by Peter Telep
“My cheek! It’s on fire. Look what you’ve done to me!” Kate’s cries were promptly lost in the soughs and flutterings of the forest, and in the sound of Brenna’s sandals as they crushed the dry, fallen leaves that mottled the reddish brown trail.
Her shoulders were about to cave in by the time she reached the hitching post of the messenger’s rounsey. She patted the horse’s breast a few times, then moved around him and slung her riding bags over its back. She fastened them to the sides of the saddle, then let the crossbow fall into an extra leather loop on one of the bags, suited for the purpose. The quiver would remain on her shoulder. She crossed to the post and untied the rounsey’s reins, threw them over his head, then slipped one foot into a stirrup.
Hold a moment. What am I doing? Why do I think I can help Christopher, anyway? I’ve helped him before, but this is something far more dangerous.
Why don’t I just stay and forget about the whole thing. Helping the wounded men is rewarding. M y life here is not all that bad, why should I jeopardize it?
Brenna could question her actions all she wanted; it did nothing to change the fact that she was governed by the overwhelming desire to go after him. She didn’t know why or when or how, but she felt, she knew, he would come to need her. Christopher had told her about how Orvin would read the sky, that there was a strange art up there, that one with a faithful gaze could see what would be. Brenna didn’t need to study the sky to know she had to go. As Kate was ruled by her need for things to be neat and orderly, so was Brenna possessed by her duty to help Christopher. She was probably being as irrational as he, but the feeling had nothing to do with logic and every thing to do with—she hated to admit it—love. She might never have him again. The odds were truly against it. But he was all alone in the world and everyone he cared about was out there and he had no one to help him but her. Neil said he would not go to Blytheheart with Christopher, that he was tired of Christopher getting him into trouble. Brenna was Christopher’s only ally. How could she bandage wounded men at Shores when he might be suffering out there?
What am I doing? Am I admitting I still love him and can’t bear the thought that he might die?
I don’t have a choice. I might still love him —no matter how many mistakes he’s made.
She had surrendered to her heart, and might hate her self for that later. What was it about Christopher that made her want him? Why could she not find another to replace him? She had tried once, and that mistake with Innis made her realize how special Christopher really was. Born on Easter day, born on the day that Arthur drew the sword from the stone, born into the humble, simple world of a saddlemaker and his wife, Christopher had risen with extraordinary courage and speed to personally serve the king. He defied all social borders and carved himself a throne of the highest order for one so young. He was not meant to live an ordinary life, and Brenna felt she was meant to share that life with him. She, too, had come from humble beginnings, and since leaving Gore moons ago she had done things that made her feel alive, like a woman. The two of them together might reach goals that spread far beyond the confines of Britain. It was a glorious dream she had cast away when they had last said good-bye. But no matter how many times she had let it go, it always surfaced in her mind. No matter what Christopher did, and no matter what she did, for that matter, they somehow belonged together. Even the child he had with Marigween did not repress the dream. She could not help the way she felt. In this respect, she was too weak to fight. She might be her own worst enemy, but she would not ignore her heart. If she did, she knew she would be miserable for the rest of her life.
Still tingling with apprehension, she mounted the rounsey, reined the horse around, and heeled him into a trot. She would take the southernmost trail around the ramparts of the castle; that course was the swiftest and probably the one Christopher had chosen.
7
“I repeat, why is it you carry your bow and sword? They are just extra weight.”
The setting sun cut wide bands of light and shadow across the western hills, and one irreverent row of radiance found its way directly into Orvin’s eyes. At least he didn’t have to see Merlin to insult him. “How do you propose to ward off brigands? With the dragon that is your face?” Orvin chuckled, then added, “Get rid of the extra weight you say? I should get rid of you”!
“You would not do that, Orvin. You take too much pleasure in chiding me.” It was a miracle: for once Merlin was right.
Orvin adjusted himself in his saddle. His legs had grown sore and this burro was too slow, nothing like his old Cara, the best mule he had ever owned. What did he expect from a druid? It seemed not a one of them knew anything about the qualities of a good mule.
