by Peter Telep
“I wager he romanced a bottle last night,” Lancelot said, cocking an eyebrow.
The battle lords responded with chuckles, some teas ing each other over their own flirtations with the same.
The king lowered his gaze to the map. “We’ll not wait for him. And you gentlemen should find seats. Have your squires bring in some trunks or stools or something to sit on. We’re going to be here for a while.”
“By your leave?” Christopher asked.
Arthur tipped his head in agreement. “And if you see your master, Christopher, send him directly here. Tell him his tardiness will cost him.” Arthur smiled at Lancelot, a smile that seemed some private joke between them.
Christopher withdrew from the tent, five breaths away from fainting.
Outside, the midday air was fresher and thinner than the damp, mildew-tinged atmosphere of the tent; it struck a hard blow to his lungs and made the weight of his head sink back onto his neck. The August sky, once sunny, had clouded over in the brief time he had been inside the tent. He closed his eyes and rubbed them.
I’m slowly ruining my life.
But it’s not my fault Woodward died! I didn’t kill him!
Yes, but you drove him toward vengeance—and that is what got him killed!
“I heard him ask you about Woodward,” Neil said.
Christopher lowered his hand, opened his eyes. Neil had taken an arrow from the quiver slung over his shoulder and now absently adjusted its fletching. Since returning to Shores, Christopher found it harder and harder to recognize Neil. The barbarian was just as stubby, just as chubby, and just as hairy as he was the day Christopher had first met him in Doyle’s tent back on the Quantock hills. It wasn’t Neil’s appearance that had changed; it was his attitude. To others, the change would be perceived as only minor, but it bothered Christopher very much.
In reply to Neil’s remark, he only sighed.
“So why did you lie to the king?” Neil asked.
Christopher’s tone went offensive. “What are you talking about?”
Neil tsked. “I know you too well, Christopher. Your plans, your scheming. You know something about Woodward.”
“Maybe I do,” Christopher said, honing his voice further with each word. “But these days, I’m not sure I would even tell you. You’d probably tum me in.” Christopher stalked past Neil and started down the muddy path that led away from the king’s tent, a path lined on one side by more tents, the other by reeds that fenced off a view of the Cam.
He heard Neil’s boots behind him, then felt Neil’s hand on his shoulder. “What do you mean by that?”
“You knov-r,” Christopher grunted, then pulled out of Neil’s grasp and continued marching.
Neil jogged up beside him and kept pace, though his body was taxed far more than Christopher’s. Between heavy breaths, he managed, “Is it because I’m friends with him”?
Christopher stopped dead. Neil nearly tripped over him. “You can be friends with whomever you want.”
“That’s it, I knew it.” Neil shook his head, his lips pursed in disgust. “You’d probably like him if you got to know him. If you’d give him a second look. We’re all in the same army, Christopher.”
“You and I, we share something, we’ve both lost our best friends. Phelan’s dead. Doyle’s banished. It is you and I now, Neil. I trusted you to be loyal to me.”
For a moment, the irony struck Christopher. Neil had betrayed his trust, the way Christopher had betrayed Woodward’s and now Arthur’s trust. The way he felt now was the way Arthur would feel when he discovered the lie. The feeling was ugly, and it unearthed a rage.
Neil puffed air. “I’m friends with Robert of Queen’s Camel, the squire who replaced you, and that’s being disloyal to you? I’m thrilled we’re finally having this conversation. Now I know why you’ve been brooding.”
“I have not been brooding!” Christopher stomped for ward.
Neil fell in close behind, then called after him. “It is not as if we’re great friends! He’s simply interested in improving his skill at the longbow and asked me to help. I was flattered.”
Christopher dug his right heel into the ground, stopped abruptly. This time Neil ran into him. “Watch it!”
“Ouch! If you would just listen.”
“All right. Explain to me your … friendship.” Christopher felt his back teeth come together, and he bit down hard.
“It is mainly instructor to student, but occasionally he talks about home, or about his journeys up to the Savemake forest, or fishing in the Thames. He’s a very good storyteller. You would be amazed.”
