Gaston was shocked by the man’s tone, and by the murderous gleam in his eye. ‘But you – you have been a homme arme. You know what honour is – what glory is.’
The man looked at him, finished his chunk of bacon, and spat. ‘Done. Time to go home.’ He wiped his greasy hands carefully on his leather quiver and the bow case on his six-foot bow.
‘If we lose,’ Gaston said, looking for a way to reason with this arrogant peasant, ‘if we lose, your farms will be lost.’
‘Nah,’ said the younger man with the beard. ‘If you’n lose, they’ll squash the north flat. We ain’t northerners.’ He shrugged.
The old archer shrugged.
The other two grinned.
The old archer came over to the knight’s stirrup. ‘Listen, ser knight. We stood our ground at Chevin, and a lot of folk died. The old king told us we was done, for our lifetimes. Well, I’m holding him to that promise. Right? Here’s some advice from an old soldier. When the boglins scream and charge you, say a good prayer. Cause they won’t stop coming, and there’s a lot worse behind them. They eat you while you’re still alive. There’s creatures that’re worse, and eat your soul while you’re still alive. So it don’t even matter if you heard Mass, does it?’
Gaston had considered killing all four of them for their insolence, but the old archer had touched on something, and instead, he found himself nodding.
‘I will prevail. We will prevail,’ Gaston said. ‘You will be sorry you were not there, for our day of glory.’
The old archer shook his head. ‘Nope. That’s just what gowps like you never see. I won’t be sorry, but I do wish you luck.’ He chuckled. ‘We had twenty thousand men when we went into battle at Chevin.’ He nodded again. ‘The king has what – four thousand?’ He laughed, and it was a nasty laugh. ‘Can I offer you a bite of bacon?’
Talking to the peasants had caused Gaston to fall behind, and when he rode up the far bank, chewing on bacon, he found himself in the midst of the Borderers. He rode forward until he was among the liveried knights, the professionals, who rode around the Count of the Borders.
A herald spotted him and he was quickly passed from the herald to the captain of the bodyguard, and then on to the knot of men around the count himself. He was riding armed, in a good white harness made in the East, with mail and leather under it. A squire carried his helmet, and he had a green velvet cap on his head with an Eastern ostrich plume sprouting rakishly from a diamond brooch.
‘Gareth Montroy,’ said the great lord, extending his hand even as he reined in his horse. ‘You’re the Count of Eu?’
‘I have that honour,’ Gaston said, bowing and clasping the man’s hand. He was thirty-five, with dark hair and heavy eyebrows and the absolute air of command that came with great lordship. This was a man who commanded men every day.
‘Your cousin has the big convoy – all Galles?’ Lord Gareth grinned. ‘They look like bonny fighters. Big boys every one of ’em, like my lot.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
‘Your men look like fighters,’ Gaston said.
‘Pour us a cup of wine to cut the dust, eh, Gwillam?’ Lord Gareth said over his shoulder. ‘My lads have seen a spot of fighting.’
Every man in the count’s escort had a facial scar.
Gaston felt more at home here than he had in days. ‘Where have you been fighting?’ he asked.
Lord Gareth shrugged. ‘I hold the Westland borders, though there’s some awkward bastards at court and elsewhere who don’t give me my due,’ he said. A silver cup, beautifully made, with sloped sides and a carefully worked rim, was put in his hand, and another was passed to Gaston, who was delighted to find that it was lined in gold and full of chilled wine.
Chilled wine.
‘Company magus,’ Lord Gareth said. ‘No reason he can’t keep some wine chilled until we fight.’ He grinned. ‘And sometimes, we fight the Moreans. Bandits, the occasional boglin – we know what boglins look like, don’t we, boys?’
They laughed.
‘And you, my lord?’ Lord Gareth turned to Gaston. ‘You’ve seen service before, I take it.’
‘Local wars,’ Gaston said dismissively.
‘How big is a local war, in Galle?’ Lord Gareth asked.
Gaston shrugged. ‘When my father marches on an enemy he takes a thousand knights,’ he said.
‘Mary, Queen of Heaven!’ Lord Gareth swore. ‘Christ on the Cross, my lord. Only the king has a thousand knights, and that only when he sends out Letters of Array.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d heard of such doing, but never from a witness.’
‘Ah,’ Gaston said.
‘And what do you fight?’ Lord Gareth asked. ‘Boglins? Irks? Daemons? Trolls?’ he looked around. ‘How many creatures can the Enemy muster, that your father takes a thousand knights?’
Gaston shrugged. ‘I have never seen a boglin,’ he said. ‘In the East we fight men.’
Lord Gareth winced. ‘Men?’ he said. ‘That’s a nasty business. I admit, I’ve faced the Moreans on a few fields – but mostly brigands. There’s little joy in facing men, when the Enemy is to hand.’ He leaned close. ‘Who fights the Enemy in the East, then?’
Gaston shrugged. ‘In the north, the military orders. But no one has seen a creature of the Wild for-’ He searched for the words. ‘Please do not take this ill – but if you Albans were not so very sure of the Wild, we’d doubt you. None of us has ever seen a creature of the Wild. We thought they were exaggerations.’
To a man, the knights around Lord Gareth threw back their heads and laughed.
A tall, swarthy man in a harness of scale armour pushed his horse through the press to Gaston’s side. ‘Ser Alcaeus Comnena of Mythymna, my lord.’
‘A Morean,’ Lord Gareth said. ‘But a friend.’
‘Perhaps your convoy needs to be taught about the creatures, yes?’ he volunteered.
Gaston shook his head. ‘No, no. We’ll do well enough. We train very hard.’
All the knights around him looked at him as if he’d just sprouted wings, and Gaston had a moment’s concern.
Alcaeus shook his head. ‘When the boglins get in among the horses, they will give their lives to gut your charger,’ he said. ‘A single troll loose in a column can kill ten belted knights as fast as I can tell you this. Yes? And wyverns – in the air – are incredibly dangerous in open ground. Only men with heavy crossbows threaten them, and the very bravest of knights. On foot, horses will not abide a wyvern. And no amount of tiltyard training will prepare you for their wave of fear.’
Gaston shrugged, but now he was annoyed. ‘My knights will not succumb to fear,’ he said. The Morean looked at him as if he was a fool, which made him angry. ‘I resent your tone,’ he said.
Ser Alcaeus shrugged. ‘It is of no moment to me, Easterner. Resent me all you like. Do you want your knights to die like cattle, paralysed by fear, or would you like to strike a blow against the enemy?’
The Count of the Borders pushed his horse between the two men. His displeasure was evident. ‘I think that the good Lord of Eu is saying that we have nothing to teach him about war,’ he said. ‘But I do not tolerate private quarrels between my knights, Lord Gaston, so please do not taunt Ser Alcaeus.’
Gaston was flabbergasted. He looked at the man. ‘What is it to your knight whether you tolerate his quarrel?’ he asked. ‘Surely if a knight’s honour is at stake, the least his lord can do is to stand behind him.’
Lord Gareth’s face became carefully neutral. ‘Are you challenging Ser Alcaeus on his honour, because he tried to tell you that your convoy needs training?’
His tone, and the point he made, caused Gaston to squirm in the saddle. ‘He suggested that my men would be afraid.’
Alcaeus nodded as though this were a forgone conclusion. All the other men-at-arms around them were silent, and for a long moment the only sound was the jingle of horse harness and the rattle of armour and weapon as the retinue knights walked their horses down the road.
‘You do know that every creature of the Wild projects a wave of fear, and the greater the beast the stronger it is.’ Lord Gareth raised both eyebrows. It made the diamond on his cap twinkle.