’ Sears said, eyeing the yellow and black chequered knight.
Sir Mechel nodded. ‘Anything. Stowold’s armoury is our armoury. You’re of his household now, have been for two whole days, you lucky gets. You need to arm like it now though. You’re not solving crimes in Park District or being chased by gangers where you two are going.’ Sir Mechel eyed Biviano, who was eyeing a longsword. ‘A knight’s weapon that, Biviano.’ Sir Mechel grinned.
Sears frowned. What does that mean, besides the obvious fact?
Without a word, which was also unusual, Biviano put the longsword back on the rack and picked up a simple arming sword and a rondel dagger. ‘I like these,’ he said, turning and looking Sir Mechel up and down, armour and all. ‘The straight tri-blade of the rondel is perfect for punching through plate. Like the harness you wear, Sir Mechel.’
Sir Mechel grinned, his defence against words as solid as his armour. ‘Yes, they are. I’ll leave you two to it. Meet me in the map room when done. I can trust you to find your way, gentlemen?’
‘You can, milord,’ Sears said, before Biviano could say anything else.
Sir Mechel nodded and left the lamp-lit armoury.
Sears turned on Biviano, who was testing an arming belt around his skinny waist. ‘Well?’ This better be good, Sears left out.
‘Well, what?’ Biviano said, eyes on the looping of his new black belt.
‘Well, what was all that about?’ Sears closed on his friend, pulled him around.
Biviano looked up, frowned and shrugged. He looked back down and finished knotting his belt. ‘There,’ he said. ‘A fine fit. Will go nicely with the new colours, coif and helm.’ He sheathed his new sword and dagger and made to move away from Sears. ‘I’m thinking a shield, too.’
Sears took Biviano by the maille clad shoulders and held him firm.
Sighing ridiculously, Biviano looked up from beneath the rim of his new – identical to his previous – kettle-helm.
‘You were a prick to Sir Mechel. He’s been nowt but nice to us.’
Biviano shrugged again. ‘I can’t deny that. Seems like a lovely bloke, for a knight.’
Knight…? ‘That’s what made you bristle.’
‘Eh?’
‘Knight!’
‘You’re making no sense, ye fat shit. Now let me go before I—’
‘Fall to the ground, wailing like a child?’
Biviano folded his arms across his padded chest and looked left, and made a point of it.
‘Proving my point. A child.’ And a bloody stubborn one. ‘Spit it out, Biv.’
Another sigh, less heavy; genuine. Biviano managed to shrug Sears off this time, or rather Sears let him. Sears knew Biviano well, likely better than the man knew himself… certainly better than the man knew himself. He’d spent enough years with him after all. Decades in fact.
‘Well? What about him saying longswords are for knights got to you? You could take it if you—’
‘It’s not about the sword, Sears. Or any of this.’ He waved his arms about the richest armoury either of them had ever seen or imagine, outside the King’s own, they were sure.
Sears said nothing. He stood back and waited for the inevitable spilling of the proverbial beans.
Taking a deep breath, Biviano moved away, back to the longsword. He hefted it and swung it. He set into a series of deft movements that Sears hadn’t seen the man perform before, with such a weapon, anyway. Although he wasn’t surprised Biviano knew how to.
‘It’s coming back to you, isn’t it?’ Sears asked, knowingly. ‘It’s been a long time coming, but I’ve not looked forward to it.’
‘How much did I forget this time, Sears?’
Sears crossed to a stool and sat, leaning back against the stone wall which he hardly felt through his new padding and maille. He stretched his thick legs out and crossed them at his booted ankles. ‘It’s not quite like that. You don’t forget these things as such, but—’
‘Remember them, from the others.’ Biviano turned and met Sears’ sad stare. ‘How many has it been?’
It was Sears’ turn to shrug. ‘I’m no math mastering mage, Biv. However many it usually is across so many generations.’ Sears let that sink in and wondered if it truly did, if it could. How much does he know? He watched his friend replace the longsword. He watched him pace, head down, eyes moving everywhere and nowhere at once, or so Sears assumed, knowing him as he did. The kettle-helm cast a black shadow across Biviano’s eyes. ‘Ye do know of what I speak, mate, don’t ye? Ye do know how many generations it’s been?’
