Squire's Honor

by Peter Telep

  As he reached the crest of a long, lazy hill, the castle came into view, bathed in the liquid silver light of a first quarter moon. The old Roman fortress stood atop the limestone ramparts, and every time Christopher saw it from this distance he felt like a little boy again. He saw the castle as a stone-piled path to the heavens, brimming with magic, miracles, and excitement. But the too-brief second of bliss faded. The reality of the present struck hard. The torches burning in the watchtowers of the castle had been lit by Saxon hands. The tiny specks moving about the wall-walks were the foolish Saxon archers, made vulnerable by their own light. Within the solar of the castle was a Saxon named Kenric. Christopher ground his teeth in anger. The castle belonged to the Celts. They had inherited it from the Romans. How could it have fallen into the hands of the barbarians? Someone should have intervened. Nature should have intervened.

  God must have a plan. Tell me, Lord, what is my future and the future of my home?

  He let the question float to heaven, but knew better than to wait for a reply. God kept his own sundial.

  As Christopher drew closer to the castle, he saw a great line of men and siege machines arise out of the distance. They marched along the eastern horizon toward the castle. He could hear the jubilant shouts of Arthur’s watchmen posted in the perimeter forest.

  Christopher counted at least a score of mangonels; the giant rock launchers’ huge wooden wheels created a cacophony that rivaled the booming of a cavalry. There were an equal number of trebuchets, their swinging arms used for rock throwing now tied down for travel. Pulling up the rear were the spear-throwing ballistas.

  Besides the siege machines were, of course, the fresh men. Reinforcements from Gore, no doubt. Yes, Arthur would take the castle back from the Saxons. Nothing would be able to stop his mighty efforts.

  This was great news for the Celts. And especially wel­come news for Christopher. In all the commotion of the new arrivals, Woodward would probably not be missed. At least not for a day or two.

  Why am I thinking that? I have to talk to the king!

  He needed guidance more than ever, and there was no question of where to find it.

  When Christopher arrived at Orvin’s tent, what he found surprised him. A blazing cookfire threw bright, flickering light upon Orvin, who stood choking Merlin outside the tent. Orvin’s face was tightened into a knot. Merlin’s multicolored eyes were wide and pleading. The druid gripped Orvin’s wrists in a vain effort to free himself.

  “There is no one in the realm more foolish than you, magician!” Orvin screamed as he shook the wizard by the neck.

  Merlin’s reply, if he had one, did not make it past Orvin’s grip.

  Christopher swung off of his courser, dropped to the ground, then ran to the codgers.

  Orvin was so intent on squeezing the life out of Merlin that he did not see Christopher’s approach. Christopher seized Orvin’s wrists, then wrested him from the druid.

  Merlin gasped for breath, then slid a hand under his beard to rub his neck.

  Orvin lurched forward for another attack, but Christopher wrapped his arms around the old knight, effectively pinning the man where he stood. Orvin’s long, thin white hair whipped into Christopher’s face, and Christopher blew the strands away.

  “No. Let me finish him. Let me finish him before he destroys all of Britain.” Orvin cocked his head toward Christopher; the old sky watcher’s eyes were wide and burning. He shifted forward, tried to break free, then added, “He’s just about ruined your life, young saint”!

  “What are you talking about?”

  Merlin cleared his throat. “It was not my fault, Orvin. She insisted. I told her not to go, but she left while I slept!” With his hand still lost under the snow of his beard, Merlin took a step toward Orvin. “Why can you not think before you act? Is it not a fool who lets his anger become the order of the day?”

  Orvin huffed. “Is it not a fool who sleeps while left with the charge of a woman and child?”

  Christopher released his grip on Orvin, crossed in front of the man, and placed his hands on the knight’s shoulders, should he try to get at Merlin again. Urgently, he asked, “What’s happened? What’s happened to Marigween and Baines”?

  “Ask the great Merlin,” Orvin said with a smirk, then gestured with his head toward the druid behind Christopher.