Merlin rode just behind him, unfortunately within earshot. Why couldn’t he shut up and ride farther away and give up on trying to talk Orvin into abandoning his crossbow and broadsword? They’d be dolts to ride unarmed; then again, one of them could already be described as such. “If we had better mounts,” Orvin informed the other, “you wouldn’t be worrying about the extra weight.”
“It is not so much the weight of the weapons that dis tresses me, but rather, your lack of skill with them.”
“Ha!” Orvin reached a thumb under his crossbow’s strap, slid the weapon off his shoulder. “I’ve been firing this very bow since I was a boy,” he began.
“And the how’s trigger, I suspect, is as laden with rust as your aim.” It was an odd sound, Merlin’s laugh, somewhere between the whine of a dog dying and the squeal of a piglet.
“I’ve kept this weapon oiled and waxed over the years. And I replaced the bowstring just before we left. It is in perfect condition. As for rust in my aim, perhaps you would like to provide me a moving target and I’ll give you a demonstration of my skill. In fact, why don’t you be the target.” Orvin knew this last would rouse some kind of retort from Merlin, but strangely, the druid kept his mouth closed. “What’s the matter, magician, no barbs to bounce my way?” He squinted back at Merlin. The other’s gaze was captured by something ahead of them.
Orvin looked to the hills, observed that the five guards rose slowly on the horizon and would soon thankfully eclipse the sun. And then he just barely picked out a thin ribbon of gray smoke. He blinked, made sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him; they did that now and again. No, he’d made no mistake. The wisps of smoke were there, created, more than likely, by a lone cookfire. Whoever built the fire was clever enough to know that the telltale smoke would be hidden by the five guards in the west, and hard to see through the set ting sun from a vantage point in the east. The flatlands to the north of the guards, and the Yeo River to the very far south were part of a north-south course that was not the common line of travel in this part of the realm. The chances of someone approaching the guards from either of those directions were small.
“That smoke,” Merlin said, standing in his stirrups, a hand screening the glare from his eyes, “sets our course.”
“Oh it does?” Orvin asked. “I’m glad we’ve established who’s leading this party. Are you going to ride us to ruin, the way you are with Britain?”
Merlin dropped back into his saddle, heeled his burro so that he moved up next to Orvin. “I had hoped—to suggest to you —that we could ride south and around Glastonbury.” He cleared his throat. “But we shall have to head north.”
Orvin flipped the druid a grimace. “Go north aroundthe guards?”
Merlin studied the distance. “Indeed. And west of Glastonbury through a mountain pass, one which will take us down to the Parret River.”
The druid could not see the incredulity that now waxed Orvin’s face, so Orvin would have to let him hear it. “You don’t mean for us to cross the Mendips and the Quantocks?”
“We will not exactly have to cross—”
“Forget your plan,” Orvin said, hatcheting off Merlin’s words—and enjoying the act. “We go to the smoke to find out who it is. I do not want someone trail ing us all the way t
o Blytheheart. And from now on, druid, don’t think so much.”
Merlin made no reply, as if deaf. Then he quietly stated, “You invite danger.”
Orvin pushed one of his riding bags aside and dug for the windlass hanging beside it. As he unlatched the bow loading instrument, his gaze still narrowed on the druid, he answered, “No, old man. I don’t invite danger. I’ve read my skies. Have you read yours? Danger not only invited herself to this banquet, but she was first to arrive.”
8
The leveret was truly a gift from Woden. Seaver could not explain the baby rabbit any other way. Here it was, late August, in the bleached grass valley of the five guards, and among all of this lifelessness he had been able to find game. The rabbit had come out of a wiry, near-leafless bush, hopped once, twice, then paused, twitching its nose. Seaver had thrown his small frame into the air and had caught the beast with his bare hands. As he’d choked the life out of the leveret, tears had gathered in his eyes.