Biviano looked at Sears, face screwed up, pock-marks appearing fuller, deeper than usual. He shook his head and winced all the more. ‘Yes and no. It comes and goes. He comes and goes, or they, I’m not sure. And when they or he or whoever does come along, I know more, feel more.’ He kicked an imaginary stone and paced some more. Sears let him, said nothing. ‘Other times; most of the time,’ Biviano continued, eyes on the racks of weapons, ‘I’m just me.’ He smiled. Genuine. ‘And those are the best times.’
‘The other times?’ Sears pushed, needing to know where his friend was at. ‘Are they more frequent of late?’
Biviano stopped and faced Sears, chin up. Sears could see the muscles working in his friend’s jaw, his new maille coif on a table, not yet donned. Biviano nodded. ‘More than ever, Sears. More than ever. And ever since that bloody plague.’
Sears swallowed hard, nodded and pursed lips beneath red beard.
‘How do, gobshites?’
Sears and Biviano jumped and turned to the door, the moment shattered by the recognition of the loud voice. Sears cursed back, Biviano followed suit.
Bollingham stood in the doorway, the widest grin stretched across his face. ‘Miss me?’ their former comrade from the City Guard said. He adjusted his bastard-sword carrying, plated belt that hung about his knee-length surcoat of dark green. Maille shushing and plate schynbalds shining, the former guardsman strode into the room, Stowold’s serpent- and tower-emblazoned badge upon his chest.
‘Like fuck we did,’ Biviano said, unable to hide his own grin.
‘Aye, what Biv said.’ Sears rose and took Bollingham’s outstretched arm, looking him up and down. ‘You can’t be serious, Bolly?’ Sears breathed the words, staring from spurs and schynbalds to vambraces and spaulders, all of which covered riveted maille from head to literal toe.
‘You better believe it, you fat shit,’ Bollingham said, turning to take hold of Biviano’s hand. ‘I’m a bastard knight!’ Bollingham crowed, laughing long and hard.
Sears and Biviano simply shook their heads and gawked at Sir Bollingham, who turned a full circle and, arms out wide, grinned back.
‘And you two are my bitches!’
Chapter 61 – Back on the road
Glad of his new kettle-helm to shade his eyes from the sun, Biviano lifted his chin and watched Sir Bollingham – as he was insisting on being called – ride ahead of the small group.
‘This is killing me,’ Biviano muttered.
Sears pulled alongside and looked down from his carthorse. Their new liege lord, the Earl of Stowold, was short on horses and had apologised when Sears was handed the reins of the workhorse. Sears had merely shrugged and climbed into the saddle, accepting it as fact. What Stowold had meant, Biviano knew, was that Sears had lost Stowold two expensive horses – or so Biviano had told the Earl – and Sears was paying for it by riding cheaper mounts. Biviano had grinned at that. He grinned again as he rode along on his slender palfrey, a rope trailing off to another horse he’d been given. The rest of the group had the same, their second mounts of a slightly bigger, if not destrier-sized, build, whilst Sears had a second carthorse plodding alongside him.
‘How’s your carthorse?’ Biviano asked, without looking at Sears; rolling with the easy pace Bollingham set them, Biviano looked to his second horse and was glad to have been given the one he’d ridden when he, Stowold, and th
e City Guard had stormed Wesson’s Samorlian Cathedral. It was far from a big horse like Sears’, nor was it a destrier like Bollingham’s second mount. Leaner, calmer, but with a dangerous flair one needed in a horse one rode into a fray, Biviano’s second horse was his perfect match. He felt comfortable in the saddle; on the road. He leaned forward and patted the palfrey he rode on the neck whilst regarding Sears’ answer: a curse. Biviano grinned all the more. ‘Least you’re mounted. Last time we travelled this road, ye ginger get, it was our feet doing the walking. Remember?’
‘How could I forget, mate.’ Sears looked back at the three riders behind, then forward once more. ‘Look at Bolly, prancing like a plated prick. An open-faced bascinet atop his ugly head and he thinks he’s a bloody baron or some such. He’s even made Pelse lead his destrier, as well as the man’s own animal. Poor skinny git is likely to be pulled in two if they’re spooked. He’ll be calling him his squire next.’
