Ser Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “De Vrailly can’t allow it,” he said.
“What if he’s just a figurehead?” the Prior asked.
“No one has told him, if that’s the case,” Ser Gabriel said. “I maintain that if we move quickly, we can sweep them up into a duel.”
Heads nodded.
Bad Tom sat back, sheathed his big dirk with a click, and put his booted feet out. He steepled his hands.
“Can you take de Vrailly?” he asked bluntly.
Ser Gabriel shrugged. “Yes,” he said.
“You aren’t sure,” Tom said.
Gabriel met his eye. “No combat is that sure,” he admitted.
“So, you are a loon. We’re to ride into the lion’s den at your back and watch you win or lose, and then, if’n you win, we snatch the Queen before the King changes his mind and we ride free to Lorica. Mind ye, if you lose or they decide to cheat or arrest ye, then we’re all taken and die horribly on the rack, or being ripped apart by horses. Have I covered yer plan?” He flicked his chin in an offensive Hill gesture. “It’s not yer best plan.”
“Do you have a better?” Gabriel spat back. He did not like to be questioned. “Perhaps you can lead us in and out.”
“When do I get to sell my beasties?” Tom asked.
“At Lorica,” Gabriel said.
“Going to cover me for three days while I hold a market?” Tom asked.
“If I have to,” Ser Gabriel said.
He and Bad Tom locked eyes. “It’s over-bold even for me,” Tom said.
Ser Gabriel looked around. “I agree. It’s a crap plan. It is all I have, made with clay and straw. Because what we ought to do is retreat to Albinkirk, let the Galles kill the Queen, and raise our own army. We ought to, but that would play directly into the Galles’ hands and my beloved mother’s. If we pull this off instead, we can save a generation from war. And that, gentlemen, is our duty as knights.”
“You are a pitiful excuse for a sell-sword,” Bad Tom said. “I’ll send to Donald Dhu to start selling now. We’ll gain a day or two.”
“You’re in?” Ser Gabriel said.
“Oh, aye,” Tom said. “I’d follow ye anywhere-if only to find out where y’re goin’.”
The knights pushed back their chairs. But the Red Knight’s brother put a hand on the table by his brother.
“I’m the best lance,” he said.
All conversation stopped.
“I’ve beaten you since we were boys, and I beat you at Christmas,” Ser Gavin said.
Ser Gabriel turned and smiled at his brother. “It’s true, brother,” he said.
“I’ve sworn to kill him,” Gavin said.
Ser Gabriel nodded. “The Queen asked me,” he said.
Gavin’s face grew red, and then white. “So you’ll say me nay?” he hissed.
Ser Gabriel shook his head. “Gavin, we’ll be lucky if we get to fight their champion. Anything that raises the odds of the fight helps us. I have the Queen’s note and guerdon. They almost have to let me fight. Not you.”
“Fine-then I’ll wear your colours and keep my visor shut. You’re being greedy, brother. It always has to be you. I say: let me do it. And I say: no power on earth will keep me from putting de Vrailly in the dirt.”
“It’s not a power on earth that I’m worried about,” Ser Gabriel said. “I have to do this.”
Gavin slammed his fist on the table, took Gabriel’s silver cup, crushed it in his fist and hurled it across the room. Then he stalked out, his sabatons ringing on the stone floor.
Bad Tom watched him go, and then put a meaty hand on the Red Knight’s armoured shoulder. “He’s better than you,” he said.
Ser Gabriel’s face hardened.
Chapter Six
The Company
Amicia was awakened in the darkness by Sister Katherine. She dressed quickly, with the help of the sisters, in a plain yellow kirtle with a belt of green leaves. Sister Mary had plaited flowers from the monk’s garden, and they put them in her hair, and then all the sisters prayed over her. She felt the adamant of their shared prayers close over her-a strong protection.
Outside, she mounted her horse more easily than she might have ten days before.
In the torchlight, she could see that the day was damp and foggy. The torches at the gates of the abbey were softly glowing specks like sparkle-bugs on a summer evening, and the knights-all of them in full harness-were already cursing the damp and the effect it would have on their armour. There were no stars visible.
The Red Knight sat alone, his armour brilliant. He looked slightly incongruous as he was on his riding horse in a riding saddle to preserve his war horse for the joust, and his feet went down rather too far towards the ground. He was staring into the fog. Ser Michael and Ser Thomas were doing all the work of gathering the column-a column stripped of anyone but knights and squires, a handful of veteran pages in harness, spare horses and lances.
The abbey courtyard heard more oaths and blasphemy in the next minutes than it had heard in fifty years. Amicia could hear the bravado and the fear, the heightened awareness. These men were afraid. Proud, but afraid.
Ser Michael came and bowed. “Ready on time and pretty as a picture,” he said, with a hard smile.
She nodded. “May I speak to him?” she asked.
“Better not,” Ser Michael said.
The Red Knight’s brother emerged-late-from his lodging and fussed with his right knee until Toby came and re-buckled something while Nell stood close with a torch, and then Ser Gavin-the Green Knight, as they all called him now-mounted stiffly and turned his horse. He said something-thanks, probably-to Nell, and rode to his brother’s side. That pleased Amicia, who hated to see people quarrel at the best of times.
The Green Knight handed the Red Knight a baton, which he flourished. He pointed silently at the gates, and monks swung them open.
Prior Wishart was there, fully armed, and the Prince of Occitan. The two brothers leaned down from their horses-beckoned to Ser Michael-and the five men had a brief conference. But before Amicia’s horse could begin to fret, the baton waved again, and the column started out the gates, two by two, knights with their squires.
Prior Wishart appeared at her horse’s head and took her bridle. “You are a brave young woman,” he said. He smiled. “But we all knew that, I suspect. You are the only member of the Order to ride on this noble venture.”
“I won’t fail,” she said.
Prior Wishart nodded. “You are the best for the mission,” he said. “If they save the Queen-well and good. But if you can save the King…” He turned and spoke quietly. “Do not be afraid to take the King with you if you can, Amicia. Ser Ricar will be close to you at all times.”
“Does Gabriel know?” she asked.
Prior Wishart sighed. “No, lass. This is our own gambit. The Prince of Occitan and the Muriens have little time for our King. I cannot trust his fate entirely to your Ser Gabriel.”
She smiled. “I’ll do what I can,” she said.
He nodded, reached up and gave her a blessing.
“Where’s the infidel knight?” she asked.
“Gone in the night,” Prior Wishart answered. He shrugged. “He’s no traitor, whatever his religion. I believe your Ser Gabriel sent him with a message.”
Amicia nodded, eyes narrowed. “To Harmodius. That’s who the black man is looking for-Harmodius. I don’t know why, but he and Ser Gabriel have some… link.”
Prior Wishart fingered his beard in the damp darkness. “Ahh,” he said. “I had almost forgotten Harmodius. He is alive?”
Amicia’s turn to ride out the gate had come. She found herself paired with Nell, who was looking at her impatiently. “It’s complicated,” she said. She waved, and then she and Nell were going side by side into the foggy darkness, black as pitch, beyond the gate. Her heart began to beat faster and faster.
She wished she might have spoken to Gabriel. She said a prayer for him, and for the fear he must feel.
The fog was still and cool, and they rode.