The Red Knight by Miles Cameron Page A

said the king, and his voice rang through the hall as he
walked beneath the rows of heads. ‘And alone of these fair flowers, Ser knight,
you
know the truth of what I say. You have faced the Wild.’ The king was not the tallest man in
the room or the handsomest. But when he spoke like this, no other man could compare.
    Hard Hands looked at the floor and bit his lip in frustration. ‘I sought only to entertain, Sire. I beg your pardon.’
    ‘Seek my pardon in the Wild,’ the king said. ‘Bring me three heads and I will be content to watch you flirt with the Queen’s ladies. Bring me five heads and you may flirt
with the Queen.’
    If you dare
, she thought.
    The king grinned, stopped by the younger man and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Hard Hands stiffened.
    He did not want to leave the court. It was plain to see.
    The king put his lips close to Hard Hand’s ear, but the Queen heard his words. She always did.
    ‘Three heads,’ the king whispered through the smile on his lips. ‘Or you will stay in your castle and be branded faithless and craven.’
    The Queen watched the effect on her ladies and held her peace. Hard Hands was quite a popular man. Lady Mary, who was known as ‘Hard Heart’ had been heard to say that perhaps his
hands were not so very hard, after all. Seated nearest to the Queen, she pursed her lips and set her mouth, determined not to show the Queen her hurt. Behind this vignette, the king waved to his
squires and set off up the main stairs to his arming room.
    When the king was gone, Desiderata sat back down on her stool and picked up her sewing – an arming shirt for the king. Her ladies gathered round. They felt her desire and closed themselves
against the younger knights, who looked to Hard Hands for leadership. Or had. Now they were disconsolate at losing their leader. They left with the sort of loud demonstration that young men make
when socially disadvantaged, and the Queen laughed.
    Hard Hands stopped in the arch of the main door and looked back. He met her eye, and his anger carried clearly across the sun beams that separated them.
    ‘I will come back!’ he shouted.
    The other young men looked afraid at his outburst, and pushed him out the door.
    ‘Perhaps,’ purred the Queen. She smiled, much like a cat with a tiny piece of tail sticking out between its teeth.
    The ladies knew that smile. They were silent, and the wisest hung their heads in real, or well-feigned, contrition, but she saw through all of them.
    ‘Mary,’ said the Queen gently. ‘Did you let Hard Hands into your bed?’
    Mary, sometimes called Hard Heart, met her eye. ‘Yes, my lady.’
    The Queen nodded. ‘Was he worthy?’ she asked. ‘Answer me true.’
    Mary bit her lip. ‘Not today, my lady.’
    ‘Perhaps not ever – eh? Listen, all of you,’ she said, and she bent her head to her ladies. ‘Emmota – you are latest amongst us. By what signs do you know a knight
worthy to be your lover?’
    Emmota was not yet fully grown to her womanhood – fourteen years old. Her face was narrow without being pinched and a clear intelligence shone in her eyes. She was nothing next to the
Queen, and yet, the Queen admitted to herself, the girl had something.
    But in this instant, her wits deserted her, and she blushed and said nothing.
    The Queen smiled at her, as she was always tender for the lost and the confounded. ‘Listen, my dear,’ she said softly. ‘Love only those worthy of your love. Love those who love
themselves, and love all around them. Love the best – the best in arms, the first in the hall, the finest harpist, and the best chess player. Love no man for what he owns, but only for what
he does.’
    She smiled at all of them. And then pounced. ‘Are you pregnant, Mary?’
    Mary shook her head. ‘I did not allow him that liberty, my lady.’
    The Queen reached out and took Mary’s hand. ‘Well done. Ladies, remember – we award our love to those who deserve us. And our bodies are an even