Biviano was nodding before Sears finished. ‘Bolly’s probably wearing green pantaloons under all that maille, too.’ Sears rolled his eyes and Biviano carried on regardless. ‘I thought we were to act as hedge-knights, looking for paid work? I ain’t ever seen no hedge-knight with as much clobber as Bolly’s got on, Sears. He’s about as inconspicuous as your bloody red beard.’
Biviano deftly side-stepped his horse as a fist came in and down from the carthorse to his side. Glancing up at Sears, Biviano smiled wide.
‘I don’t know, Biv. Some of these hired swords, knights or not, earn more money than household knights. He’s middling in attire is Bolly.’
Biviano mulled that over for a bit and couldn’t disagree.
They rode on in a companionable silence for a while, apart from the dust-lifting hooves on the road, the snorting of horses, buzzing of flies and cacophony of birdsong all about them. After a while enjoying the manure-tainted country air, Sears looked across and down at Biviano.
‘I’m glad to be back on the road too, mate.’ Sears smiled before watching Bollingham once more.
‘There’s nothing like it, is there?’
Sears shook his head. ‘Nope. It’s a shame it’s not just the two of us though, like old times.’
‘We can hear you!’ the nearest of the three riders behind said.
Biviano shrugged. ‘And?’
‘You’re a dick, Biviano, you really are,’ said the rider.
‘And you suck ’em, Jay Strawn. You suck ’em.’ Biviano grinned wider than ever.
The half-dozen men continued on down the road, heading east with the sun descending towards the patchwork of ridge and furrowed fields behind them. They rode without speaking for some time, Biviano deep in thought and thankful that he didn’t have to guide the palfrey for it to follow Bollingham.
Why does Stowold not send any of his usual men? Biviano wondered, turning to glance at Jay and the other two. All three of them, all six of them truth be told, were former City Guard. Biviano nudged his mount with his knees, left Sears’ side and pulled up to the so-called knight in front. ‘Bolly—’
‘It’s Sir Bollingham, Biv.’
‘It’s Biviano, prick!’
Bollingham laughed and Biviano couldn’t help but smile. Despite his wonder at why Stowold hadn’t sent Sir Mechel or Sir Bryant, or any of his long serving retainers, Biviano was pleased to be with lads he knew and trusted, although he’d not admit it. Well, as much as he could trust anyone beyond Sears. ‘Why us?’
Bollingham snorted. ‘Why you and Sears? ’Morl knows. I’d sooner have two decent men-at-arms at my back, rather than a runt and a red-bearded grunt.’ Bollingham laughed again at his own joke.
Biviano rode along, eyes on Bollingham’s face, which poked from polished steel. He gave no retort, nor did he ask again.
After several rocking steps, Bollingham answered truthfully. ‘Stowold doesn’t want anyone who’s recognisable from his household. None of his knights, none of his men in general, many of whom have attended him at court or tourney.’
‘Hence his sudden recruitment from the City Guard?’
‘Hence his sudden recruitment from the men he fought alongside in the cathedral. Or Dockside,’ he added, jerking his thumb back towards Sears.
Biviano barked a laugh, lifted his kettle-helm with his free hand and had a good scratch. His maille coif sat in oiled rags in one of the leather bags on his other mount. It was too warm as it was, without covering his neck in padding and heavy links. He only wore the helm to shade his head from the sun. In fact, if it weren’t up to the prancing knight by his side, he’d have ridden in braes, hose and helm, and nought else.
‘Sears didn’t do much when we reached him,’ Biviano said, talking of the constable led charge into Dockside to save Sears from the gangers, towards the end of the plague.
Bollingham was eyeing the scratching. ‘Nor did you, by all accounts. You fainted from the plague. Which is why the old scratching there is a little nerve wracking, mate.’
The scratching stopped. ‘Nits, I reckon.’
‘Nits, lice, fleas. You get ’em all it seems.’
‘Thanks.’ Biviano screwed up his pock-marked face. ‘What’s that smell?’ He looked about, nose wrinkling even more.
‘Me,’ Bollingham said, smirking.
‘The Three take you, Bolly, ye prick. We’re mounted and moving, against a breeze no less, and I got struck like a well-rotted corpse tried to hug me.’
Bollingham laughed, long and loud.
