Authors: Miles Cameron
One of the Easterners took his steel axe, and used the handle to break both of the Emperor’s legs. Then they carried him back across the frozen swamp to the castle, returned him to his room, and the guards all asked his blessing.
Southford under Albinkirk – Ser John Crayford
Another week passed before Ser John had time to ride to the ferry. There were more and more settlers arriving – the latest merchant convoy from Morea brought ten new merchant houses, come for the autumn fur trade and the Wild honey that the Outwallers would be selling at the fair in another month. Ser John bit back his usual comments on the rapacity of the merchant class. Instead, he carefully regulated their entry into his city, assigned them to empty houses and ordered them to rebuild the houses on pain of forfeiture of their goods. That was, in fact, far beyond his powers, but the mayor and council had been killed by boggles in the siege of Albinkirk and none had replaced them, and he didn’t see the King appearing to order him to cease.
The merchants grumbled but they hired the surviving local men as labour. And stonemasons appeared from Lorica, lured by the promise of work.
Every day there was a new crisis, but they were all small. On Wednesday, the newly appointed Bishop for Albinkirk arrived. He had a retinue of one priest and one monk, and they rode donkeys.
Ser John missed his arrival as he was north of the town, listening to complaints about irks and Outwallers. When he returned, his useless sergeant reported that the bishop had arrived, had moved into the bishop’s ruined palace and wanted the captain’s attention at the earliest opportunity. Ser John rolled his eyes.
‘An’ he’s peasant born,’ said the sergeant.
Ser John laughed. ‘And so am I. And so are you, knave.’ He dismounted and gave Jamie his horse. ‘I’ll get to the low-born prelate when I have time to breathe.’
But best of all, on Thursday Sir Richard Fitzroy appeared with forty lances – all court men except for a single black-robed knight – a priest of the Order of St Thomas.
Ser John met Ser Richard in the fore-yard of the citadel, and they embraced.
‘Are you here to relieve me?’ he asked.
Ser Richard shook his head. ‘Not a word of it – you are high in the King’s favour, and I have forty archers for your permanent garrison, and these lances to bolster you for the autumn. I’m the King’s Justice on Eyre for the north this season, and I’m rather hoping you have a few monsters left to kill.’
Ser John saw several men-at-arms who looked, to him, too young to be away from their mothers, but he slapped Ser Richard on his armoured back. ‘Most pleased to have you. Plenty of monsters; I killed half a dozen boggles just the other day.’
The youngest man-at-arms looked as if his eyes would pop out of his head.
Over a cup of wine, Ser Richard revealed that all was not well in Jarsay, and the Constable had sent the captain of the guard with all the Jarsay knights from court to avoid unpleasantness with the returning Captal de Ruth. Ser John, whose garrison had not been reinforced in six years, whose men were three years in arrears of pay, and who had lost four of his five good surviving men-at-arms to the Red Knight when the insufferable upstart passed through in early summer, cared nothing for the politics, and he spent a delightful day organising his shire into patrol areas and assigned them to the older and more reliable knights.
On Saturday he held a feast after mass – supported by a little direct taxation levied on two Hoek merchants who come up the river. They reported that they evaded boggles and something worse at Southford, and had been succoured by a nun with miraculous powers. He taxed them for wine and gold and assigned them a house to repair, and then held his carefully planned feast. He held it in the Great Hall of the citadel, had his servants construct a dais, and on that dais he placed a golden shield with a bright red cross displayed. The Bishop of Albinkirk – the new man, Ernald Anselm – was invited, and he sat in his episcopal throne on the dais, with Ser Richard on one side and Ser John, who had some thoughts about his own hypocrisy, on the other by the priest of the order, Fra Arnaud. There were six empty seats on the dais, and when the last remove was reduced to mutton bones, and the squires were pouring hippocras, Ser John rose and the hall fell silent.
‘Brothers,’ he said. ‘There are six empty seats here, prepared for those who best comport themselves as knights errant.’ He smiled at all of them and walked to the edge of the dais. ‘Listen, friends. I’ve watched you for most of a week. I’ve seen you in the tiltyard and at the pell; watched you wrestle and watched you ride. You are ready to face the foe in every way but one.’
They started to cheer when he said ‘ready to face the foe’ but quieted at the end.
