Out of the gate had ridden an army.

There were knights, and squires, and men at arms, landschnechts, halberdiers, bombardiers, longbow men, crossbowmen, arquebusiers and, somewhere near the back, Pursuivant, Clarenceaux, Mordaunt and White Herald, with their eyes tightly shut. In any military force, there are always a select of body of men whose job it is in the event of an ambush to clutch their sides, scream convincingly and fall off their horses. It's a lousy job, but somebody's got to do it. Poor b.l.o.o.d.y henchmen.

At the head of the army rode a figure in half a suit of shining, night-black armour. The way in which he stayed on the horse is best left to the imagination.

The procession halted, and two trumpeters cantered ahead to blow the parley. A rather bemused sun glinted off ten thousand jet-black spearpoints. Behind the Antichrist's shoulder, two identical figures sat impa.s.sively in their saddles and looked down. By this stage, the only way they could stay materialised simultaneously was to sit absolutely still and breathe once every ten minutes.

'Well now,' said the Antichrist, 'here we all are, then.'

Richard (who had acquired some pretty impressive armour of his own from somewhere; probably a while-you-wait armourer caught up in the gales of time) lifted his visor and smiled.

'Yes indeed,' the Antichrist went on, 'you with your victorious hordes.' He counted on his fingers; he had enough. 'Me with my ten thousand defeated but still quite highly motivated spectral warriors. Bit of a turn-up, don't you think?'

Richard continued smiling and saying nothing.

'Nice firework display,' the Antichrist continued. 'Looks like you rolled back - what - eight, nine hundred years there. Neat trick. And now you've won.'

Richard nodded. 'Apparently,' he said.

'So?'

'So what?'

The Antichrist grinned. 'So what exactly is it you want?'

There was a long, significant silence. Nature waited. Time listened.

'Um,' said Richard.

The Antichrist leaned forward in his saddle. Cautiously.

'Sorry,' he said, 'didn't quite catch that. Bit deaf on this side, to tell you the truth. What was it again?'

King Richard suddenly found the toe of his chain-mail socks very interesting. The Antichrist raised an eyebrow.

'I mean,' he went on, 'you must have had a b.l.o.o.d.y good reason, mustn't you? Winding back eight hundred years, threatening to open up the Archives, bringing the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes to its knees. Or rather knee. So, just give us the word and we'll get on with it.' He paused. 'Whatever it is.'

Something complicated seemed to be going on in the King's mind.

'If you'll bear with me a tick,' he said, apparently to his sock, 'I just want to, um, talk things through with my advisers. Get things straight in my own mind, you know.'

'That's fine,' the Antichrist replied. 'All the time in the world.'

Richard took two steps back and pulled Blondel and Guy into a huddle. The Galeazzos drifted up, like iron filings to a magnet.

'Quick,' Richard hissed sideways under the noseguard of his helmet. 'Think of something.'

'Sorry?'

'Something to ask for,' Richard whispered. 'Demands. That sort of thing. Quickly.'

There was a deathly hush.

'How about,' Guy started to say, 'No, that'd be...'

Five anxious voices a.s.sured him that it was fine. They really wanted to hear from him. This administration accorded the very highest value to the voice of public opinion.

A moment later, Richard stepped forward.

'Ready?' said the Antichrist.

'Yes,' Richard said, looking round over his shoulder. 'In just a ... Yes. Ready.'

'Well?'

'We demand-and we won't take no for an answer.'

'Yes?'

'Sorry?'

'You were demanding something.

'Oh yes, that's right. We insist that you, er...'

'Yes?'

'Do something about the way it gets dark so early in December,' Richard said. His visor had fallen down over his nose, m.u.f.fling his voice. He didn't see in a hurry to do anything about it.

The Antichrist blinked. 'Granted,' he said.

'I mean,' Richard mumbled, 'it's a disgrace.'

'Agreed,' the Antichrist said. 'So what shall we do?'

'Sorry?'

'About the long winter evenings,' the Antichrist said patiently, and with malice. 'I mean, do you want more sun in winter, which will b.u.g.g.e.r up the crop cycles but never mind, or less daylight in summer, which'll -'

'Surely that's your problem,' Richard muttered quickly. 'Just do something about it, all right?'

'Fine.'

'Right, then.'

The Antichrist leaned further forward still, until his ribs were almost on his horse's ears. 'That's it, then, is it?' he said. 'Shorter winter evenings. All this was about shorter winter evenings?'