Whips cracked, and animals leaned into their loads, and men waved goodbye to sweethearts and wives and children and brats and angry creditors, and the great convoy rolled away with creaking wheels and jingling harness and the smell of new paint.
And Angela Random knelt before her icon of the Virgin and wept, the tears as hot as her passion of an hour before.
Lissen Carak – The Red Knight
Seven men had died fighting the wyvern. The corpses were wrapped in plain white shrouds because that was the rule of the Order of Saint Thomas, and they gave off a sickly sweet smell – corruption and zealous use of sweet herbs, and bitter myrrh burned in the censors that hung in the front of the chapel.
The whole fighting strength of his company stood in the nave, shifting uneasily as if facing an unexpected enemy. They wore no armour, bore no weapons, and some were very ill-dressed; not a few wore their arming cotes with mail voiders because they had no other jacket, and at least one man was bare-legged and ashamed. The captain was plainly dressed in black hose and a short black jupon that fitted so tightly that he couldn’t bend over – his last decent garment from the Continent. His only nod to his status was the heavy belt of linked gold and bronze plaques around his hips.
Their apparent penury contrasted with the opulence of the chapel – even with the shrines and crosses swathed in purple for Lent, or perhaps the more so because the purple of Lent was so rich. Except that nearer to hand, the captain could see the edge of a reliquary peaking out from beneath its silken shroud, the gilt old and crazed, the wood broken. Tallow, not wax, burned in every sconce except the altar candelabra, and the smell of burning fat was sharp against the sweet and the bitter.
The captain noted that Sauce wore a kirtle and a gown. He hadn’t seen her dressed as a woman since her first days with the company. The gown was fine, a foreign velvet of ruddy amber, somewhat faded except for one diamond shaped patch on her right breast.
Where her whore’s badge was sewn, he thought. He glared at the crucified figure over the altar, his pleasant, detached mood destroyed. If there is a god, how can he allow so much fucking misery and deserve my thanks for it? The captain snorted.
Around him the company sank to their knees as the chaplain, Father Henry, raised the consecrated host. The captain kept his eyes on the priest, and watched him throughout the ritual that elevated the bread to the sacred body of Christ – even surrounded by his mourning company, the captain had to sneer at the foolishness of it. He wondered if the stick-thin priest believed a word of what he was saying – wondered idly if the man was driven insane by the loneliness of living in a world of women, or if he was consumed by lust instead. Many of the sisters were quite comely, and as a soldier, the captain knew that comeliness was in the eye of the beholder and directly proportionate to the length of time since one’s last leman. Speaking of which—
He happened to catch Amicia’s eye just then. He wasn’t looking at her – he was very consciously not looking at her, not wanting to appear weak, smitten, foolish, domineering, vain . . .
He had a long list of things he was trying not to appear.
Her sharp glance said, Don’t be so rude – Kneel, so clearly he almost felt he had heard the words said aloud.
He knelt. She had a point – good manners had more value than pious mouthing. If that was her point. If she had, indeed, even looked at him.
Michael stirred next to him, risked a glance at him. The captain could see that his squire was smiling.
Beyond him, Ser Milus was trying to hide a smile as well.
They want me to believe. Because my disbelief threatens their belief, and they need solace.
The service rolled on as the sun flared its last, nearly horizontal beams throwing brilliant coloured light from the stained glass across the white linen shrouds of the dead.
Dies iræ! dies illa
Solvet sæclum in favilla:
Teste David cum Sibylla!
The coloured light grew – and every soldier gasped as the blaze of glory swept across the bodies.
Tuba, mirum spargens sonum
Per sepulchra regionum,
Coget omnes ante thronum.
It’s a trick of the light, you superstitious fools! He wanted to shout it aloud. And at the same time, he felt the awe just as they did – felt the increase in his pulse. They hold the service at this hour to take advantage of the sun and those windows, he thought. Although it would be very difficult to time the whole service to arrange it, he admitted to himself. And the sun cannot be at the right angle very often.
Even the priest had stumbled in the service.
