Squire's Honor

by Peter Telep

  The dagger entered and exited the sailor’s body three times, and then there was no other sound in the alcove, save for the gentle rise and fall of the cog, and Doyle’s labored breathing. He pulled himself away from the sailor and gritted his teeth as he looked down at his ter­rible handiwork. The feeling of power that surged through him was alluring, but it also reminded him of past mistakes. His rage, a beast usually at his command, ran wild at moments such as this, and when all was said and done, someone always lost his life.

  There was a strange paradox at work. The more he killed, the easier the act was to perform. He knew what to expect when he killed a man, knew most of the sounds men made before they died. He knew what they looked like. There were few surprises. But the more he killed, the harder it was to live with him­ self.

  He turned away from the dead Pict to find a shirtless Montague hovering over him. “What’re you doing?” he said, then hauled himself up.

  “I’m all right, laddie,” the brigand lied, his silk shirt coiled around his bloody palm. He indicated with his good hand toward the sailor. “Just get me his shirt to wrap around my shoulder.”

  Doyle flipped the Pict onto his back and peeled off the sailor’s thin, sweat-stained shirt. He set the garment on the crimson crease in the fat man’s hairy shoulder, then tied it under his arm. “It doesn’t look that bad,” he told Montague—just to cheer the man, for the cut was deep, painful-looking, and certainly in need of stitching.

  “Two more to go,” Montague said. “Fetch your dagger and let’s finish them.”

  An indistinct shuffle came from the hall. Doyle looked to Montague, who looked to the sound. Doyle walked quietly to his blade, picked it up, and crossed to the wall. He pressed his back against the wood, waiting just inside the doorway. He ventured a peek around the corner and saw the silhouette of a man approaching. There was something slightly familiar about the gait of the intruder. He took a chance.

  “Christopher?” “Doyle? Montague”?

  His blood brother appeared in the alcove. Christopher’s hair was damp, and his clothes clung to his body. Doyle moved from the wall and startled his friend, who flourished a blade.

  “It’s just me,” Doyle said, coming into the moonlight.

  Christopher’s gaze swept from him to Montague to the dead Pict. “What happened?”

  In the minute that followed, Montague delivered a brief, exaggerated version of his bout with the Pict sailor. Calling it a bout was an exaggeration in and of itself, but Doyle let the brigand have his moment in the limelight. Christopher filled them in on what had hap­pened to him and Brenna in the hold. He’d managed to bandage her wound and it had ceased bleeding for now, but she was still not awake.

  They counted the dead Picts and arrived at four, one on deck, one in the alcove and two others in the hold, after which Montague concluded, “The ship is ours, lads. Now, Doyle, you summon the two old men and Jennifer. Have Merlin see to Brenna. Then go down to the lower deck to help Christopher. All right then”? Montague winced, then gently touched his wounded shoulder.

  After they nodded, Christopher slipped out of the hall, and Doyle crossed to the ladder, but then hesi­tated. “I thought you’d be crying and complaining about your wounds, Monte, not forging on with the plan like a relentless battle lord. What’s happened to you?”

  “Just go now, laddie,” he said gravely. “I’ll keep my complaints to myself until we’re at sea.”

  Doyle turned toward the ladder, then hesitated once again as an odd thought struck him. “Why is it you always call me ‘laddie’?” he asked.

  “Just a habit,” Montague said—but not before a pause that left Doyle wondering.

  12

  Christopher found a hatch that led to the lower deck and opened it. The room below him was well lit, as expected. He descended the ladder and emerged into a chamber about half as wide as the hold. Three rows of rowing benches stood on both port and starboard sides. Four of six torches burned brilliantly from their scones just above the row holes, and the ceiling about a yard or so above them was scorched black. On the floor, lying parallel to the benches, were the wooden oars, and each was nearly three times Christopher’s size. He noted with satisfac­tion that near the handle of each oar was a hole, then looked to the row holes and did not see the horseshoe­ shaped oarlocks Montague had described. He moved to the first hole, where he found the oarlock lying on the deck next to a pair of quivers just out of sight below a bench. The Picts had obviously removed the locks so that they could shoot through the apertures. Christopher fetched the lock and slid the round iron bar mounted to its base into a steel-lined opening on the sill of the rect­angular row hole. He repeated the process on the remaining five holes, and by the time he was finished, he heard Doyle’s descent into the chamber.