‘Most of you,’ he said, ‘know that I’m a plain soldier; I’ve served in many places in this world, in Tartary and in the Holy Land, and in Galle and Arles and a few other places. I know a little about war. And what you gentlemen are going to is
war.
So stop thinking about fucking Jean de Vrailly, forget the court, ignore whatever political situation landed you here, and stay alive. I guarantee that by this time tomorrow night, one of you will be dead or badly injured – not because the Wild is such a deadly foe, but because you fine gentlemen are off to fight the Wild with your heads in the clouds or deep in worry and hate about what is happening at home. Forget all that. Remember the woman you love, for that love will make your sword hand fast and heavy. Obey your officers, because they see more than you do. Remember your King, because it is in the King’s grace we fight a just war. Remember your training. The rest is crap. Forget it. And in a few weeks, when you ride home covered in glory – well, then you can bicker about the Captal and his policies again.’
The bishop rose to speak. He had a beautiful voice, and despite being peasant born, he was highly educated and eloquent. He spoke briefly of a knight’s duty to the Church, and on their opportunity to do penance for their sins by wearing armour and serving the cause of man. He bowed graciously to Father Arnaud, who returned his bow with a pained smile.
Ser John had met him once before and didn’t know what to expect, so he was as surprised as everyone else when the bishop walked off the dais and among the men-at-arms. He laughed, and his laughter was a clear, bright sound. ‘It is odd, is it not, to be sent to kill in the name of our Lord? He never said, “Raise me armies and fight the Wild.” He said, “Turn the other cheek.” ’ He walked on in stunned silence. ‘But he also said, “Succour the little children.” ’ The bishop paused. He was in the middle of them. ‘My people are not nobles. My father tills his fields in the shadow of the walls of Lorica. My mother is a yeoman’s daughter. My brothers and I are the first generation in our family to leave serfdom and be free farmers.’ He looked around at them. ‘Freedom to farm means that in exchange for our tax and tallage
you
protect us with your bodies. Knighthood, my brothers, is not all pointy shoes and plucked foreheads and dancing. The men and women who sweat and work on your farms do not serve you because God ordained it. It is a contract, and in that contract you receive the fine sword, the tall horse, and the admiration of all the pretty girls
and in exchange you are willing to die.
That is your duty.’
He looked around at them. The power of his voice was immense. They weren’t even shifting in their seats, and Ser John had a cup of wine in his right fist and had forgotten to raise it to his lips.
‘Every family in this town and the surrounding country has lost people. I administer the sacred host to a flock almost without men. Children are terrified. Women are hopeless. The reconstruction work lags. We question our faith. How can God allow this?’ He looked around and thumped his crozier on the floor. Men jumped.
‘You can save them!’ he roared. ‘Every widow who sees you ride by will feel a ray of hope. Every child who sees a knight will know that mankind is
not beaten
. Show these people who you are. Prove yourselves worthy of your knighthoods. If you are required to, die for them. That is all God asks of you, his knights. In his name, go forth, and conquer.’ The young bishop walked back through the knights, blessing those closest to him, and he mounted the dais, turned, and made the sign of the cross. ‘And know that if you fall, you die in the good grace of our Lord, amen.’
‘And take a lot of the little bastards with you,’ muttered Ser John.
‘That was a marvel,’ said Ser John after the bishop seated himself.
Anselm smiled. ‘It was rather good,’ he admitted. ‘I cribbed some from Patriarch Urban, and the rest was inspiration. I prayed a great deal. But this is what these people need – the flash of armour on the roads every day. A ray of hope.’
Ser John put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘I didn’t welcome you as I should have,’ he admitted.
‘You were busy, and I’m only a low-born prelate,’ said the younger man with a twinkle in his eye.
Ser John shook his head. ‘Did I say that?’ Next to him, Father Arnaud almost spat up his wine.
The bishop shrugged. ‘It’s all hearsay, Ser John. And I
am
a low-born prelate. But I intend to rebuild this flock, and to help you rebuild this town. By the way, Sister Amicia of the sisters of Saint John asks to be remembered to you. She has the most remarkable dispensation – there can’t be ten women in Alba who are allowed to say mass.’
‘She’s a remarkable woman,’ Ser John said.
Father Arnaud nodded. ‘I would very much like to meet her,’ he said.
‘I gather she was instrumental in stopping the enemy at Lissen?’ asked the bishop.