Michael was weeping. He was scarcely alone. Sauce was weeping and so was Bad Tom. He was saying ‘Deo gratias’ over and over again through his tears, his rough voice a counterpoint to Sauce’s.
When it was all done, the knights of the company bore the corpses on litters made from spears, out of the chapel and back down the hill to bury them in the consecrated ground by the shrine at the bridge.
Ser Milus came and put his hand on the captain’s shoulder – a rare familiarity – and nodded. His eyes were red.
‘I know that cost you,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
Jehannes grunted. Nodded. Wiped his eyes on the back of his heavy firze cote sleeve. Spat. Finally met his eye too. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
The captain just shook his head. ‘We still have to bury them,’ he said. ‘They remain dead.’
The procession left by the chapel’s main door, led by the priest, but the Abbess was the focal point, now in severe and expensive black with a glittering crucifix of black onyx and white gold. She nodded to him and he gave her a courtly bow in return. The perfection of the Abbess’s black habit with its eight-pointed cross contrasted with the brown-black of the priest’s voluminous cassock over his cadaver-thin body. And the captain could smell the tang of the man’s sweat as he passed. He was none too clean, and his smell was spectacular when compared with the women.
The nuns came out behind their Abbess. Virtually all of the cloister had come to the service, and there were more than sixty nuns, uniform in their slate grey habits with the eight pointed cross of their order. Behind them came the novices – another sixty women in paler grey, some of a more worldly cut, showing their figures, and others less.
They wore grey and it was twilight, but the captain had no difficulty picking out Amicia. He turned his head away in time to see an archer known as Low Sym make a gesture and give a whistle.
The captain suddenly felt his sense of the world restored. He smiled.
‘Take that man’s name,’ he said to Jehannes . . . ‘Ten lashes, disrespect.’
‘Aye, milord.’ Marshal Jehannes had his hand on the man’s collar before the captain had taken another breath. Low Sym – nineteen, and no woman’s friend – didn’t even thrash. He knew a fair cop when he felt one.
‘Which I was—’ he began, and saw the captain’s face. ‘Aye, Captain.’
But the captain’s eyes rested on Amicia. And his thoughts went elsewhere.
The night passed in relaxation, and to soldiers, relaxation meant wine.
Amy’s Hob was still abed, and Daud the Red was fletching new arrows for the company and admitted to being ‘poorly’, company slang for a hangover so bad it threatened combat effectiveness. Such a hangover would be punishable most days – the day after they buried seven men was not one of them.
The camp had its own portable tavern run by the Grand Sutler, a merchant who paid the company a hefty fee to ride along with his wagons and skim their profits when they had some to share. He, in turn, bought wine and ale from the fortress’ stores, and from the town at the foot of Lissen Carak – four streets of neat stone cottages and shop fronts nestled inside the lower walls and called ‘The Lower Town’. But the Lower Town was open to the company as well, and its tavern, hereabouts known as the Sunne in Splendour, was serving both in its great common room and out in the yard. The inn was doing a brisk business, selling a year’
s worth of ale in a few hours. Craftsmen were locking up their children.
That was not the captain’s problem. The captain’s problem was that Gelfred was planning to venture back to the tree line alone, while the captain had no intention of risking his most valuable asset without protection. And no protection was available.
Gelfred stood in the light rain outside his tent, swathed in a three-quarter length cloak, thigh high boots and a heavy wool cap. He tapped his stick impatiently against his boot.
‘If this rain keeps up, we’ll never find the thing again,’ he said.
‘Give me a quarter hour to find us some guards,’ the captain snapped.
‘A quarter hour we may not have,’ Gelfred said.
The captain wandered through the camp, unarmoured and already feeling ill-at-ease with his decision to dress for comfort. But he, too, had drunk too much and too late the night before. His head hurt, and when he looked into the eyes of his soldiers, he knew that he was in better shape than most. Most were still drinking.
He’d paid them. It improved his popularity and his authority, but it gave them the wherewithal to be drunk.
