The captain got his shirt over his head.
‘I’m not saying we should quit,’ Tom said. ‘But it may be time to see if we can make a deal.’
‘You, too, Tom?’ The captain got into his braes. They felt clean and crisp. He felt clean and crisp too. And very tired.
‘We’re losing ’em faster every day,’ Tom said. ‘Listen. I’m your man. You’re a fine captain, and even Jehannes is coming around to that.’ He shrugged. ‘But this ain’t what we do, lad. One monster; sure. An army of of them?’ He frowned.
The captain sat on his cot and reached for his new hose. They were rich black wool – a trifle coarse and itchy, but heavy, warm, and stretchy. He took one and pulled it carefully up his right leg.
‘We’re not losing,’ he said.
‘As to that . . .’ Tom said.
‘We’re going to hold here until the king comes.’ He grabbed the second leg.
‘What if he’s not coming?’ Tom leaned forward. ‘What if your messengers didn’t get through?’
‘What if pigs fly?’ the captain said. ‘I know the owners of this fortress were notified. I saw it, Tom. The Knights of Saint Thomas will not let this convent – the base of their wealth, the sacred trust of the old king – they will not let it fall. Nor will the king.’
Tom shrugged. ‘We could all die here.’
The captain started rooting through his clothes for a clean doublet, or at least one without a noticeable smell.
The one he found was made of fustian and two layers of heavy linen, rumpled but completely clean. He began to lace his hose to it.
‘We may all die here,’ the captain admitted. ‘But damn it, Tom, this is worth doing. This isn’t some petty border squabble in Galle. This is the North Land of Alba. You’re from the Hills. I’m from the Adnacrags.’ He raised his arms. ‘These people need us.’
Tom nodded, obviously unmoved by the needs of the peoples of the north. ‘You really think the king will come, eh?’
‘One day’s time. Perhaps two,’ the captain said.
Tom chewed his moustache. ‘Can I tell the lads that? It will help their morale . . . only once I tell them, that’s all the time you get. M’lord.’
‘Is this an ultimatum, Ser Thomas?’ the captain stood up straight, as if that would make it better. ‘Are you telling me that in two days, my troops will demand that I look for another solution?’
Bad Tom sneered. ‘Like enough there’s some as would. And more every day after that. Yes.’ He stood. Six feet and six inches of muscle. ‘Don’t you go and mistake me, Captain. I like a fight. I don’t really care who brings it. I could fight here forever.’ He shrugged. ‘But there’s some as can’t.’
‘And they might want to quit,’ the captain said, with a feeling of relief.
‘They might,’ Tom said. He grinned. ‘I swear, there’s something in the air, like a poison today. Lads are touchy. Every comment has an edge.’
The Red Knight took his scarlet cote off the stool and began to lace it. ‘I’ve felt it.’
Tom shook his head. ‘I hate your magery. Takes all the sport out of a fight.’ He shrugged his great shoulders. ‘I don’t so much mind dying, so long as I go down my way. I like a good fight. An’ if it’s to be my last, well, all I ask is it be good.’ He nodded. ‘Good enough for a song.’
The captain nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.
‘I’ll tell the lads,’ Tom said.
As soon as he passed the door, Michael and Toby came back. His scarlet jupon was brushed, and he saw that the embroidered lacs d’or on the front were repaired.
Michael helped him into it. They each laced a wrist while he stood, thinking.
He thought more while he pulled on his long boots. Toby did his garters and Michael held his cote.
Toby brushed his hair and got the water out of his beard. Michael brought out his riding sword.
‘War sword,’ said the captain. ‘Just in case.’
Michael shortened the belt and buckled it at his waist, and then stood back while the captain drew it three times, testing the hang of the belt. Toby buckled his spurs on. Michael held the heavy gold belt with a questioning air.
The Red Knight smiled. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
Michael buckled it around his waist, handed him his hat, gloves, and baton. ‘You’ll be early,’ he said, ‘but not by much.’
The captain walked down the steps to the courtyard. Men and women looked at him – clean, and, although he couldn’t see it, glowing.
He walked across the yard, nodding to all. He stopped to compliment young Daniel on his swordplay; to share a jibe with Ben Carter, and to tell the younger Lanthorn girl that he was sorry for her loss, as both of her parents had died in the night. She rose to give him a curtsy, and he smiled when he saw her eyes slide off him to Michael, who was following him.
He heard the tale of No Head’s near death experience told by a circle of archers who slapped their booted thighs in merriment, and he listened to a complaint that someone was stealing grain from Ser Adrian, who also handed him a piece of parchment rolled very tight.
‘As you asked,’ the clerk said. ‘I’ve spoken to a dozen sisters and some of the farmers.’ He shrugged. ‘If you want my opinion, Captain-’ He let the words trail off.
The captain shook his head. ‘I don’t,’ he said. He smiled to take the sting out. Tucked the scroll into his cote sleeve and bowed. ‘I have an appointment with a lady,’ he said.
Ser Adrian returned his bow. ‘Count your fingers after you eat,’ he said softly.
There was a long table, set for thirteen. In the centre was the Abbess’s throne, and he sat on her right hand. The table was empty as he was the first to arrive. He went and exchanged glares with Parcival, on his perch and was suffered, with incredible grumpiness, to stroke the bird’s head.
A sister came in, saw him, and gave an undignified squeak. He turned, bowed, and smiled. ‘Your pardon, sister. A glass of wine, if I might?’
She departed.
He walked over to the Lives of the Saints. Now that he knew its secret, he was far more interested and only lack of time had kept him from it. It was so obvious now – a Hermetical Grimmoire. He turned the pages, deciphering them roughly. Know this one. Know this one. Hmm. Never even heard of this one.
It was, quite literally, an awe-inspiring tome. Which was sitting in the open, under a window, in a fortress.
He scratched under his beard.
Say that every woman here is like Amicia, he thought. And the Order sends them here. To be safe? And to keep them out of common knowledge. Why else-
She was standing at his side. He could smell her – her warmth. And he could feel the golden power on her skin.
‘You,’ she said.
He turned. He wanted to take her in his arms. It was like hunger.
‘You have come to God!’ she said.
He felt a flare of anger. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing like.’
‘I can feel it!’ she said. ‘Why would you deny it? You have felt the power of the sun!’
‘I tell you again, Amicia,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t deny God. I merely defy Him.’
‘Must we argue?’ she asked. She looked at his face. ‘Did I heal you?’
‘You did,’ he said, far more rudely than he meant.
‘You were bleeding out,’ she said, finally moved to anger. ‘You scared me. I didn’t have time to think about it.’
Oh. He raised a hand. ‘I thank you, mistress. Why must we always spar? Of course. Is it the cut on my face you worry about? I scarcely feel it.’
She licked her thumb, like a mother removing dirt from her child. ‘Don’t flinch,’ she said, and wiped her thumb down the wound. There was a flare of intense pain, and then-
‘You should pray when you cast, Amicia,’ said the Abbess from the doorway.
The captain took a step back from the novice. They had been very close indeed.
‘We are none of us without sin, without need of guidance. A prayer concentrates the mind and spirit. And sometimes His hand is on our shoulders, and His breath stirs our hearts.’ The Abbess advanced on them.