Free The Red Knight by Miles Cameron Page A

Lachlan wanted involved the Queen’s secretary, Lady Almspend – not an heiress, precisely. But a pretty maid with a fair inheritance. A
high mark for a King’s Guardsman, commonly born.
    The king leaned close. ‘Come back, Ranald. She’ll wait.’
    ‘I pray she does,’ he whispered.
    The king turned to his constable. ‘See that this man’s surcoat and kit are well stored; I grant him leave, but I do not grant him quittance from my service.’
    ‘My lord!’ the man replied.
    The king grinned. ‘Now get going. And come back with some tales to tell.’
    Ranald bowed again, as ceremony demanded, and walked from the king’s presence to the guardroom, where he embraced a dozen close friends, drank a farewell cup of wine, and handed the
Steward his kit – his maille hauberk and his good cote of plates beautifully covered in the royal scarlet; his two scarlet cotes with matching hoods, for wear at court, and his hose of
scarlet cloth. His tall boots of scarlet leather, and his sword belt of scarlet trimmed in bronze.
    He had on a doublet of fustian, dark hose of a muddy brown, and over his arm was his three-quarter’s tweed cloak.
    The Steward, Radolf, listed his kit on his inventory and nodded. ‘Nicely kept, messire. And your badge . . .’ the king’s badge was a white heart with a golden collar, and the
badges were cunningly fashioned of silver and bronze and enamel. ‘The king expressly stated you was to keep yours, as on leave and not quit the guard.’ He handed the badge back.
    Ranald was touched. He took the brooch and pinned his cloak with it. The badge made his tweed look shabby and old.
    Then he walked out of the fortress and down into the city of Harndon, without a backwards glance. Two years, war and peril, missions secret and diplomatic, and the love of his life.
    A hillman had other loyalties.
    Down into the town that grew along the river’s curves. From the height of the fortress, the town was dominated by the bridge over the Albin, the last bridge before the broad and winding
river reached the sea thirty leagues farther south. On the far side of the bridge, to the north, lay Bridgetown – part and not part of the great city of Harndon. But on this side, along the
river, the city ran from the king’s fortress around the curve, with wharves and peers at the riverside, merchants’ houses, streets of craftsmen in houses built tall and thin to save
land.
    He walked down the ramp, leading his two horses past the sentries – men he knew. More hand clasps.
    He walked along Flood Street, past the great convent of St Thomas and the streets of the Mercers and Goldsmiths, and down the steep lanes past the Founders and the Blacksmiths, to the place
where Blade Lane crossed with Armour Street, at the sign of the broken circle.
    The counter was only as wide as two broad-built men standing side by side, but Ranald looked around, because the Broken Circle made the finest weapons and armour in the Demesne, and there were
always things there to be seen. Beautiful things – even to a hillman. Today was better than many days – a dozen simple helmets stood on the counter, all crisp and fine, with high points
and umbers to shade the eye, the white work fine and neat, the finish almost mirror bright, the metal blue-white, like fine silver.
    And these were simple archer’s helmets.
    There was an apprentice behind the counter, a likely young man with arms like the statues of the ancient men and legs to match. He grinned and bobbed his head and went silently through the
curtain behind him to fetch his master.
    Tad Pyel was the master weapon smith of the land. The first Alban to make the hardened steel. He was a tall man with a pleasant round face and twenty loyal apprentices to show that the mild
disposition was not just in his face. He emerged, wiping his hands on his apron.
    ‘Master Ranald,’ he said. ‘Here for your axe, I have no doubt.’
    ‘There was some talk of a cote, of maille as well,’