Squire's Honor

by Peter Telep

  Merlin’s limp seemed to lessen as they walked. Orvin kept silent and the druid did likewise. They reached St. Christopher Street and Orvin smiled at the hand-painted signpost, a post that actually conveyed the name of the street in Latin, with more unfamiliar scribbling below it. He asked Merlin about the writing. The druid explained that it was probably put there for the benefit of the Saxons and Picts who traded here, and went on to give a brief summary of Blytheheart’s political situation, a summary which left Orvin aghast. Marigween had made a grave error coming here. The port crawled with mer­chants and sailors. Did she really think the monks could protect her?

  They reached Tintagel Street. Merlin said he would go off to a small inn behind the grain market to reserve them a room for the night while Orvin went to find Marigween’s uncle at the monastery. Orvin suggested that Merlin come with him, but the druid reminded him that there was no love lost between himself and the Christian monks. Merlin would be more than unwel­come at the monastery, for the monks might even try to seize and imprison him for heresy. Orvin acknowledged the druid’s reservations and went to the monastery alone.

  Less than a quarter of an hour later, he waited in a corridor that led to the monastery’s cloister court. The careful brother had gone off to fetch Marigween’s uncle, who was having dinner in the frater. The brother had said that Orvin’s timing was good, that High Mass had just ended.

  Orvin considered himself a faithful Christian man, but one who could not relate to having to praise the Lord seven times a day, as was the calling of these monks. Prime, Terce, Nones, Matins, and Lauds, and a couple of others Orvin forgot, there was simply too much worshiping going on here and not enough good hard work. As a youth he’d often remarked that men who were too weak to be knights ought to become monks, but his opinion had been changed by a battle in which he’d had to enlist the aid of the monks at Queen’s Camel. Those brothers had fought with more ferocity than any battle group Orvin had been able to muster at the time. Still, from the looks of the monastery, it appeared these brothers lived in comfort and certainly did not break their backs. Orvin was jealous of their comfort, but not of their duty to the Lord. He was most jealous of the fact that they had food right now, a meal he could smell all the way from the frater. It was stew. It had to be stew.

  Robert stepped around a comer with the careful brother. He thanked the smaller man, who left in a preoccupied hurry. It was apt to describe the careful brother as the smaller man, for any man would be the smaller standing next to Robert. Indeed, the monk did not break his back here, but rather, wore out his arm lifting his fork to his mouth. He arrived before Orvin, bowed his head slightly. “Sir Orvin of Shores. I am Robert,” he said with a polite smile, his voice the low, thick baritone that seemed always to accompany a man of his girth.

  Orvin wasted no time. “I’ve come with urgent business. Your niece Marigween and her child left Shores to come here. Has she arrived?”

  The news sent Robert’s brow up to touch his bangs. “With her child? She never wrote about that.”

  The old knight thought a moment, realizing he’d received his answer. If Robert didn’t know about Baines, then Marigween certainly hadn’t arrived—unless she was hiding the child from her uncle for some reason. “She has a child, yes. Tell me, man, has she arrived?”

  Robert shook his head. “I thought she’d be here yes­terday.”

  Orvin swore to himself. He had wished for everything to be all right, for Marigween to have arrived here safely so that he could rush back to the inn and gobble down all the food his money could buy. It was a selfish thought, but he’d traveled very far and was hungry beyond imagi­nation. However, the more he thought about the young woman, the more scared he became for her and the child that he’d delivered. Now the feeling was stronger than anything else. “I need your help, Robert.”

  “Anything,” the monk said anxiously. “What can I do?”

  Orvin sat next to Merlin at a long, rectangular dining table that was packed with men. He tore into some well-done venison and washed the meat down with a tankard of ale. He explained to Merlin that the monks would help them search for Marigween and Baines. And while Orvin talked, he gradually became aware of an unset­tling fact.

  They were the only Celts at the table.

  The dress of the sailors and loaders seated around them gave no indication of their homeland; it was their conversations that gave them away.

  “Have you noticed that we’re the only—”

  “Quiet,” Merlin interrupted. “They do not seem to mind—as we should not.”