  Christopher turned, then stepped toward Merlin. “All right. What?”

  Merlin took a step back. “She left a note three days ago. May I say her Latin is beautiful. She’s bound for the port of Blytheheart, on the southwest side of the Bristol channel. There’s a small monastery there.” The druid rolled his eyes. “Ignorant monks. How I do despise them.”

  “Why did she leave?” Christopher asked. Merlin sighed. “The whys of women.”

  “I want to know why she left the safety of your cave. Now tell me!” Christopher felt his hands tremble. For a moment he realized his tone had been more than a little disrespectful, yet this was not the time to sit politely and chat while his wife-to-be and son were who knew where.

  “She was bored, I believe,” Merlin answered, his gaze finding Christopher’s. “In your absence she had done nothing but complain. Oh, she had been a princess, daughter of Lord Devin, and had been used to being surrounded by chambermaids, used to bathing more, used to sitting at a dais table and partaking of the finest food of the realm. And there she had been, poor Marigween, confined as a prisoner to those stone walls. And all because of the Saxons. “Well,’ she said,”they are not going to be my captors.”’

  Christopher sensed Orvin coming up from behind. The old knight dropped a palm onto his shoulder, then spoke into his ear. “A convincing story, yes, young saint. But a lie. He had to come here to Shores to aid Arthur. He could no longer guard Marigween. I’m sure he encouraged her to leave.”

  “Strike that from your mind, Christopher,” Merlin said. “If Arthur needed me, he would’ve sent word by carrier pigeon. He did not. I’ve come here simply to bring this news and extend an apology. Ask yourself, why is it that Orvin did not remain at the cave to guard your son and Marigween?”

  “It is your fault I could not stay there!” Orvin shouted back. “No one could live with such a cackling fraud!”

  Orvin’s mouth was too close to Christopher’s ear; Christopher flinched under the volume of the reply, then pulled away from Orvin and turned to face him. “Why can’t both of you let go of your anger? Look what has happened!”

  Orvin drew in a long breath, appeared about to say something, but then held his words behind pursed lips.

  Christopher regarded Merlin. “Had she really been that unhappy at the cave? We had brought her so many luxuries. She never expressed her unhappiness to me.”

  Merlin nodded. “She hid it from you, as some women are wont to do, squire. You’ve experienced only a hand­ful of feminine emotions in your day. You’ve a firkin full yet to learn about.”

  Christopher sighed. Life was now a two-edged sword, with Woodward’s murder honing one edge and Marigween’s flight sharpening the other.

  “What does he know of women, young saint?” Orvin asked, back to his verbal foray.

  Merlin began, “What I have observed—”

  “Please. Your feud has become infamous, and it is not helping at all. I am in trouble. I do not wish to be an arbitrator in your millionscore disputes.” Christopher caught his breath. He listened to the crackle of the cook­ fire. No one spoke. Then, he bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

  His elders continued to hold their tongues.

  Christopher closed his eyes and tried to gather his thoughts. He wished his life would slow down so that he could catch up with it. There were too many unanswered questions. He still didn’t know why Marigween had chosen a monastery in Blytheheart as her destination. Yes, the monastery would provide her with relative safety, but to get there she would have to travel west through the central part of the realm. She would be forced to ride over the Quantock foothills, which might be occupied b
y the Saxons. Hadn’t she considered the dangers involved in such a journey? And how could she have been foolish enough to ride unescorted with their baby son? The more he thought about what she had done, the more furious he became.

  He opened his eyes and looked to the druid. “Merlin,” he said, in a softer, more reasonable tone, “why did Marigween set out for Blytheheart? She could’ve gone to Gore, or so many other places.”

  The druid’s cottony brow narrowed in puzzlement. “I thought you already knew the answer to that question. Her uncle resides in Blytheheart.”

  “Her uncle? I didn’t know Lord Devin—”

  “No, he is her mother’s brother, Robert. He is a monk.”