  They exchanged no words as they went about the task of slipping each oar through its hole and securing it to its lock. They groaned under the weight of the oars, and when they were finished, Christopher rubbed his palms on his breeches. “I wager that when the Picts do row this cog, they have two men on each oar.”

  “I heard once that the old Greek ships had as many as tenscore oarsmen, but they had no sails,” Doyle said. Then, studying the oars, he added, “This ship wasn’t built to be rowed.”

  It certainly looked that way to Christopher. And with no wind to avail them, they had no other choice but to defy the design of the cog and row her at least partway out to sea.

  But as he followed Doyle up the ladder, Christopher wondered who would actually be doing the rowing. Montague’s hand and shoulder were injured. Brenna’s arm would prevent her from helping. Merlin and Orvin lacked the strength. That left Doyle, Jennifer, and him­ self. He should have realized the fact earlier and only set three of the oars into place.

  Once in the hold, Doyle reported, “I’m going up top to help Monte weigh the anchor and break our moorings.”

  Christopher nodded. “I want to check on Brenna.”

  He found Merlin and Orvin huddled over Brenna. The druid dabbed Brenna’s wound with a damp rag. Her eyes were still closed and she looked pale. Christopher realized this was probably an accurate picture of what she would look like in death, and he was suddenly frightened for her life. “How is she? The arm is bad, I know, but has the bleeding stopped? Why is she not awake yet?”

  “The blood she lost has made her weak,” Merlin said, not looking back. “She may still bleed from within, but as you can see, no more blood comes from the wound.”

  “Should you stitch her?” he asked.

  “If we can find what we need to do so, we will,” Orvin said. He gestured for Christopher to help him up. Christopher complied, and the old man straightened and added, “Perhaps there will be something in the captain’s cabin.”

  Christopher sensed the silent approach of someone from behind him. He shuddered, then spun around and came face to face with Jennifer. She must have been with them all the time, but he hadn’t noticed her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, startled herself by his surprise, and then, growing calm, she turned to look at Brenna. “I’ve seen that kind of wound before. She’ll be all right.”

  “I hope so,” Christopher said weakly.

  “When she’s awake we should give her Flemish broth to build her strength. I’m sure we can find some eggs down here to make it with.”

  “We’ll do that,” Christopher said, “but first I need you to help row. Do you think—”

  “Recover, catch, drive, and release. I’ve done it before, but certainly not aboard a ship of this size,” she confessed.

  Christopher held back his surprise. “Fine. Go below and get ready. Doyle and I will meet you there.”

  Jenni[er strode off, her shift billowing in her wake. Christopher knew that she had her own reason for wanting to come along, but so long as it didn’t interfere with her aiding them, he was not interested in what it was. He did, however, hope that it had something to do with his blood brother. Jennifer was a strong and bea
uti­ful woman who seemed to put a new light in Doyle’s eyes. He wished they’d had time to talk about her. Perhaps a moment would come.

  Before he fully ascended the ladder leading to the upper deck of the cog, he smelled smoke and was able to glimpse over the rail to the wharf. The once-high flames of the burning rushes were now at only knee height, and on the other side of the fire he saw a knot of guards using their swords to drive the burning straw over the side of the wharf. Christopher skipped the last two rungs of the ladder and bounded onto the deck.

  “Get your bow, Christopher!” Montague called from the port rail.

  Regarding the brigand, Christopher immediately assumed the fat man wanted him to be ready for the guards about to breech their wall of fire on the wharf.