  “All right, then, let’s talk about what we do now. What if Marigween’s not here? What if she was cap­tured by that Saxon army? In fact, I don’t think she is here. She would’ve gone directly to the monastery.”

  Merlin smoothed away his mustache, brought his tankard to his lips, sipped, then answered, “Marigween was not captured by the Saxons. My apple core proved that—though you still do not believe it. I tell you she is here in Blytheheart.”

  “Then why didn’t she—” Orvin broke himself off, eyeing the sailors at the table, summoning up a picture of the fair Marigween in his mind. She was so beautiful; she had the power to awaken even a man of his age. Orvin looked at the way the sailors devoured their food like dogs, the semblance of Marigween frosted over the scene. Men like these could’ve gotten to her before she made it to the monastery. Merlin could be right. Marigween might still be here.

  Some of the sailors noticed Orvin staring. They stopped eating and stared back at him.

  It took only seconds for the whole table to drop off a cliff into silence. Every man’s gaze was fixed and burned on Merlin and Orvin. Using Orvin’s shoulder for sup­ port, the druid rose. “Time to go.”

  9

  He looked young, like the boy she had once fallen in love with, not like the man she now knew. Even through the scars and hair on his face she could see the innocence, the charm, the kindness. All of it came through as he slept.

  Brenna could watch him all morning, but she realized he would be angry with her if she did not wake him up soon. He had wanted to move out last night, yet she didn’t have the heart to stir him. She had never seen him so exhausted.

  The morning sun wrested away about half of Brenna’s lingering chill; the rest of it would remain as long as she was in his presence. She had to stop thinking about him. She turned away and walked back to her rounsey. He neighed as she scratched behind his ears. She checked his wound. The poultice seemed to bring down the swelling, but she’d still have to get him to a doctor. “Oh, no. How long have I … it’s morning!”

  Moving around her rounsey, she found Christopher sitting up and rubbing the sand from his eyes. “I was just going to wake you.”

  “Why didn’t you get me up last night?” He wasn’t as angry as she’d expected he’d be, but he wasn’t exactly happy about sleeping all night either.

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. You were too tired. I’m sorry, but you had to sleep.” She stood over him, prof­fered a hand to help him up.

  He ignored her hand and, with a groan, rocked him­ self into a standing position. “No, I didn’t have to sleep. Didn’t I tell you we were running out of time?”

  She turned away from him. It was pointless to argue. His mind was set. If he wanted to blame his exhaustion on her, so be it. He kept saying they were running out of time. She figured that if Marigween and the elders had crossed the Parret River, the chances they’d made it to Blytheheart were very good. His loved ones were proba­bly at the monastery now. So how were she and Christopher running out of time? It seemed more likely he was running out of patience. He needed to know if they were all right, and he needed to know days ago.

  Brenna went to her sleeping blankets, lifted one, and shook it out. She heard him cough behind her. She folded the blanket and repeated the process on the next, wishing she coul shake Marigween and her baby out of Christopher’s life the way she shook the dirt from her blanket. God would punish her
for such a thought, but He knew how much she cared for him. She wondered if Marigween were in danger, would the former princess be able to cope with it as bravely as Brenna had? Perhaps she gave herself too much credit. She hadn’t exactly been brave when she’d journeyed all the way from Gore to Shores; in fact, she’d been unnerved most of the way. And when she’d been intercepted by that fat Montague and his boys and nearly been raped, well, she had been scared out of her wits. All right then, she hadn’t been brave. But she had been strong enough and cunning enough to escape. And if danger came again, this time she would be brave. Could Marigween do the same if she was in trouble?

  Life would be easy without Marigween and her baby. Christopher’s situation would be less complicated, and Brenna could simply and stealthily slip back into his life. But was he capable of hurting her still another time? Would he go astray again? Was fantasizing about a rela­tionship with him even worth the trouble?

  She slung her quiver’s strap over her shoulder, made sure her riding bags weren’t going anywhere but behind her saddle, then mounted the rounsey. Forget about lov­ ing him! she ordered herself.

