The Red Knight (18 page)

“Alright, Sest’s sake—you look glummer than death. Now listen up: there’s a reason you don’t see a ring of betrothal on her finger. She’s the Captain of the Hammer—heart and spirit. She eats, breathes, and sleeps the Company. True; she used to screw Corvinius, but he was just a fumble, someone to scratch that itch we all get. Don’t get me wrong, Highness I wish you luck, but if you manage to ‘
get close’
as you put it, you’ll be a better man than most because there’s plenty have tried and got nowhere.”

“I wish I’d never asked.”

Kieran grunted. “So do I! I don’t like thinking about the Captain like that. It makes me feel strange, and not in a good way.”

As the night wore on, they fell into an easy silence. Sometime during the small hours of the morning, Lorhine stumbled off to bed; leaving Talin alone with only his thoughts and a pair of deer hounds for company. The coals of the fire turned from rubies to bones as he wondered how he could prove to the Captain of the Hammer that he was a better man than most.

The tournament was mere days away and it was too bloody hot to sleep. Talin got up and snagged a jug of water off the table. An anaemic breeze stirred the curtains but did nothing to lift the oppressive heat that smothered the room. He swept the curtain aside, and climbed out of the window onto the gently sloping roof. It was an improvement, but not by much. He needed sleep; another hard day of honest work lay ahead of him.

The routine duties of the 1st had been suspended as final preparations for the tournament got underway. He’d been forced to sit through dozens of tourneys over the years; but he’d always preferred taverns to arenas and the cock-pit over the tilt yard. Very soon he’d have to watch a bunch of puffed up egotists show off their martial prowess before the adoring masses, and for the first time in his life, he was jealous of them.

He wanted to be admired by the crowds, not as a prince, but as a knight and a warrior. What irked him most was that he knew
why
he wanted it—who he was desperate to impress.
That bloody woman
.

He lay back and stretched his aching limbs against the cool slates. Rather than spend the week before the tourney getting drunk and sulking, he and the newly demoted Lorhine had volunteered for the work gangs preparing the Arth for the games.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, before he knew just how much work was going to be involved. They’d spent most of their time helping to build a grand viewing stand and raising a huge earth mound in front of it. Kieran told him that the mound was there to protect spectators from runaway horses, and to give the squires and seconds somewhere safe to stand, ready to re-arm their knights or hold tokens taken from other competitors. The work had been backbreaking but the results of their labour were rather impressive if he said so himself. He could watch the melee with the other honoured guests while sitting on a seat he’d made.

But it was small consolation for not being able to participate. He drained the jug; the water was warm and did nothing to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. Of all the events, the melee was the one that had most appealed to him, one that he could have done well in. It still burned that he’d been forbidden to take part.

Working with Lorhine had kept him busy and he’d had someone with whom he could share his misery, but the work itself was killing him. Lorhine had a limitless store of stamina and made no allowances for Talin’s woeful lack, no matter how much he’d begged or threatened. He’d fallen into his bed exhausted every night for the past five days. If only it wasn’t so bloody hot tonight.

He yawned and closed his eyes. He saw Alyda. He sat up. Why was he even pretending?
She
was the real reason he couldn’t rest. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her. Saw her, but couldn’t have her. This had never happened to him before. Damn the woman, he was the heir to the throne. The bloody heat just added to his woes. He climbed back inside and threw himself on the bed, resigned to another sleepless night.

On the day before the tourney, everyone was hard at work preparing the Arth for the biggest event Trelanlith would see all year. Talin was hot. Sweat stung his eyes as he beat some roof beams into submission with, he had to admit, more enthusiasm than skill. At mid-day, a break was called and he and Lorhine sat in the shade of the stand to eat their bread and salt beef, and sup a mug or two of warm, weak ale.

“Tonight, the gates of the Arth will be thrown open to every shade of fighter who fancies themselves a knight,” said Lorhine between mouthfuls of food. “The boastful, the honourable, the deadly, and the foolish. They’ll all come, looking to test their mettle against the First…and I have to sit and watch ‘em. Oh, sweet Asha! I wish I’d hit the bastard harder for all the pain he’s caused me.”

“He’s gone—forget him. Think about next year; Weyhithe Tournament is but a handful of months away. I’ll come and cheer you on.”

“It’s not the same. I wanted to win
our
tournament. No offence, Highness.”

Talin grinned. “None taken—
Squire
Lorhine.”

As much as he wanted to prove himself to Alyda and the Company, now that his anger had cooled he had to acknowledge that his father was right. Breaking his neck in the lists wouldn’t prove anything other than his mortality; of course he’d never admit that. He’d learnt a great deal during his time with the 1st, not least that he was not, nor ever could be, one of them. He was Prince Talin. One day he’d be King Talin.
King.
Gods help them all. That thought alone was enough to keep him sober and straight for the rest of his life.

“Will Captain Stenna be competing in the tournament?” he asked.

Lorhine wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gave him a knowing grin. “Why don’t you ask her? She’s over there, digging the privies.” The knight nodded towards the main gate. Sure enough, she was over by the curtain wall, digging one of the long privy trenches.

Three braids hung down her back, but instead of armour or a scarlet surcoat, she was wearing an old pair of breeches, battered boots and a patched leather vest. Her bare arms were bronzed and, as was common among both Tamalak and Hadami, heavily tattooed.

A page struggling to drag a cart laden with food over to Alyda’s gang gave Talin an idea. He slapped Lorhine on the back, and called the girl over. After a brief negotiation involving two silver pennies, she let him have the cart.

Alyda buried the blade of her shovel in the dirt. After a well-earned break, they would set the boards and pitch the tents over the top and that would be another job done.

