I need to get back to Troyes to find the man who recruited me, the goldsmith with the silver hand and the sky-blue eyes. But Troyes is a long journey from Châteaubriant, and the money I took from the abbot won’t get me far. So I’m following the tournaments again, a ghost in my own former life, scraping pennies and lodging where I can as I wander east.
I don’t ride in the battle line any more — I’ve kept that much of my promise to the hermit. In the mornings, I serve as a herald, announcing the knights as they parade past the stands. Everyone watches the knights: no one sees the man standing right in front of them, calling out their names. A herald’s job is to know everyone. The night before the contest, I ferret my way among the tents and through the town’s lodgings, asking the name and arms of every knight. I visit the lists and the rings to see the single combats, and the men who watch them. Malegant found all his knights that way — surely someone will return to their old paths.
I miss my old life. I miss the horse swaying under me, the smells of oil, resin and hot metal. I miss the thrilling fear of waiting for the charge, and the bond with the men beside me. Sometimes, I can barely resist throwing myself into the ring with the other knights. I don’t. The promises I made the hermit are vague, but they definitely preclude fighting for gain.
In the evenings I go to the banquets and tell stories, of knightly deeds long ago, when Arthur was king. The knights like those stories. They imagine themselves as the heroes, and feel vindicated.
Back in the hall the candles have burned low. The audience leans in. I tell them how Erec saw Enide and fell in love at first sight; how life in the castle bored them; how they went adventuring together and learned to trust each other. I tell how they fought a hundred knights, and two giants; how they freed the kingdom of King Evrain from a murderous custom. And, at last, how Erec brought Enide to Carduel and installed her as his queen to live happily ever after. When you’re telling the story, you can choose how it ends.
Laughter and applause ripple around the hall. I watch the faces change as the lords and ladies come back to the present. It’s as close to magic as I’ve seen in this world. Speak the right words, in the right way, and you can change their hearts.
The story ends — there is no more. They want to believe it. They want to inhabit a world of certain endings, of happiness fixed forever. In all my tales, it’s the biggest fiction of all.
Minstrels come in; benches get pushed back for dancing. The audience mill about. Some leave to return to their lodgings, or relieve themselves, or meet lovers in draughty stable-blocks. I watch the doors, scanning faces. A man in a cloak embroidered with lions looks as though he’s paying me close attention — I keep my eye on him for a moment, until he gets drawn into conversation with the lady beside him. My gaze moves on.
And there he is. A grey, one-eyed face I’ve seen before, standing by a ring watching men sport. I work for a man who’s always interested to see good fighters. He wore a black coat that day — now he’s dressed in scarlet — but the face is clear in my memory. That puckered socket isn’t one you forget. Has he recognised me?
He’s going out the door. I disengage from the crowd around me and hurry after him. By the time I get out he’s already on the far side of the courtyard, a shadow in the braziers’ smoky light. My footsteps seem too loud on the flagstones, but he doesn’t look back.
The town is built on a hill, with the castle at the summit and the houses sloping towards the river. I follow the one-eyed man down. Tournament crowds still throng the main street, drinking and singing: it’s easy for me to hide among them, harder to keep him in sight. Twice I think I’ve lost him. I try and close the gap.
The houses end at a stretch of open ground just inside the walls. Normally, the townspeople pasture their sheep here, but tonight it’s become a makeshift encampment for the makeshift army who’ve descended on the town. I battle back memories of the nights Ada and I spent in these camps — maybe in this very town.
The one-eyed man seems to know where he’s going. He turns between two tents, down a narrow, muddy path. He’ll see me if I follow him. I go on and slip between the next row of tents, paralleling his path. Stakes and ropes reach out of the darkness to snare me.
Ahead, the glow of a campfire flickers on canvas. I crouch and edge forward, peering around the tent wall. Four men, still in the quilted tunics they wore under their armour, are sitting on logs roasting songbirds on sticks. The man I followed crouches beside them, trailing the hem of his expensive mantle in the mud, and talks in a low voice. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but the gestures he makes are sharp and urgent.
I creep forward to try and listen in. A purse changes hands.
‘… bring it to me there.’
‘And how —?’
But the one-eyed man isn’t listening. He’s staring past the fire, straight towards me. The puckered skin around his blind socket goes taut, as if a phantom eye is stretching to see me. But there’s no problem with his other eye — and in trying to hear him, I’ve been drawn into the light.
‘That’s him.’
Too late, I realise he’s hired them to kill me. I could hardly have made it easier for them. The knights snatch weapons from around the fireside and jump to their feet. Just for an instant, fear keeps me fixed to the spot — not fear for my life, but fear that if I lose sight of my quarry now, I’ll never see him again. Never find Malegant, never find answers.
But I won’t find him if I’m dead. I turn and run through the campsite, hurdling ropes in the dark, pushing past onlookers before they can stop me. I see the road ahead and swing left, through an arch and across the bridge. A gatehouse guards the far side — beyond that, I can surely lose them in the forest. I grab a ring in the gate and heave.
The gate’s locked. The castellan must be worried about brigands drawn to the tournament. I bang on the door, but there are no lights in the barbican tower. The gatekeeper’s probably gone to enjoy the festivities. He doesn’t realise he’s just signed my death warrant.
I turn, pressing my back against the gate. A single lamp hangs over the arch: the four knights prowl like wolves just beyond the ring of light. They all have swords in their hands.
I promised the hermit I wouldn’t fight: I’m not carrying so much as a paring knife. I look for help, but the only other man on the bridge is a beggar, stumbling forward tapping his staff. One of the knights gives him a warning gesture, a hand slicing across his throat.
‘Why do you want to kill me?’ I shout. The night swallows the sound.
The nearest knight shrugs. He doesn’t know why. All he knows is what he’s been paid to do. He puts up his sword to strike — and pauses. The beggar’s still coming, his staff tap-tapping the wooden bridge. Maybe he’s blind. The knight makes a sign to one of his men to get rid of him. I want to shout a warning, but the words won’t come.
Chaos and shadow make it hard to see what happens next. There’s a blur of movement, a rush and a splash. Suddenly, there are only three knights on the bridge. The beggar seems to have grown six inches: he’s thrown off his cloak and holds the staff like a cudgel. Two of the knights run towards him. One gets hit in the chest so hard I hear the ribs crack. He drops like a stone. The man behind him trips on the body and stumbles forward, into the path of a scything blow that sends him reeling to the parapet. Another prod of the staff tips him over the edge.