  Christopher approached her, tucking his shirt into his breeches. “I’ll lead you down,” he said, indicating with a hand for her reins. “We’ll fetch my riding bags from Llamrei later.”

  Brenna tossed him the reins. They started toward the east side of the bluffs. She asked him if he was hungry; he said he was not, but that was his pride talking and not his stomach. She’d forgotten the last time she’d seen him eat.

  The air grew more humid as they traveled. Brenna repeatedly wiped sweat from her forehead. Christopher paid his perspiration no heed, and the hair at his tem­ples was soon soaked.

  They found a dirt path that took them down to an east-west cobblestoned lane, and turned left in direction of the monastery. It was noticeably cooler below the bluffs, a faint but near-steady breeze reaching them from the channel. Once they passed the great circular curtain wall of an extensive abbey, they encountered other people in the road, peasant farmers, craftsman, and the like. Brenna wanted to windlass her crossbow, ready a bolt in case of trouble, but Christopher told her no. She asked him for an explanation. He said if there was trouble he’d handle it, that this wasn’t the open foothills, that there were laws here. Brenna wondered what law it was that denied a person the right to protect him or herself when threatened. Then she realized it was Christopher’s ego that had probably concocted the law. He wanted to be her protector. He wanted to be the man. Reluctantly she appeased him and kept her bow­ string unwindlassed. Her nerves, however, were pulled taut.

  There was something about Blytheheart that didn’t feel right. Brenna had never been here before so she didn’t actually know how Blytheheart was supposed to feel. Perhaps she compared it to places like Glastonbury in her mind. Or maybe her suspicions came from the faces of the people. There was a look most Celts wore, a steady hard look of another day, another job to do, another denier to earn. It was true that some she’d passed wore that look, but others—they seemed differ­ ent. It was probably nothing, just her fear of being in a strange, new place, a very vast city port.

  They turned a comer, and were now on Repentance Row. Christopher pointed to the writing on the post marking the street; it had both Latin and some other scribble on it. “That’s Saxon underneath the Latin,” he said warily.

  “There must be Saxons here,” was all Brenna could add. Was that it? Had she just seen Saxons and noted some kind of difference in them? Perhaps. Saxon writ­ ing on the sign clearly indicated the presence of the invaders. But weren’t they being driven out of Britain? Apparently not so here. In fact, they were given defer­ence by Blytheheart’s sign makers. She grew more incredulous as she thought about it.

  As they moved on, she noted a change in Christopher. He eyed the street even more suspiciously than he had before, and he kept closer to the rounsey.

  Saints Michael and George Cathedral rose in a great architectural fanfare to their left, and Brenna eyed it with an awe that alerted Christopher. He told her to stop staring as if she’d never been here before. But as the street became more and more cluttered with people, and they neared the grain market, Brenna found herself once again gaping at the scene. So many people. So much activity. Where did all these people come from? How many of them were Saxons? They were packed together like the whole port was some kind of winter storage cellar. There were so many faces, so many eyes, she doubted they’d be given a second look now. People she looked at didn’t seem to pay any attention to her.

  She eyed an old woman who carried a bucket of water; a mounted old man who rubbed a hand over his bald, wet pate; two young girls dressed in tom shifts who chased each other. A pair of dogs barked and were kicked out of the way by a swearing man and his two companions. Brenna winced in sympathy for the poor beasts.

  The monastery was on the east side at the end of the row, and the closer they got to its grounds, the faster Christopher led her rounsey. By the time they reached St. Christopher Street, and Brenna was about to make a joke about the signpost, Christopher dropped the reins and sprinted around the comer onto Tintagel Street.

  Brenna clenched her teeth over being left alone. For a moment she tried to put herself in his position. Yes, she might have done the same, but she would have left a man alone in the street, not a vulnerable woman. Then again, maybe he didn’t think of her as so vulnerable after all. Maybe his leaving her showed that he knew she could handle herself. And for a fleeting second she was glad he was gone. But in the bat of her eyelashes, she was suddenly engulfed in the strange tide of humanity that flooded the street. It was odd to feel so alone in such a large crowd. But it was a crowd of strangers. She gathered her reins and heeled the horse on.

