‘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.’
Father Arnaud smiled. ‘I’m certainly not offended that you like pretty women, Ser John. I misdoubt God is offended either. He made them.’ He grinned. ‘As to dinner – I’m always in favour of dinner.’
The two archers, Odo and Umphrey, were too junior even to have nick-names, and they were both looking a little pale. Ser John smiled at the two. ‘You boys like camping?’ he asked, and went to check the pack horses. When he was satisfied, he changed from his palfrey to his warhorse.
Ser Richard did the same, and then both of them pulled on helmets and gauntlets.
Ser John looked at the priest. ‘Isn’t that skull cap a little light?’
The priest nodded. He took a full helm out of the bag at his saddle bow and put it on his head – Ser John noted with professional interest how the lugs he had scarcely noticed on the skull cap engaged with corresponding tracks inside the great helm, locking the massive steel helmet in place and creating a protective system of two layers of hardened steel. He whistled.
Father Arnaud dropped the great helm home with a click.
They rode for a mile at a cautious pace. From the Royal Road, which ran west to Lissen Carrak and then crossed the Bridge Castle and on to Hawkshead, they could see the open sky of the devastation just to the north, between the road and the river. Sometimes they lost it, but then they would spy it again and, after a mile when the road cut north, they slowed to a walk, and the road entered the devastation.
They picked their way carefully for about three hundred paces, and then they were deep in. Ser John reined up, raised a hand and shook his head. He pushed up his visor.
‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘We need to come back with the archers, clear the road, find whatever did this and kill it. As it is, we’re in its terrain and our horses are useless.’
Ser Richard raised his visor. ‘I agree. I’m already tired, and my poor Arrow will probably bite me right through my harness if I make him jump another log.’ He turned his horse. Both men looked at the priest, who was perfectly still on his black charger.