Chapter 3
The leader stands on the wooden platform, his long red cloak falling almost to the stained wood. His men stand behind him in chain-mail and white or red cloth that doesn’t reach the blood red of the knight’s cloak. Some say the red is blood. That when a knight took his oath to serve the King, he bled into a bowl and one of the King's druids infused the red into the cloth, using the man's blood as payment.
They say that when a man breaks that oath, the red will separate from the cloth, dripping down like the blood that fixed it in place.
Bonnie's not sure of the truth of that, but this isn't the first time she's seen King's men. They rarely come this far west, leaving justice to soldiers assigned to the area. But to the east hundreds wander the giant city that surrounds the King’s palace, and she'd spent every day until the age of ten within sight of those city walls.
"Under order of the King," the leader says, looking odd, standing so regally in a spot that up until an hour before had been used to store most of this years harvest. Barrels and bales pile up in the dusty corners of the large roundhouse the village use to store food and livestock in winter, and for dancing in spring and summer. "Every able bodied man and boy with over ten summers is summoned to King’s City in order to take up service and fight to defend the Kingdom. This is to be considered a great honour. Every man who distinguishes himself in battle has the chance to advance up the ranks of the King's army, no matter their birth."
The crowd huddle together in front of the platform. Ness's mother hugs her five children to her. The two younger; a boy of three and a girl of six do not understand enough to pick up on anything but their mother's distress, but the twins cling to Ness with a neediness that should have embarrassed the boy.
The Carews stand stiffly, their six strong boys gathered around them. All of them would go from baby faced Andoco to Sego who had just this year started looking for a wife. A small mean part of Bonnie thinks it serves them right. Their extra hands are a sore spot for many in the village every harvest when they reap more than any family. Their girls are sent away to marriages the moment they wean, and the one malformed boy they had conveniently did not survive his first winter.
If they hadn't been so quick to send away the ones they deemed useless, then the wife wouldn't be facing a harsh winter, and potentially the rest of her life alone. The world is not a fit place for a lone woman, even out here in the country where such women still had some means to support themselves.
"Please sir," said the last of the families, an elderly man who had been alone since his last wife had been burned as a witch for producing nothing but a long line of girls. "I am old and feeble. My eyes and ears do not work as they used to, and my legs only carry me so far. Surely the King does not mean me as well?"
The red cloak looks him up and down. He's right that the years have not been kind to him. They rarely are to the poor who slave away all day and can't turn to magic for help as the rich can. He has a gaunt look many in the village share. His back is crooked and his fingers curl into stubborn claws when it gets too cold.
"Every able bodied man and boy," the red cloak says. "You are able bodied enough."
The man lowers his head and does not argue.
"I beg your pardons sir," Mr Moore says, stepping forward away from his wife and Bonnie. He holds Neven in front of him, clutching his thin shoulders in a way she's never seen before. Mr Moore has always been a hard but fair man. His hands were made for hard work and swats when you didn't mind yourself, not for clinging like some woman. "I would be grateful if you could spare my boy from this. My wife can't manage the land alone, and my boy - he's not one for fighting. He was sickly as a child and still recovering his strength. I fear he would not survive a war, but if you free him from this obligation, I vow to fight as two strong men in his place. I spent twenty of my years as soldier to the King, and will gratefully serve him twenty more."
The red cloak smiles, and behind him some of his men chuckle. "A craven is he? Well a few battles ought to cure him of that. The circle needs all kinds to defend it."
Mr Moore goes tense, his fingers digging into Neven's shoulders tight enough that she sees him wince. "Yes," he says stiffly. "As I remember." Then he flings Neven behind him to Bonnie, so hard that both children almost fall over. A heartbeat later he's on the platform, red cloak reaching for the sword that's already in Mr Moore's hand.
Bonnie can only gape. Distantly she hears Ness's mother scream as she turns to run, herding her children in front of her. All but Ness who stands watching the fighting with an unsure look, like he's not certain whether this is some elaborate play put on to entertain.
"Quick child," Mrs Moore says. She pries them away from the stage, but it's like Bonnie's feet are fused to the ground. Mr Moore a soldier? Mr Moore a swordsman? She'd thought him a farmer and nothing but. From the shocked expression on Neven's face, he'd thought the same thing.
The red cloak lies on the ground, his hand gripping the wound made by his own sword. It makes no sense. Cloaks are not only soldiers, but knights. How could a half starved farmer best a knight? The other soldiers run at him, their swords drawn. Mr Moore spins, blocking the first blow. His movements are skilled, but slow. His arms wield the sword well enough, but his legs struggle to keep up.
She’s brought out of her trance by Mrs Moore placing her hand over Neven’s. The woman’s eyes are filled with tears. “He said to take our boy. Go to the tree. He said you would know which one. Go now girl. Gods protect you and keep my boy safe.”
There’s a wet smack and a groan. Mr Moore falls to his knees. The stolen sword slips from his bloodied fingers. He glances back, his eyes drifting from his wife, to Neven, to Bonnie in turn. He doesn’t see the sword swing toward his neck.
“Father!” Neven screams, darting forward to where the soldiers are starting to take notice of the few still in the food store.
Bonnie’s hand closes over his on instinct. He’s taller than her by half a head, and about as strong, but his disorientation makes it simple to overbalance him until he has no choice but to stumble after her. She pulls hard, not giving him a chance to turn and see the death blow fall on her father’s neck, or the way his mother’s arms spread wide to stop the soldiers spilling off the stage from running after them.
But she sees. She sees it all.