She dropped back into the trench to retrieve a pick and wondered how many drunks would be hauled out of the filth this year. Last year, nine people had taken a dip, three in one go when one of the boards had broken. That piece of bad luck had cost her half a royal. This year she’d wagered a crown there would be five; being pushed didn’t count. She stuck the pick in the bank and began to climb out. Someone, a dark silhouette against the sun, offered her a hand up. When she was out of the hole, she was pleasantly surprised to see that it was Prince Talin.

“You get around, Highness; I thought you were working on the stand. What brings you over here?”

“The girl was having trouble with the cart, so I gave her a hand. Do you mind if I join you? I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Not at all.”

“Will you be competing in the tourney, Captain?” he asked and helped himself to his second lunch. Alyda got some food and they sat down next to the privy trench with the rest of the crew.

“No, it wouldn’t look good for the host to get dumped on her arse.” She grinned. “I’ll be on hand to attend you and the other honoured guests.”

“Excellent—shaking hands and making small talk are my particular areas of expertise.”

“I imagine they’re very useful skills for a prince,” she said.

“They are indeed, along with outstanding bravery, great wit, and a charming personality.”

She laughed. “Don’t forget modesty.”

“I’ve decided to eschew modesty. I don’t think it will get me what I want. What do you think, Captain? What will help me win the prize: boldness or modesty?”

Her smile vanished. She got up. “If you’ll excuse me, Highness, there’s something I need to attend to back at the Arth.” Without waiting for him to answer, she inclined her head and strode off across the parade ground.

Talin cursed under his breath as he watched her go. For a moment it had been like that evening in the garden, and then she was gone. Once again, he’d been thwarted by the hard as iron, Captain of the Hammer and the wall of steel she habitually dropped between them. He knew
she liked him, he could feel it, see it in her eyes when she looked at him. He threw the remains of his bread into the trench. Like his hopes, it was destined to be buried under a tonne of shit. Until he’d met Alyda Stenna he’d revelled in the power and privilege of being a prince. Now, he felt cursed by his title

Chapter Six

K
asper Thorgulsen inhaled the smoke coiling up from the dish of burning herbs. His battle-scarred chest expanded as he drew the heady fumes deep into his lungs. Rivulets of sweat ran down his naked body; his eyes began to water, his vision swam.

The Raven Daughter beat out a rhythm on the goatskin drum. Her hand was a blur as she flicked and twisted the slender bone across the taut goatskin. Swaying in time to the hypnotic rhythm, her bare breasts were a pleasing distraction. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from his wife’s naked body. Taking the black handled dagger in his right hand, he held his left arm over the gleaming copper bowl and drew the blade across his forearm. The sharp kiss of steel woke his drugged senses; blood dripped into the bowl. Bethanglyn ceased her playing and leapt to her feet, eager to inspect the augury. Thorgulsen stepped aside while she read the signs.

“What does it say?” he demanded.

“There will be conflict,” she said, turning the bowl in her hands as she peered at the contents.

Thorgulsen laughed. “I didn’t need to slash my arm to tell me that, Beth.”

“True enough, it is your wyrd; crow friend, fattener of dogs, widow-maker—”

“I know who I am, woman. Tell me something I don’t know.”

She put the bowl down and wrapped herself in her cat skin cloak. First she makes him slash his arm, and then she denies him the pleasure of looking at her body, which was the only good thing about the damned ritual in the first place. He wondered why she didn’t just kick him in the balls and have done with it.

“Sometimes it’s best not to know too much, my love.” She pitched her tone just right to leave him unsure if she was mocking him, or showing genuine concern. Knowing Beth, it would be the former.

“And sometimes I have to break people’s bones to make them tell me what I want to know. Now I pray you, wife: tell me what your damn spirits showed you.”

“Is there an ‘or else’ after that, my husband?” She took the knife from his hand and slowly licked the blood off the blade.

“Just tell me, witch.” He ignored the sudden desire to fuck, and pulled on his trews.

“It wasn’t clear. This place is too close to the Ward and it’s a surly bastard. The spirits are afraid. They fed poorly and said little. But be assured, your hair will be more silver than gold before you join them. That’s all I can tell you.”

He snorted. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Bethanglyn trailed her arm across his back. Her sharp nails drew heat to his skin and sent a pleasant shudder down his spine.”Would you like me to cast the runes?”

“Does it involve me cutting myself?”

“No, the runes do not demand blood.”

“Then why didn’t you cast them in the first place?”

She looked up at him, her eyes bright, and a sly smile on her lips. “‘Tis always better to bleed for what you want.”

“Remember you said that…”

Later, when the fog caused by Bethanglyn’s herbs had cleared, Thorgulsen marched through the temporary encampment, over to where Telvier’s Free Company standard fluttered in the breeze.

His senses might have cleared, but his annoyance at his wife still lingered. A true daughter of the Trickster, if she wasn’t careful she’d go too far with him one day and not live long enough to regret it.

Thorgulsen’s hirths had finished pitching their camp. A dozen prow-fronted tents circled around an iron fire pit. Painted shields hung from carved ridge beams, proclaiming that the Blue Boar, Leaping Salmon, and Black Aurochs were present. The warrior elite sat around the fire, preparing their war gear for the Ant’s games. They nodded their acknowledgements to their Thane as he passed. Hirths did not bow to anyone—not to their leader, not to kings or queens, not even to the gods.

Thorgulsen had scouted the place as soon as they’d arrived. He wasn’t impressed. The main body of the castle was three-sided, built around a large square, hemmed in on its forth side by the gates and curtain wall. The Arth was plainly built and as squat as a toad. It might be the home of the famous
Hammer of Antia
, but it was an ugly cowpat of a keep. His hirths wouldn’t use it as a dog kennel, let alone a place where they could hang their shields. More importantly, it looked impossible to defend against a serious attack, which was good, given why they’d come to Antia.