I’m amazed you’re his friend.
Christopher folded his arms over his chest. “But is he a good squire?”
Neil’s nod was reluctant, but positive. “I could make you feel better and say he is not.”
“You’ve seen more of him than I have. Do you think he’s better than me?”
Neil shrugged. “I’m an archer. I don’t know.”
“Come now, you can tell. You’ve seen enough squiring in your day.”
“He has a lot of experience.” “In combat”?
This time it was Neil who turned away and started off, leaving Christopher standing in the path. “You’re jealous, and you’re taking it out on me. Think about that.”
It was hard to look into the mirror created by Neil’s words. The truth was difficult to tell, perhaps more difficult to face.
Am I really jealous of Robert? I’ve avoided him, but does that really mean …
Who wouldn’t be jealous? I want what he has! What he doesn’t deserve! He didn’t earn the title! I fought on the Mendips with Hasdale. I fought on the Quantocks with Arthur, and I’ll fight again. Just because he shows some skill and is of noble blood does not mean he deserves squire of the body!
Maybe he doesn’t. But neither do I right now. I am jealous, so jealous that it’s killing me.
Christopher watched Neil storm away. Was it right to be mad at the archer for befriending Robert? Was it Neil’s attitude that had changed—or his own?
“Neil?” he shouted. “Wait. You’re right.”
Neil didn’t stop walking. “I know. Let’s go back to my tent and talk about it. I have some fruit there.”
The tent was cool and private. The old linen blankets they sat on offered reasonable comfort. Neil finished two apples before Christopher had taken a bite out of his first. He was too engrossed in telling Neil what had happened in the forest with Woodward. Neil chewed loudly, listened earnestly, and his mouth opened in surprise like a jester’s when Christopher told him about the murder.
“I even wondered if you had done it,” Christopher said. “But I couldn’t figure out why you wouldn’t come into the clearing.”
“I wouldn’t come into the clearing because I wasn’t there,” Neil said forcefully. “If I had shot Woodward, I would’ve done it with my longbow.”
“Not if you were hiding in those brambles. There wasn’t enough room.”
Neil conceded the fact. “I guess I might have used a crossbow. But that doesn’t matter. What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. I know I should tell Arthur the truth.
And soon.”
“I think you’re right about the battle lords. They’ll probably want Arthur to at least slap you into a pillory. Were I you, I’d talk to the king in private.”
Christopher pulled his knees into his chest, wrapped his arms around them. “I’m scared. Someone wanted to save my life or ruin it. Or someone wanted to kill me and shot Woodward by mistake.” A new thought sparked another guess. “Or perhaps someone wanted to make sure I would never become squire of the body again”!
Neil shook his head. “Robert of Queen’s Camel did not kill Woodward.” His tone left little room for argument.
Christopher swore under his breath, then challenged, “How do you know”?
“He could not hit a mantlet from fifty yards.” “That’s with a longbow.”
�
��Longbow or crossbow. I can close my eyes and shoot better than he.”
“Perhaps it’s all an act for your sake. He knows we’re friends.”
“There goes your imagination again.” Neil plucked his third apple from a burlap bag lying beside him, shined it on his shirtsleeve, took a loud bite, then chewed as he spoke. “One thing’s certain.”
“What’s that?”
“That I’m glad I’m not you.” He swallowed, then said, “Well, at least you won’t have to worry about Woodward finding out about you and Marigween, or your son. That’s one less burden to shoulder.”
“You fool. Now I’ve got a problem a score times worse. Not only that, Marigween’s left Merlin’s cave and is taking our son to Blytheheart.”
Neil paused in the middle of taking another bite, then lowered the apple from his lips. His expression turned ominous. “Why”?
“I’m not sure. She was bored, I guess. I asked Orvin to go after her. He took Merlin with him.”
“Christopher, haven’t you heard?” There was no mistaking Neil’s urgency.
“Heard what?”
