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.’