So they were.
Jehannes was sitting in the door of his pavilion.
‘Hung over?’ the captain asked.
Jehannes shook his head. ‘Still drunk,’ he answered. Raised a horn cup. ‘Want some?’
The captain mimed a shudder. ‘No. I need four sober soldiers – preferably men-at-arms.’
Jehannes shook his head again.
The captain felt the warmth go from his heart to his cheeks. ‘If they are drunk on guard, I’ll have their heads,’ he growled.
Jehannes stood up. ‘Best you don’t go check, then.’
The captain met his eye. ‘Really? That bad?’ he said it mildly enough, but his anger came through.
‘You don’t want them to think you don’t give a shit, do you, Captain?’ Jehannes had no trouble holding his eye, although the marshal’s were bloodshot and red. ‘This is not the moment to play at discipline, eh?’
The captain sat on an offered stool. ‘If something comes out of the Wild right now, we’re all dead.’
Jehannes shrugged. ‘So?’ he asked.
‘We’re better than this,’ the captain said.
‘Like fuck we are,’ Jehannes said, and took a deep drink. ‘What are you playing at? Ser?’ He laughed grimly. ‘You’ve taken a company of broken men and made something of them – and now you want them to act like the Legion of Angels?’
The captain sighed. ‘I’d settle for the Infernal Legion. I’m not particular.’ He got to his feet. ‘But I will have discipline.’
Jehannes made a rude noise. ‘Have some discipline tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Don’t ask for it today. Show some humanity, lad. Let them be sad. Let them fucking mourn.’
‘We mourned yesterday. We went to church, for god’s sake. Murderers and rapists, crying for Jesus. If I hadn’t seen it, I’d have laughed to hear about it.’ Just for a moment, the captain looked very young indeed – and confused, annoyed. ‘We’re in a battle. We can’t take a break to mourn.’
Jehannes drank more wine. ‘Can you fight every day?’ he asked.
The captain considered. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You ought to be locked up, then. We can’t. Give it a rest, Captain.’
The captain got to his feet. ‘You are now the constable. I’ll need another marshal to replace Hugo. Shall I promote Milus?’
Jehannes narrowed his eyes. ‘Ask me that tomorrow,’ he said. ‘If you ask me again today, I swear by Saint Maurice I’ll beat you to a fucking pulp. Is that clear enough?’
The captain turned on his heel and walked away, before he did something he’d regret. He went to Jacques – as he always did, when he’d reached bottom.
But his old valet – the last of his family retainers – was drunk. Even the boy Toby was curled up on the floor of the captain’s pavilion, with a piece of rug pulled over him and a leg of chicken in one hand.
He looked at them for a long time, thought about having a tempertantrum, and decided that no one was sober enough to bother. He tried to arm himself and found that he couldn’t get beyond his chain hauberk. He put a padded cote over it, and took his gauntlets.
Gelfred had the horses.
And that is how the captain came to be riding with his huntsman, alone, on the road that ran along the river, sore back, pulled neck muscles, and all.
North of Harndon – Ranald Lachlan
Ranald was up with the dawn. The old man was gone, but had left him a deer’s liver fried in winter onions – a veritable feast. He said a prayer for the old man and another when he found the man had thrown a blanket over his riding horse. He cleared the camp and had mounted up before the sun was above the eastern mountains.
It was a ride he’d done with the king a hundred times. Following the highway north along the Albin, except that where the great river wound like an endless snake, the highway ran as straight as the terrain would allow, deviating only for big hills and rich manors, and crossing the Albin seven times via the seven great stone bridges between Harndon and Albinkirk. Lorica was the first bridge. Cheylas was the second – a pretty town with red-tile roofs and round chimney-stacks and fine brick houses. He ate a big meal at the sign of the Irk’s Head, and was out the door before the ale could tempt him to stay the night. He changed to his big hackney and rode north again, crossing Cheylas Bridge while the sun was high in the sky and making for Third Bridge as fast as his horse would go.