When he’d first arrived, Seaver had resigned himself to a meal of dried, salted beef. The meat, along with a flint stone, double-woolen sleeping blanket, fresh linen breeches and shirt, and a small, fairly sharp skinning knife had been given to him for the wagon and one of the rounseys he had stolen from Shores. The farmer he’d traded with was wise not to ask questions, for too many of those might have cost the simple man his life. Before even doing business with the man, Seaver had been ready to kill him and take everything. For once in the land called Britain, he had made a trade that didn’t end in a double cross. Perhaps Woden looked favorably on his sparing the man, and that was why he gifted Seaver with the leveret? It was possible.
The dance of the cookfire’s flames tired Seaver. He sat and sucked the remaining marrow from the last of the rabbit’s bones, threw it into the swaying ribbons of orange, yellow, and red, then yawned. The heat tingled his cheeks. He crinkled his nose, then drew in another deep breath, smelling the semisweet mixture of charred wood, animal fat, and bone. He laced his fingers together behind his head, then lowered himself slowly onto his back. Embers whirled up through the smoke, tiny red stars quickly lost in the low-angled light of the sun. He thought for a moment how he was like those tiny bits of fired wood, alive among the bright flames for a short time and then hurled in circles, up into the unknown. He wondered if he would be able to accept his new life in Ivory Point, accept going back to the old and inglorious familiar. But Ivory Point could have changed. The little over a score of tofts might not even be there when he returned. The way the Saxons had burned so many villages in Britain, perhaps the Celts had made it up that far and done the same to his village. Or a rogue group of Picts might have taken control. He had better not count on finding his home the same way he had left it; he might be in for a grim surprise.
It would be difficult going back, he knew. The journey so far had not been easy, but the idea of returning might soon pose a bigger problem. He hadn’t seriously thought about what he was giving up when he had left the castle. He had simply reacted to the situation, think ing he had no choice. He didn’t think he could have stood up to Kenric. Riding away from Shores, the first doubts had hit home. He realized now that descending would be as hard as ascending. He had risen from being one of half a dozen scouts all the way up to Kenric’s second-in-command. Now, within a few moons, he would fall all the way down to the life of a farmer. He knew no one back home would understand what he had lost—or even be impressed with his tales of battle; they all thought him an ass for leaving in the first place. They said abandoning his mother was cruel and selfish. But she had supported his desire to join in the quest for land. And he had promised her he would take her to Britain when they had won the territory.
Instead, he would return home to a dying land and try to rekindle a bit of life that barely existed in the first place.
Scores of men had stiffened when he approached, had snapped at his every command. Parading in front of them was, as he had once thought of it, like having wings, like looking down on the world from a point all had to look up to. As Kenric’s second, he was far from the earth, much closer to the clouds, clouds he nibbled on like sweet pastries. Back on his mother’s toft, he would not only be close to the earth, he’d be working it. And the only thing snapping at his commands would be the ox pulling his plow. War had its horrors, but its heights were unmatched. The battle for Britain had transformed him into a giant. He perceived himself as someone far greater than a farmer. Could he slip back into his old peasant garb and obliterate the thoughts of what he had once obtained and thrown away? Was he denying who he really was? Farmer? Warrior?
Father, what would you do?
Father had never existed for Seaver in the physical world. There were only his mother’s tender eyes, calm ing touch, and soft voice. If she had told him more about the man, he wouldn’t always have to imagine him. Sometimes, though, Seaver thought it was better the way it was. Father sat with him now before the cookfire. The man had no peers. The only flaw he had was his mortality.
Father, what would you do?
The man rose without answering, then stepped into the cookfire. The flames danced over his armor, and soon the flames were his armor. He shrank into a tiny ember that twirled up into the smoke and then winked out.
Seaver pulled himself upright, then stood. He lifted his gaze to the sky. “Woden, it was you who allowed me to escape from Shores, you who allows me to eat so well. Thank you. Guide my journey and my life. Your watchful eye does not go unappreciated.”