  Marigween’s mother was dead and Marigween, when asked about the woman, fell into long periods of silence. What Christopher had gathered from Orvin was that the woman was of exceptional beauty and had died perhaps a half dozen years earlier. Naturally, Merlin did not know of Marigween’s reticence concerning her mother. And now, with her father dead, she would not talk about him, either. It was as if she thought the silence would cleanse away the pain, or make their deaths part of some other reality, not this one. Christopher knew that silence only fueled sorrow. They lived in a fragile age, and grieving was a common and necessary part of life, a part Marigween denied herself. He’d let himself cry when his own parents had been slaughtered by the Saxons.

  “She never talked about her mother,” Christopher explained. “A painful subject. But now you’ve shed some light on her rebellion.” He shifted his gaze to Orvin. “She’s about a day west from here. You must try to catch up with her or get to that monastery and make sure she arrived safely.”

  Orvin’s expression soured.

  Merlin pointed a bony finger at Orvin. “Do you love the boy?”

  “Yes, I love the boy. What has that—”

  “Will you go?” Christopher interjected. “I-I want to go, but I have to stay.”

  Orvin answered, “I know you begin service to Woodward on the morrow.” Then, as if struck by a thought, his face lit up. His lips curled in a smile. “I’ll go after Marigween. And Merlin’s coming with me.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s a wise—” Christopher started. “I will go,” Merlin said as he crossed to a warped cider barrel outside the tent, then sat upon it with a sigh. “Perhaps during the ride Orvin and I will reach a truce, or perhaps we shall do better and kill each other. In any event, it would be my pleasure.”

  “Another lie, druid. You simply refuse to let me get to you. But I know I will,” Orvin said. “And at least I’ll be keeping you away from Arthur.”

  Christopher felt a night breeze rustle his still-damp shirt. He moved closer to the cookfire and rubbed his palms together. “It’s settled then. You’ll both leave this eve, but not before you hear some horrible news.”

  “I don’t think I can hear any more,” Orvin com­plained.

  Christopher bit his lower lip as he considered whether he should tell them about Woodward. They were, after all, going to leave anyway. How could they help him while they were on a journey to Blytheheart? What advice could they impart to him? They would both tell him what he already knew: that concealing anything from Arthur would point more guilty fingers at him. Then again, maybe they’d have some ideas. He should at least tell Orvin. Holding back something this grave from his mentor would in the least sense be an insult. If noth­ing else, it might be interesting to see how the old sky watcher would react to the news of Woodward’s mur­der; Woodward had always been a constant source of irritation to Orvin.

  “You did not come here by accident, Christopher,” Merlin said. “You sought Orvin for something. Advice on the eve you return to the army?”

  “In a way,” Christopher answered.

  “What then can I do for you, young saint? Tum your eyes away from that tired one.”

  Christopher frowned and shook his head; Orvin’s assaults on Merlin would never cease. He flipped his gaze from the druid to the old knight. “What if I told you Lord Woodward is dead, shot in the neck by a crossbow? What if I told you I am the only person to witness this act?”

  “Is this to be a hypothetical exercise, or has this really happened?” Orvin asked, joining Christopher at the cookfire. The old one held his palms out to the flames.

  “He was drunk. He was going to kill me.”

  “You killed him?” Orvin asked, his jaw falling slack as he leapt to a conclusion.

  Orvin closed his eyes and lolled his head back. “Oh, dear St. George and St. Michael, you’ve taken a foul wretch from this earth, but what have you done to this young man in return? Seek God for me and ask for His mercy upon this young saint.”

  Christopher eyed Merlin. “What should I, I mean what do I do now, Lord Merlin?”

  The druid scratched the rim of his nostril with a long, sharp fingernail, then smoothed out his mustache before answering. “You will tell Arthur everything that has happened. You will include every detail, everything you can remember. Close your eyes when speaking to him. Live the moment once again.”