  She turned the comer and neared the front of the monastery. She spotted Christopher standing in front of one of two black, heavily ornamented wrought-iron doors that made up the monastery’s main gate. The doors were similar to those on a prison cell, but much more decorative, containing patterns of ivy that were locked eternally in the metal. Christopher spoke to a monk who stood on the other side of the bars. Then the monk turned away and Christopher’s face registered shock. He raked a hand through his hair, disheveling it even more than it was, then looked up to regard her. He seemed about to cry. “Orvin and Merlin made it here, all right. But Marigween didn’t. They’re searching the port for her and Baines.”

  Brenna gazed at the monastery, the grain market, and the cathedral. She looked over at the abbey, its sur­rounding tofts, the merchant stalls behind, and then at the outlying scores of tents which trailed off to the east­ern horizon. All of this told of the immense task it would be to find Marigween. She felt a tingle of excite­ment over the thought of Marigween’s demise, but con­ strained the evil thought. She would help him find Marigween no matter how long it took, and no matter how she really felt about it. She’d come here to help and nothing more. “Why don’t we get some food so that we’re strong and can join the search?”

  Christopher just breathed, audibly trembling through each puff of air. She knew he couldn’t think straight, that his thoughts were probably as jumbled and scattered as hers had been the day he’d said good-bye.

  “That’s what we’re doing,” Brenna said, answering herself. She stood in her saddle, pulled a boot from its stirrup, and swung down to the stone. She found the rounsey’s reins. “Come on.”

  “All right,” Christopher said, then rubbed his eyes. They reached Lord Street, which was directly opposite the wharves. Pedestrian traffic here was nearly at a standstill. They had to shoulder their way through the crowd. Brenna almost wished they could stow the roun­sey somewhere; the horse slowed them down and needed the attention of a doctor. It didn’t look as if there would be a stable in this part of town. The store­ fronts were as jammed together as the people were here, and not a single shingle mentioned anything about horses. If they could find an inn, she knew there’d be a stable nearby. Someone along Merchant Row
would probably steer them in the right direction.

  Two men came into her narrow path, and one of them was exceedingly heavy. As she kept her gaze low, she brushed by the fat one. Then she heard a voice call, “Lassie”?

  Brenna froze, turned slowly around.

  “What are you stopping for?” she heard Christopher ask from the other side of the rounsey.

  “You!” Brenna said. Then her breath was swept away as if the fat man had reached down into her throat and took it for himself.

  There were very few people in the realm that Brenna never wanted to see again. There were even fewer peo­ple that Brenna wouldn’t mind seeing dead. But there was only one person who topped both of those lists.

  Before she had another second to contemplate his presence, his partner, a much leaner, familiar-looking man wearing a glove, moved around him.

  “Doyle?” Christopher asked.

  Brenna didn’t have to see Christopher’s face; his tone alone trumpeted the intense impact of seeing his ban­ished friend. Christopher shifted past her and hurried toward Doyle. They stared at each other for a moment, and then she saw Doyle close his eyes, as if to hide some emotion. They embraced as Montague stood by, a smile growing on his odious face.

  “Out of the way,” a sun-weathered man grumbled. He moved by Brenna in the room she created for him, shoul­dering a thick coil of rope. She used his passage as a dis­ traction to reach back into her quiver and snatch a bolt, then unconsciously tested the sharp point with her thumb. Montague. A nose-picking conglomeration of contradictions. Like his boys, he was the lowest form of rabble in the realm. Montague. The brigand who had tried to rape her. What was Doyle doing with such a fiend?

  Before Brenna knew what was happening she was lost in that eve:

  He dropped his flagon, marched up to her, and pawed both her breasts with his greasy, dirty, thick hands. He slid his thumbs and index fingers to her nipples and tugged on them, moaning again as he had while kissing her neck. She knew of no sound more repulsive. Then he lowered his head to her left breast and wrapped his lips around the nipple, sucked on it like a nursing newborn.