The Duke rose. ‘Arm me,’ he told his squires.
Their most recent defector, the Grand Chamberlain, sat up. ‘Surely they will simply come over to Your Excellency,’ he said. ‘They haven’t been paid in a year.’
The Duke shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I can’t take that chance. They are superb troops – no threat to us unless we’re surprised, but we’d best be ready. They can make a feint and then cut through the city, while we have to ride around the outside. I fairly dread the thought of them loose beyone the gate – five hundred disciplined Easterners with horse bows!’ He grunted. ‘Christ Pantokrator.’
‘We can take them,’ said his son, now awake.
‘We can,’ said his father grimly. ‘But I’d rather we didn’t have to. If we show them serried ranks and a ready army-’
Aeskepiles nodded at the dark. ‘But-’ He raised his head. ‘My lord, what of the Alban mercenary? Isn’t he in the hills?’
‘Too distant to have any effect today or tomorrow,’ the Duke said. ‘And no real force of men. My source in the palace says he’s camped and haggles for more money.’
The Despot laughed. ‘Coward,’ he said.
The Duke warmed his hands on a cup of hot wine brought by a servant. ‘Let’s deal with these threats one at a time, and force the girl to make terms,’ he said.
The Grand Chamberlain managed to sound obsequious even when exhausted. ‘Ah. Well thought, my Emperor.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ spat the Duke.
South of Harndon, the Grand Prior of the Order of Saint Thomas sipped wine on his balcony, five hundred feet above the plains of Jarsay. He looked at the middle-aged priest sitting across from him. The man’s face wore the complex mask of a man both defiant and repentant – angry at himself, and angry at the world.
‘What am I to do with you, sir?’ the prior asked. He’d worn his harness for a day and a night as a penance, and every joint in his body ached. And last night sleep had eluded him – mostly because he was old, and had too much on his mind. Like many a sinful priest.
‘Send me somewhere, I suppose,’ the priest said bitterly. ‘Where I can rot.’
Prior Wishart had been a knight and a man of God for almost forty years. He knew the resilience of men – and their willingness to destroy themselves. What he knew of this man, he knew only under the seal of confession. He sat back and sipped more wine.
‘You cannot remain in Harndon,’ he said. ‘To do so would only increase the likelihood of further temptation and sin.’
‘Yes,’ said the younger man, miserably. He was forty years old, handsome in a rough-hewn way, with brown hair cut for convenience under a helmet. ‘I meant no harm by it.’
The prior smiled grimly. ‘But you did harm. And you are old enough to see the consequences. You are one of my finest knights – and a fine philosopher. But I can’t have you here. The other men look up to you – what will they do when this becomes public knowledge?’
The man straightened. ‘It will never become public knowledge.’
‘Does that make it less sinful?’ the prior asked.
‘I’m not a fool, thank you, Prior.’ The priest sat straight and glared.
‘Really?’ Prior Wishart asked. ‘Can you truly sit there and say you are not a fool?’
The man recoiled as if struck.
‘I could ask for release from my vows and you’d be shot of me,’ the priest said. For the first time he sounded more contrite than rebellious.
‘Do you wish to be released from your vows, Father Arnaud?’ The prior leaned forward.
Most knights of the order were brothers – some, as Donats, were lay brothers sworn only to obey; some were religious brothers, sworn to chastity, poverty and obedience; a life of arms and prayer and serving in the hospital. A very few became priests. The order asked very little of its fighting brethren besides obedience to orders, but it required a great deal from its priests.
Father Arnaud raised his head. Tears ran down his face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I cannot imagine it.’
The prior’s fingers played with his beard and he glanced down at the pile of scrolls and folded correspondence under his left hand – the cure of his life and his eternal penance – the paperwork. The truth was – The truth was that Arnaud was one of the best, in the field and in council, and he’d made a terrible mistake. And Wishart didn’t want to punish him. Beyond punching him a few times for being such a love-struck fool. His eye caught on a black seal with three lacs d’amour picked out in gold leaf – a very expensive, very eye-catching seal.
He popped the seal with his thumb and read through the letter with every sign of pleasure – once he laughed aloud. When he was done, he slapped the rolled scroll against his desk with the sound a crossbow makes when it is released.
‘I will send you to be chaplain to the Red Knight,’ the prior said.
‘That arrogant boy? The godless mercenary?’ Father Arnaud sat back, paused, and took a deep breath. ‘But – this is no punishment. Any knight would want to serve – if he could be converted!’
Prior Wishart poured himself more wine. ‘Think on your own shortcomings when you preach to the Red Knight, Arnaud. Arrogance and pride. Selfish assurance. And remember the company he leads – they are men and women like any others, and need a spiritual currency.’
Arnaud knelt and kissed the prior’s hand. ‘I will go with all my heart. I’ll fetch him in for the order, and lead him to good works.’
Wishart gave his priest a wry smile. ‘He does the good works already, Arn. He merely does them while cursing God.’ He leaned over. ‘While you sinned while praising God.’
Arnaud raised a hand as if to deflect a blow.
When the priest was gone, the prior went out on his balcony, a hundred feet above the fecund plains of Jarsay. Close under his walls, the second cutting of hay stood in new-minted ricks; a winter’s fodder for his warhorses at stud, a new generation of heavy chargers that could face the largest foes the Wild had to offer. Further away in the silver moonlight, wheat stood in dark squares, with hedgerows and fences marking field edges to the horizon. Jarsay was rich; the best farmland in the Nova Terra.
To the north, a star flared silver white and dived to earth.
He saw the star form – and saw it fall. He felt the accession of power.
He sipped a little more wine.
Thorn’s latest apotheosis wasn’t even his most pressing problem. The King’s Champion had taken an army into Jarsay to collect taxes, and all he was collecting instead was corpses. And Prior Wishart was trying to decide what he would do if his order’s home farms were threatened.
Even that paled next to the possibility that the King might allow the Captal to appoint his cousin to be the Bishop of Lorica.
‘Sufficient unto the day are the evils thereof,’ the prior said quietly, to the night.
Chapter Seven
North of Liviapolis – The Red Knight
Crossing a river is one of the most complicated and difficult tasks faced by an army and its commander.
Crossing at night isn’t even in the books – the books by Archaics on the art of war that the Red Knight had read and reread as a boy. He thought about them, and reading the strategem while lying full length in front of his mother’s fire – and while she thought he was studying a grimoire.
He smiled.
The company came down to the banks of the Meander out of the mountains, moving quickly. There were guides at every fork in the road, guides at every corner, every gap in the stone walls. The guides were all Gelfred’s men; Amy’s Hob and Rob the Beard and Diccon Browford and young Dan Favour, who was big enough to wear harness and clever enough to be a scout, too. They each had their own pages and archers, now – Amy’s Hob laughed to be considered a leader, but he was patient and cautious and his pages learned scouting quickly enough.