As he lowered his gaze from the heavens he noticed two dots on the horizon, and then a shimmer from one: reflected light. Something metal. He studied the dots another moment, then concluded the travelers had prob ably spotted his cookfire and were headed his way. If they were hostile, his little dagger wouldn’t help him much.
Seaver repeatedly kicked dirt into his cookfire; the flames hissed, spat smoke, then finally died. He crossed to his sleeping blanket, cursed the fact that he had already unrolled it. He gathered the blanket along with his food pouch and dagger, then went to his horse and jammed them into his riding bag. Packed, he swung himself up and into his saddle. His horse reacted weakly to the crack of the reins, so he spurred it hard, aiming for a steep, rocky hill on the northwest side of the val ley. He cocked his head over his shoulder to check on the proximity of the travelers. Judging from their distance, he should have ample time to find cover before being spotted. Once in the mountains, he’d employ every trick he knew as a scout to cover his tracks. They’d never find him.
9
Doyle had delivered on his boast of being an excellent marksman. He’d been able to hit one Saxon in the arm, the other in the leg. Though he had been successful, he still loathed the time it had taken to load the crossbow, for he used to get off seven arrows from his longbow in the time it took to windlass a crossbow bowstring in preparation to fire just one bolt. The crossbow also lacked the penetrative power of his old longbow. Had the Saxons been wearing more armor,there would have been problems. But, if all that mattered were end results, there was no use in complain ing over a victory because it was too slow, or because the projectiles didn’t quite make it all the way down to the victims’ bones.
While both Saxons had dropped in agony to the shoreline of the Cam, he and Montague had stolen their rounseys. Naturally, Montague had had a few cocky remarks to utter to the enemy soldiers, but Doyle had reminded him that they didn’t understand him anyway. Montague had argued that the Saxons still got the gist of his taunt. Maybe they had, maybe they hadn’t. They had seemed awful busy trying to remove the bolts from their writhing appendages.
Doyle had been glad to find that his horse’s pack contained a hefty supply of dried fruit, fish, and pork. Montague’s riding bag had also contained food, a hammer, shoe nails, and half a dozen horseshoes. Judging from the Saxons’ packs, they had not been on their way to the castle of Rain, but were headed somewhere much farther. Maybe, Doyle had speculated with irony, to Blythehea
rt.
The two would-be merchants had trekked around the five guards, past Glastonbury, and into the foothills of the Mendips. They had eaten well, slept well, and traveled swiftly. During the ride, they had seen no one, save for a small caravan of wool traders heading north to Bath on the horizon. Blytheheart was only a finger’s snap away, Montague had told Doyle. Doyle’s mind had blossomed with visions of his new life, and his heart had throbbed with excitement.
Then they had reached the crest of a foothill of the Mendips. They had looked down into the Parret River valley, and Doyle’s spirits had dropped all the way to Lucifer’s dungeon.
Three Saxon armies had combined in the valley, each numbering roughly five hundred men. Now, from his vantage point in a thin stand of trees, Doyle once again surveyed the entire scene, familiarized himself with the new positions of the sentries that fanned out in a half circle from the river. The watchmen had adjusted their locations four times since nightfall. There was no way to hide an army of that size down in that low-lying grass land; hence, the Saxons remained ever vigilant of their perimeter. They knew their cookfires blatantly dotted the valley, turning it into a shadowy whirlpool swarming with fireflies that could be spotted from nearly a league away if one approached from the south. Doyle saw how they placed double the number of sentries at that cardinal point.
He felt Montague’s thick, hot breath on his neck, then heard the brigand emit a low whine, like the tum of a rusty axle in his throat. “My stomach’s still not settled, lad die. Aye, I think just looking at them is what’s doing it.”
Doyle gazed over his shoulder at the portly person age, the gobs of hairy flesh on one side of his face unfortunately illuminated in starlight. “I’m sorry this army’s souring your stomach—truly I am,” he hissed between clenched teeth.