‘Her powers are formidable,’ Ser John said. He grinned. ‘That’s hearsay too; I was here.’ Ser John looked at the other man, who was handsome in a rough-hewn, red-haired way, and looked far more like a knight than a monk. ‘But she has been very helpful to me in the last weeks.’
The bishop shrugged. ‘Well, she wished me to remind you to take a look at the devastation at the ferry. I saw it myself – something evil is lurking there. My own powers are in the hands of God – they come and go – but I can feel it.’
Ser John nodded. ‘I’ll have a look.’
Father Arnaud nodded. ‘Ser John, I’m merely passing through but I’d very much appreciate it if you would let me accompany you?’
‘A knight of the order?’ Ser John laughed. ‘I’ll hide behind you if it gets rough.’
In the morning he had four patrols mounted in the yard. It made him feel as if he was a great lord; forty knights at his beck and call, and another forty men-at-arms or squires, plus pages and archers. The archers were all his own, and he’d celebrated the feast after mass by issuing his surviving veterans with all their arrears of pay. Even the new men were paid to date, an unheard of benison.
But he rode for the ford with Father Arnaud, two new archers, his own squire Jamie, Ser Richard and finally his squire, Lord Wimarc, a rich young sprig whose armour was better than Ser Richard’s and Ser John’s. But Wimarc’s manners were exceptional, the boy obviously worshipped Father Arnaud, and he didn’t condescend to Jamie in the least. They were a good team by the time they rode along the river to the ford.
It was a clear day, with a magnificent blue sky. A few trees had colour – most maples tending to yellow, and a few beeches. The river sparkled.
The corpses were covered in ravens.
Ser John hadn’t even known that men were trying to rebuild the ferry, but their attempts only stirred his pity. Something had broken right through their new log walls and freshly thatched roof, and torn a baby from its cradle. It had ripped two men to very distinct shreds – an arm here, a long, horrible shred of human gristle there. The heads, arranged neatly on spikes in the ferry’s yard, all pecked about by ravens.
Lord Wimarc swallowed a few times but didn’t lose his breakfast. Father Arnaud dismounted, prayed over the corpse flesh, and then set about the grisly task of gathering the remnants for burial.
Ser Richard had not risen from royal bastardy to captain the Royal Guard on looks and patronage alone. ‘It’s big,’ he said. ‘Not an adversary. Even bigger.’
Ser John looked at the rooftrees. ‘I can’t believe this is a Wyvern,’ he said. ‘Nor do mammoths eat folk.’
‘Troll?’ asked Ser Richard. ‘I fought them at Lissen,’ he said, eyes suddenly moving about. ‘Christ’s wounds, but they scared the shit outen me.’
Ser John stood in his stirrups, raising his lance to measure the height of the arm that had torn aside the thatch to reach inside. ‘That’s a very large troll,’ he said quietly. ‘Sweet Jesu. And I had hoped to dine with a friend today.’ He kept his voice low because the priest was nearby.
Ser Richard laughed. ‘This must be an adventure,’ he said.
Ser John raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m already shit scared,’ said Ser Richard, and the sound of their laughter rang out, over the ferry, and into the woods.
They crossed the Great River, and Ser John saw immediately what the nun had wanted him to – a swathe of destruction like a road made by a mad woodchopper, running west into the deep woods.
‘Blessed Crispin.’ Ser Richard reined up. ‘We can’t ride in that.’
Father Arnaud fingered his short beard and then stripped off his riding gloves and put on his gauntlets. Lord Wimarc darted about, trying to be the priest’s squire.
He had a cervellieur – a much older rig than the Gallish bassinet now in favour at court. Wimarc put it over his head; a light skull cap of steel with its own aventail of chain mail.
Father Arnaud smiled at the young man. ‘I’m not used to having a squire,’ he said, and the younger man flushed.
Ser John studied the terrain for as long as the squire drew twenty breaths.
Grown trees had been ripped down and tossed about like matchsticks – dozens of them. It looked as if some gargantuan child had played jacks with the trees – and they lay like jack-straws in a massive tangle that stretched into the west as far as the eye could see.
‘I’m going to guess this will intersect with the Royal Road somewhere,’ he said. ‘So much for my pleasant dinner with pretty women.’ He looked over. ‘Your pardon, Father.’