  But from over Montague’s shoulder he could see a pair of flickering lights on the calm channel. The lights were about a thousand yards west and approaching. He crossed to the rail, squinted, then saw that the lights were actually torches mounted on the bows of two row­ boats. Each boat carried an oarsman and two armored shortbowmen. “What are they—”

  “It’s the harbor guard,” Montague explained impa­tiently. “I thought the abbot had done away with them after his new deal with the Picts and Saxons.”

  “You thought wrong,” Christopher noted sourly.

  A loud splash came from the starboard side of the cog. Christopher looked to the sound and saw that Doyle had shoved the gangplank away from the rail, let­ ting it fall into the channel. “Let’s row!” he shouted.

  “You’ll have to hold them off,” Christopher said, turning for the hatch.

  Montague shook his head negatively. “Not alone. Get one of the old men up here.”

  “They’re helping Brenna,” Christopher argued, feeling betrayed as he looked at Montague, who had once brimmed with answers but who now stared at the dark world around him with troubled, glossy eyes.

  “Let the druid help her, lad. Get me Orvin. I heard the codger boast twice of his fighting skills. We’ll see what he’s got.” Montague took another look back at the rowboats, then leveled his gaze on Christopher. “We’ve struck the barrel’s bottom, lad.”

  “Christopher, come on!” Doyle urged him as he began to climb down into the hold.

  Christopher ran to the hatch, climbed down, and, in the flurry of moments that followed, he realized that he’d forgotten to retrieve his shortbow from where he’d left it on the deck near the aftercastle. Instead of going back for it, he opted to fetch the crossbow of the first Pict he had killed in the hold. After that, he alerted

  Orvin that the old knight was needed up on deck and gave him the bow. Then Christopher joined Doyle and Jennifer at the oars. Doyle sat on the port side, while he and Jennifer took the starboard. He felt the cog rock a bit, then heard a beam or two hem under the force of the channel.

  “No, Christopher,” Jennifer said from behind him. “On the recovery, keep your oar out of the water and feathered so that the back of the blade is parallel to the surface of the water.”

  Doyle began to laugh. “I’m sorry, but are you not glad she came along?”

  Grimacing under the force the oar put on his chest and arms, he answered, “I am. And I never thought row­ ing was this hard.”

  “I’ve a silly question,” Jennifer said. “This ship has a rudder. Who is at the tiller?”

  Doyle looked at Christopher, who looked at his blood brother. “I hope Monte has figured that one out,” Doyle said grimly.

  As he rowed, Christopher stole glances through the hole and watched their gradual departure from the wharf. He saw the guards blocked at the fire wall finally make it to the end of the dock. Armed only with spathas, they could do nothing but wave their blades at the ship. One dived into the dark channel and began swimming after the cog, but Christopher lost sight of the man. He doubted the guard would catch them.

  Doyle announced the progress of the rowboats, and Christopher thought he could hear an exchange of arrows between Orvin and the guards. He itched with the desire to rush up to the forecastle and relieve Orvin and Montague. Occasionally he heard the fat man and the old knight shouting orders to each other, but generally they remained hushed. It was the guards in the rowboats that created a cacophony by shouting threats and epithets.

  He could tell he was still not rowing correctly, and tried to hide the shorteoming from Jennifer. As long as he created some momentum with his oar, he knew she and Doyle could take care of the rest. By any standard, they were creeping along, perhaps only a few hundred yards north of the wharf by now. He knew the rowboats were much faster.

  Christopher brought his oar down and felt it stop in midair. He released it, then looked out through the row hole just as a low thud resounded from the other side of the hull. A rowboat had reached them and come along­ side.

  “Doyle—”

  “I know,” he said, piecing it all together from the sounds. “Fetch one of those quivers. We’re going top­ side.” Doyle released his oar, letting the handle slam into the top rim of the row hole. He grabbed one of the arrow-filled quivers lying beneath his bench.

  Christopher did likewise, and as he slid blindly from the bench into the center of the chamber, he collided with Jennifer. “You’re not coming,” he told her firmly.