“The Saxons are amassing a large army in the Parret River valley. Arthur believes that army will advance east then divide at the Cam, some coming to aid the Saxons here in Shores, the others going to fight Lord Nolan’s army in Rain.”
“The Saxons are in the Parret River valley?” “Aye,” Neil answered, “and—”
“Marigween has to cross that valley—” “To get to Blytheheart. She’ll ride—
“Directly into their hands,” Christopher finished. “And so will Merlin and Orvin.”
Christopher saw his baby son, resting atop the crimsoned blade of a Saxon halberd; saw the hairy buttocks of a fat barbarian as he silenced a screaming Marigween with the choking length of his manhood; saw the snowy heads of Merlin and Orvin floating in the river, their bodies lying decapitated on the shoreline. The visions were accompanied by a chill so icy it seemed to freeze his heart for a moment. As in combat, his body abruptly detached from his mind. His feet wanted to work. They wanted to carry him to a horse, get him moving, get him out of the tent. He rose, bounded for the tent flaps and the sunlight beyond.
“Where are you going? Christopher you can’t—”
Without looking, he plowed outside—directly into someone headed inside. “I’m sorry, I—” He looked up.
As if by command a breeze fluttered over her, lifted her dark mane away from her face. It appeared as if she had just combed her hair, and the sun ignited some of the even lines, turned them red. Every curve, every glimmer of beauty struck pain in Christopher. If he allowed himself even the tiniest moment of desire, he knew the guilt would come. He buckled his thoughts down to Merlin, Orvin, Marigween, and his son.
Her lips opened, but she said nothing. Neither did he.
Even hello was awkward. Was there even time for it?
He began to move around her. “Brenna, you look like you want to talk. I wish I had time, but—”
She stepped in his way. “I want to be friends,” she blurted out. “I don’t want to avoid you.”
“I’m sorry. I have to go. It’s important. We can be friends. And we’ll talk some other time.”
He shuffled around her, felt his shirt lift from his chest as he jogged away. There was a burning sensation across his shoulders as he expected her to call after him, and after a few yards he thought he heard her cry, but wasn’t sure if it was real or not. He did not tum back to find out.
6
Brenna closed her eyes, then drew in a deep breath. Christopher had left her many times, and she had always called after him; she would not replay the scene again. She balled one hand into a fist and held back the urge to shout his name.
The sun was in her face, its warmth a consoling touch. She exhaled, loosened her hand, craned her head back to let the heat spread over her. The chirping of the pipits and wrens in the nearby beech trees faded and were replaced by a voice within her, his voice.
“Lady Marigween, daughter of the late Lord Devin, is the mother of my child. We have a son. I courted her at the same time I courted you -before I even left for the Mendip hills. I returned from battle to find I was a father.”
She remembered rising after Christopher had delivered the news. She had trembled, hadn’t known what to say. She had felt foolish, betrayed, angry, and had wanted to die. Tears had fallen as she had attacked him with words, told him she would have to pay for his mistake. She had questioned whom he loved more, and he hadn’t been able to answer, but she knew—even now—that she still dwelt in his heart.
The more Brenna remembered their last good-bye, the less it seemed to hurt. She had come to terms with it, even made friends with it, let it come and go as it pleased, occasionally talked to it and let it fill her mind before she closed her eyes at night. A moon had passed, and one day she had simply realized that her relation ship with him was over. If it ever did resume, it would be something very different. They would never have the innocent love they had first shared when Christopher had been a squire-in-training. It was time for a new beginning. She wanted to be his friend. He would be liv ing in Arthur’s camp, as she was, and that meant she would frequently run into him. It would be too painful and awkward to tum her head away every time she saw him.
He had just said he would be her friend. But he didn’t have time for her now. She had surprised him. Why did he have to rush off ?
He must still care! Didn’t you see how nervous he was?
Fool! Do you want to be hurt again? Be his friend.
Don’t love him. Don’t be weak. Be a woman!
She had reassured herself that she would be all right without him. And she was. Life went on without Christopher.
But seeing him again. It hurts.
