Kaitlin came to see her husband, and looked around at all the men who bowed to her. ‘Don’t you talk about anything but war?’ she asked, cheeks hot.
Count Zac bowed to her when her husband was tongue-tied. ‘My lady, we but pour earth and wine on the dead.’
She shook her head.
Derkensun, who was drunker than most of them, grinned at her. ‘I have decided to get married!’ he said.
Kaitlin smiled politely at the tattooed giant. ‘That’s different from war,’ she said.
When she was gone, Bad Tom licked his lips and grinned. ‘You’re going to ruin war as a sport,’ he said. ‘All this strategia and taktika. What will you leave us?’
‘It seemed bloody enough today,’ Gabriel said.
At which Tom looked disgusted. ‘You’re carving the fun right out of war. We outmanoeuvre them. They surrender. Now they fight for us? Christ on the cross. Next we’ll settle these things with dice.’
‘Don’t you have a herd to drive?’ Ser Gabriel asked. He sounded better – better than any of them had heard him in months. Despite the dark circles under his eyes. And the impressive intake of wine. Or perhaps because of it.
‘Aye. And drive it I will. Being I’m the Drover.’ He grinned. ‘This was like a nice little rest. No beeves to watch making dung. No sheep – Christ, I hate sheep.’ He slammed back his horn. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like to come to Harndon, now? Ranald is determined to take the beeves all the way. You made him a knight. Now he has another beast in view.’
Ranald coloured, and Ser Gabriel laughed. ‘She’s not a beast – she’s much better looking than that.’ He stood up.
Behind him the whole camp was moving. It was three camps, really. The hospital had grown to cover all the buildings of the farmstead, and the defeated army’s tentage shared the ground with the victorious army’s brush shelters. ‘Can I at least ask why we couldn’t cut the fucker’s bodyguard to ribbons,’ Bad Tom asked. ‘Fair is fair. They lost.’
Ser Gabriel took a pull of wine. ‘They weren’t the enemy. They aren’t now. In a way they’re all my vassals.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s why Demetrius had to die.’
Ser Gavin shook his head. ‘It had to be done.’ But he sounded unsure.
Ser Gabriel nodded. ‘You may have the right of it, but I’ve a glut of death just now.’ His voice was flat. ‘It’s interesting to parse the morality of the thing. Demetrius was merely Aeskepiles’ pawn – but I’d say he murdered his father of his own free will. Where does that put him?’
‘Hell,’ said Ser Milus. He glanced at Ser Alcaeus. The Morean knight nodded his agreement.
‘The Emperor would never have let him reclaim the duchy,’ he said. ‘His hands were stained with his father’s blood. Exile for life was the very best he might have hoped for.’
‘Perhaps,’ Gabriel said coldly. ‘But the Emperor is not of this world. And never is not always a long time, in politics.’ He shrugged. ‘I had to be sure.’
Toby walked around the table pouring – Gelfred took a little, and Alison, recovering from an Easterner arrow in her left biceps, declined. Derkensun had his poured full.
They were all there, or most of them were. Except, of course, for Jacques and Jehan and John le Bailli and all the others who would never be there again.
The Red Knight raised his cup. ‘The Thrakians were never the enemy. Now I hope they’re allies. If I understand it – if I’ll ever understand it – Andronicus intended to rebuild Morea. But Aeskepiles intended to start a civil war which would destroy the Empire’s remaining military potential. The Wild is right there.’ He pointed to the north. ‘Imagine the Wild in Liviapolis. Imagine Thorn there.’
The air shivered.
Bad Tom pulled a heavy dagger out of his belt. ‘Name him again and let’s see how he bleeds.’
Ranald rolled his eyes.
Ser Michael leaned over, a hand in the small of his back. For a moment, with bloodshot eyes and a back arched in pain, he looked like a much older man. ‘So we won?’ he asked cautiously.
‘We certainly didn’t lose,’ the Red Knight said.
‘Now we rebuild the Morean army?’ Ser Gavin asked.
Michael looked at his Captain with pleading eyes. Instead of those eyes slipping away, Ser Gabriel met his look and smiled.
‘No. We’ll leave that condotta to other men. We’re going south with Tom. To a tournament. In Harndon.’
‘A tournament? What? Fighting for sport? What kind of foolishness is that?’ Tom asked, but he was grinning.
‘Just so, Tom,’ the Red Knight said, and raised his cup. ‘We’re headed to a tournament of fools.’