  “Well I-I can’t stay here!” she stammered. “Even if I had the strength, all I would do is row us in circles.”

  “Then don’t row. Just stay here.”

  “Jennifer?” Doyle called from the base of the ladder. “Do what he says.”

  She threw him a hard, disappointed look.

  Doyle raised his brow. “Please?” he asked in a much softer tone.

  She huffed, then her shoulders fell. They left her and her pout behind.

  Once in the hold, Doyle’s gaze darted everywhere. “Hurry, look around. They must have a bow lying some­ where around here. Did that other Pict you killed have one?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know what happened to it.”

  “Forget it then. I’ll take over for Orvin,” he said, and then he was at the ladder that would take them on deck in three quick steps.

  While climbing, Christopher looked up. The sky was framed evenly by the wooden hatch, and now every star was evident. He recognized a pattern that Orvin called the Great Bear, a pattern that followed a circular motion in the sky, like many other groups of stars. He wished they were far out at sea, and he could lie back and study the stars all night.

  A rumbling noise came from the deck. Two men screamed then collapsed, just beyond the hatch. Christopher rushed up the last two rungs of the ladder to find a guard pinning Montague’s shoulders to the deck, but Doyle had already drawn an arrow from his quiver and was bringing it down toward the guard’s back.

  Christopher closed his eyes and listened to the sound of death. When he opened his eyes, he saw the guard lying prone beside the fat man. The guard’s limbs flinched and his head trembled in the weird dance a body sometimes does after death. The wound on Montague’s shoulder had reopened in the struggle, and as the fat man rolled himself up, Christopher saw that his hairy back was half-covered with blood.

  “We got one, lads, and you got the other—but there’s one more down there,” Montague warned.

  Doyle rushed to the port rail and looked down. A few seconds later, Christopher arrived at his side. Indeed, there was another man attempting to climb onto an oar and use it to reach one of the anchors for the rigging that extended about a yard down from the rail. The guard had removed his coat of mail and helmet in an attempt to lighten himself for the climb.

  Turning his gaze to the forecastle, Doyle cried, “Sir Orvin. We need you.”

  “Here, boy,” Orvin said, appearing above the para­ pets.

  Doyle waved him over and the old knight descended the ladder. Christopher ran to the hatch below the after­ castle, fetched his shortbow, and returned to the rail—only to look down and see the guard sprawled out in the rowboat, an arrow jutting from his right breast.

&
nbsp; “What did you do, throw one at him?” Christopher asked Doyle, feeling his_ mouth lift in a lopsided grin.

  His blood brother smiled and began to chuckle under his breath.

  “I do not believe it,” Christopher said.

  “No, no, no,” Doyle said. “Jennifer got him. She must have found a bow down there. She shot him straight through the row hole. I think Brenna and Jennifer share a bit of blood.”

  “In that case you’re both lucky,” Brenna said, appear­ ing from behind a door below the aftercastle that led to the tiller room. Shadowing her was Merlin, whose hand held open the door. There was not enough light to tell if her color had returned, but her smile told him enough. Her arm was freshly bandaged and hung in a makeshift burlap sling. She’d made it, and there were very warm feelings that swelled inside Christopher now, and he almost wished there was only the single feeling of relief. But he knew his life was far from that simple.

  “Here comes the other boat!” Doyle said.

  “Give me room,” Orvin said, jockeying for a position at the rail. He lifted his bow. Fwit!

  And lo and behold the old knight proved his aim was still true. He shot the oarsman of the second rowboat squarely in the back, and the two remaining guards made the instantaneous and wise decision to abandon their pursuit. One guard pushed the oarsman overboard while the other took up the oars and turned the boat back toward the shore.

  Soon the port of Blytheheart was a rocky, glowing line to their south. Rooftop flames waved a tiny good­ bye to them. They had escaped into the harbor with the cog—a minor miracle. But an even greater miracle had already occurred, one that Christopher had not even noticed until now.