  “Arthur’s council of battle lords will get to him,” Orvin argued. “He will be on a pyre by the time we return from Blytheheart. And if Arthur protects the lad, then one of Woodward’s men will find and finish him.” Orvin put a finger to his lips. He stared into nowhere. “Or, perhaps, Woodward’s murderer was really trying to execute the boy.”

  Merlin shook his head in disagreement. “Postulate nothing. There are facts. They are real, and he must act upon them. We could spend an entire summer speculat­ing on what really happened. A knight has been mur­dered, and it appears this young squire has committed the crime.”

  Orvin moved uncomfortably close to Christopher, then fixed him with a penetrating stare. “Christopher,” he said gravely, “did you kill him? Were you defending yourself”?

  “Orvin, it was you who taught me that every man is a true servant, to his heart, to his mind, and to God. Under this sky, in this forest, before this fire, I speak to you only the purest truths. What I said is what hap­pened. I speak of life, and of death, and I’ve never spo­ken of them more honestly.”

  “Arthur was wise to want you near him,” Merlin observed. “He is an understanding king, and he values the truth as highly as you do, Christopher. You should already know that.”

  Christopher nodded. “I do, Merlin. I do.” He turned away, then let his gaze fall to the ground. “But I’m still afraid.”

  2

  Seaver shifted to the alcove window of his chamber in the castle keep. He reached up and tried to lift open the latch that held the wooden shutters closed.

  I am not a dwarf! I am a short man. M y limbs are normally proportioned!

  It didn’t matter that he was a normal, but short man. He suspected that every Saxon within the walls of the castle thought of him as a dwarf.

  A dwarf cannot reach this latch either! Shut up! You are not a dwarf!

  In past moons he had told Ware to open the window for him so that he could scoff at Arthur’s feeble army below. Now and again he would fire off an epithet in Celtic. But Ware was dead, and the rumor was that the feeble Celt army now grew. Seaver wanted to see for himself.

  But damn the height of that latch.

  He dragged the livery trunk at the foot of his bed over to the stone sill. He stepped onto the trunk, then onto the sill, lifted the latch, and pushed open the wooden doors—

  -to view a nightmare.

  “It is over,” he murmured to himself. “Kenric is done. I am done.”

  Celt siege machines rolled into place along the moat on this, the east side of the castle. It was reasonable to assume the Celts had more machines on every side of the fortress. Seaver had feared this would happen. The firepower the Celts had amassed in Gore was well­ known by his people; Seaver had warned Kenric about it and told his master that there was nothing to stop the Celts from bringing their rock and spear throwers down from that not-too-distant land.

  Now, as the archers
posted along the wall-walks pulled back their bowstrings and released their arrows, Seaver wished Kenric were beside him—so that he could see the distraught look on his leader’s face.

  True, Kenric was his master, and it was he who had promoted Seaver to second-in-command of this army. Kenric had permitted him to soar for a brilliant but brief time. It was over now. He had failed. Christopher of Shores and his two friends had escaped from the castle, carrying with them information on Saxon supplies and troop numbers. The three young Celts had been Seaver’s responsibility and they had slipped through his grip—along with his command. His demotion had been the result of only one mistake. There were no second chances in Kenric’s army.

  He gazed solemnly at the scene below. Moon—and torchlight revealed an inevitable defeat. He turned back to the dim, empty box of his chamber.

  I don’t belong here anymore. Kenric will come through my door in a few moments and officially strip me of my command, as he promised he would. His delay in doing so is only the first step in his torture of me.

  It didn’t help matters that there were fellow Saxon battle lords that hated Seaver, that wanted him dead, that wanted Renfred appointed to his position. Seaver had not forgotten how Darrick the mangonel operator had come to him on the wall-walk one night and had threatened him. He remembered how he and Kenric had tortured then killed the mat) … As he looked back in his mind, Seaver grew more disgusted. Men should not have been questioning his authority in the first place. And though he still feared Kenric, he didn’t completely agree with his master’s plan. They waited for help from the north that might never come. Kenric would sit in the castle and die here. And if Seaver stayed, he would die along with his master …