Sears and those behind cursed louder still as Bollingham’s gaseous expulsion struck them.
They rode along without talking again, Bollingham’s laughter falling away and Biviano falling back to Sears. Neither said anything, just breathed the fresh-again air and admired the view.
Biviano didn’t tell Sears about the thoughts or memories or whatever they were that came to him as they rode along, following a knight, followed by more men-at-arms. It was all so familiar, but not to Biviano. It was all so familiar to the one who’d come first; to the one who’d started the line Biviano was heir to. To the hoary bastard who’d fought and ended a war.
Chapter 62 – Royce
Captain Mannino watched the crew guide Sessio into Royce’s harbour. He took in the familiar red brick of the wharf, the walls and the towers. Scaffolding and pulleys and labourers swarmed the southern defences of the city like ants after the stamping of their nest. Red ants, Mannino thought, amused at his own musing. But not amused at what it meant. His subtle smile slipped to a not so subtle frown.
‘Cap’n?’ Hitchmogh appeared alongside, hands clasped behind his back.
‘Master Hitchmogh,’ Mannino replied, glancing down at the man. He made to speak, to ask a question, but Hitchmogh spoke before he could.
‘She’ll be here, Cap’n. Hud wouldn’t let me down. Or you,’ he added wryly.
Nodding, Mannino looked back to the bastardised city walls and towers. He scanned the evolving ramparts, wooden rooftops being constructed over the walkways and ornate crenellations of the outer walls. He looked in awe at the onager catapult placed atop the large box tower on the corner that had held a pitched roof during previous visits.
‘They’re preparing for war, Cap’n. That much is clear. And like Royce wasn’t a tough citadel as it was. Now look at her, at what she’ll be when they’re done.’
‘Oof, what!’ Mannino practically spat his exclamation. ‘The way Royce is going, she’ll buckle under her own weight; bring down the very ground she sits upon.’
Hitchmogh frowned and looked up to Mannino as Sessio thumped against the wharf.
‘Figure of speech, man,’ Mannino said, ‘figure of speech.’
‘There we go, Cap’n.’ Hitchmogh pointed, squinting as he did so. ‘Royce’s Reds, winged horses and all.’
Mannino raised his telescope, scanning the heads of those red knights present, and of their following squires and such. All of whom were male.
As the four knights rode closer, Mannino looked down and noticed the beads of s
weat appearing on his first mate’s forehead. ‘Well, Master Hitchmogh?’
The man looked up to his old friend and pulled his lips into a tight smile. ‘I’ve been known to be wrong.’ Hitchmogh winced as Mannino stowed his telescope upon his person and stormed off to his cabin, his trust and hopes and fears exposed in that instant.
‘Of course Hud’s not here,’ Mannino muttered to himself as he walked. ‘She’d have to see me if she was.’ He slammed his door, snarled and dropped to his bunk, mind racing with what they were to do now. He didn’t even pat Sessio’s hull as he lay there, staring at the ceiling. And that was unusual indeed.
Chapter 63 – Besieging your own
The noise hit the six riders before the view. They’d taken three days and stopped often, Bollingham not wanting to push their mounts – despite having two a piece – or his men, as he called them all, much to Biviano’s vocal annoyance. Bollingham said he didn’t know what would await them when they made their destination, so wanted to make it fresh and ready. It made sense, although the three days was an utter and complete dawdle for anyone to ride such a distance on the King’s roads. The new knight was right in his claimed reason for dawdling though; Sears winced at the dull thud of siege engines at work, the crash of their missiles striking stone. Beresford was besieged by the very family who owned it. It was their own weapons of war that attempted to bring down the centuries old walls their ancestors had built. And when Sears and his companions crested the hill, they saw the perrier and onager catapults at work, a larger trebuchet half built on the far side of the engine line.
A spattering of white campaign tents stretched out before them, ending with wicker fences and wooden palisades to protect the edge of the camp from incoming missiles. Teams of men worked about the perriers, yanking on ropes to project stones at Beresford’s ramparts, whilst the ass-like kick of the onagers jerked and threw their buckets of stones up and over the walls, crashing into buildings and streets beyond. The teams had clearly been at it for days, their aims true and the missing chunks of wall testament to it, leaving crumbling crenellations like Pelse’s broken teeth.