He crossed Third Bridge as darkness was falling. The Bridge Keeper didn’t take guests – a matter of law – but directed him politely to a manor farm on the west bank. ‘Less than a league,’ the retired soldier said.
Ranald was pleased to find the man’s directions were spot on, because the night was dark and cold, for spring. In the North, the Aurora played in the sky, and there was a feel to it that Ranald didn’t like.
Bampton Manor was rich beyond a hillman’s ideas of rich – but Ranald was used to how rich the southland was. They gave him a bed and a slice of game pie, and a cup of good red wine, and in the morning, the gentleman who owned the farms smiled at his offer of repayment.
‘You are a King’s Guardsman?’ the young man asked. ‘I am – I would like to be a man-at-arms. I have my own harness.’ He blushed.
Ranald didn’t laugh. ‘You’d like to serve the king?’ he asked.
The young man nodded. ‘Hawthor Veney,’ he said holding out his hand.
His housekeeper bustled up with a bag. ‘Which I packed you a lunch,’ she said. ‘Good for a ploughman, good for a knight, I says.’
Ranald bowed to her. ‘Your servant, ma’am. I’m no knight – just a servant of the king, going home to see my family.’
‘Hillman?’ she said, and sniffed. It was a good sniff – it suggested that hillmen themselves were not always good people, but that she’d already decided in his favour on the matter.
He bowed again. To young Hawthor, he said, ‘Do you practise arms, messire?’
Hawthor beamed, and the older housekeeper cackled. ‘It’s all he does. Doesn’t plough, doesn’t reap, won’t even attend the haying. Doesn’t chase servant girls, doesn’t drink.’ She shook her head.
‘Goodwife Evans!’ Hawthor said with the annoyance of a master for an unservile servant.
She sniffed again – another sniff entirely.
Ranald nodded. ‘Would you care to measure your sword against mine, young ser?’
In a matter of minutes they were armed and padded in jupons and gauntlets and helmets, standing in the farmhouse yard with a dozen labourers for an audience.
Ranald liked to fight with an axe, but service in the King’s Guard required knowledge of the courtly sword. Four feet of steel. The boy – Ranald didn’t think of himself as old, but found that Hawthor made him feel old with every comment he made – had a pair of training weapons, not too well balanced, probably made by a local man, a little heavy. But they
were perfectly serviceable.
Ranald waited patiently in a garde. Mostly, he was interested in seeing how the boy came at him – a man’s character was visible in his swordsmanship.
The boy stood his ground. He put his sword on his shoulder, and came forward in a position that fencing masters called ‘The Garde of the Woman’. His stance was too open and he didn’t seem to understand that he needed to cock the sword back as far as he could. The sort of little error you would spot up when arms are your profession, thought Ranald. But he liked how patient the boy was.
The boy closed with assurance, and launched his attack without a false preamble – no bobbing or weaving or wasting effort.
Ranald cut into the boy’s attack and knocked his blade to the ground.
The boy didn’t wait for the whole move, but back-stepped.
Ranald’s sword licked out and caught him in the side of the head despite his retreat.
‘Oh!’ Hawthor said. ‘Well struck.’
The rest was much the same. Hawthor was a competent lad, for a young man without a master-at-arms to teach him. He knew lots of wrestling and very few subtleties, but he was bold and careful, a superb combination for a man so young.
Ranald paused to get out of his heavy jupon and to write the boy a note. ‘Take this to Lord Glendower with my compliments. You may be asked to serve a year with the pages. Where are your parents?’
Hawthor shrugged. ‘Dead, messire.’
‘Well, if the goodwife can spare you,’ he said. And he was still smiling as he headed for the Fourth Bridge, at Kingstown.
North of Harndon – Harold Redmede
Harold Redmede looked down at the sleeping hillman with a smile. He packed his gear silently, left the hillman the better part of a venison liver, picked up his brother’s gear as well, and humped it all to the stream.
He found his brother asleep under a hollow log with his threadbare cloak all about him. Sat and whittled, listening to the Wild, until his brother woke on his own.