She opened her eyes, let her gaze adjust to the day light, then turned her head toward the rustle made by someone coming out of the tent. Her lips formed a wan smile of recognition. “Hello, Neil.”
He looked past her toward the line of Christopher’s departure. “Sorry about that, it’s just—”
“Don’t apologize for him. It’s not going to be easy with Christopher back.”
“You won’t have to worry about him.” She looked her question. He read her face, then explained, “Christopher will be out of Shores by nightfall, maybe sooner.” His gaze lowered to her cream-colored shift which was spattered a bit with blood. “I heard you’re helping Hallam treat the wounded. A friend of mine told me you bandaged one of his wounds. He said you did an excellent job.”
Brenna shared a tent with Hallam’s daughter, Kate, an unmarried maid twice her age who was obsessively neat. Kate would explode if she saw the current condition of their quarters. Brenna tore through four different cloth ing trunks, throwing garments everywhere, stuffing things she needed into two riding bags she stole from
Hallam’s wagon driver. The black rounsey used by Hallam’s messenger was left unattended while the man ate supper. She had to hurry before he returned, had to hurry to catch up with Christopher, who Neil had said might be gone already. There was little guilt over steal ing a horse; she’d probably treat the animal better than the messenger did, and besides, there would be too many questions if she tried to borrow a mount, questions that would delay her, and she had no time to waste.
With the bags finally full, Brenna hurried out of the tent, then stopped, realizing she had forgotten one of the most important things. She dropped the bags, spun around, and knifed through the tent flaps. She kicked through the abandoned clothing toward a crossbow and full quiver that rested upright in the far left corner. The weapon had been given to her as a token of thanks by Peter, an archer she had nursed for half a moon. He even showed her how to fire it one cloudy morning.
She emerged from the tent with the quiver, its strap slung over her shoulder, and the crossbow in her hands. She had traveled from Gore to Shores unarmed, and was nearly raped by that fat Montague and his boys, but this time sh
e would be traveling with firepower—and she would not hesitate to use it.
“Where are you going with the bow, Brenna?”
Kate’s flimsy shift did absolutely nothing to hide the volcano of flesh that was her belly. As she stepped closer, the belly seemed to erupt here and there, pushing the shift up and down, turning it into the veil for a lava pool of lard.
For a moment, Kate turned her attention away from Brenna. One of the tent flaps was caught open and she was able to steal a glimpse of the tent’s interior. “All the saints! What happened to our tent? Did you do this?”
Brenna hoisted the riding bags in one hand, rested the T of the crossbow over her shoulder next to the quiver’s strap. “Sorry about the mess, Kate. I have to go.” She started away from the tent toward the opening of a thin trail in the wood.
“What are you talking about? Wait!” Kate came from behind and seized the neckline of Brenna’s shift, pulled back, and brought Brenna to a choking halt.
Brenna pushed forward and broke free, but Kate reached out again and caught the shift in nearly the same place.
Brenna raged aloud as she tried to twirl out of Kate’s grasp. Her shift tore, leaving Brenna free and Kate with only a piece of the dress in her hand. With all her might Brenna wound back with the pair of riding bags. She felt the wind rush as she brought them forward and smashed them into Kate’s face.
The big woman collapsed onto her buttocks with a thud that could have come from a downed oak. The momentum of the riding bags nearly knocked Brenna off-balance; she let go of them just in time to steady her self.
Kate began to cry. She reached up and attended her cheek. Between wails and whimpers, she exclaimed, “You’re mad! The devil is in you”!
Kate could have let her go, could have stayed out of Brenna’s way. This was her fate for interfering. All of the criticism she had foisted on Brenna for being even the slightest bit sloppy had now landed Kate on her rump. It was unfortunate that Brenna released all of her pent-up anger in one blow. Maybe Kate didn’t deserve to be hurt this badly.
“I’m sorry, Kate. Really, I am. I just have to help someone.” She fetched the riding bags, then crossed to the entrance of the trail. Before venturing into the wood, she added, “I’ll explain it all to you if I return.” “You won’t be welcome back here”! Kate shouted.