Squire's Honor

by Peter Telep

  Wind.

  Montague ordered them to draw in the oars, and he and Doyle did so, laughing and joking and recounting their parts in the escape.

  The night wore on, and Christopher soon discovered that there were few things more complicated in the realm than hoisting the sail on a cog. Montague shouted things like, “Get that topping lift higher, that’s it, right, no it is supposed to support the yard”! and then he’d say, “No, tie the bowlines over here, and yes, fasten that knot on that sheet, and no they’re called ratlines, lad, you use them to climb—not trip over.”

  It was an exercise in humility. Doyle knew a few more things about sailing than Christopher, but he, too, was worn into irritability by Montague’s incessant correc­tions. Finally, the fat man, weakened by his yelling and loss of blood, asked to go below and join Orvin, who was preparing a meal with what he could find in the hold.

  With Brenna and Merlin at the tiller, Doyle, Jennifer, and Christopher watching the lines from the bow, none of them exactly sure what they were doing, the cog sailed on over black waves whose size seemed deter­ mined by the wind. Behind them, the port narrowed into an insignificant speck on the dipping and rising horizon.

  Christopher looked to Doyle, who seemed lost in thought as he stared up through the red sail. He turned his gaze to Jennifer. Her blond hair appeared as liquid rippling in the wind. She regarded him with a closed-lipped smile, then returned her gaze to the brace lines. A wave broke below the bow, kicking up a misty trailer into their faces. As Christopher palmed away the salty spray, he let his thoughts tum toward Marigween. All of this was for her, yet it had been a long time since he had been with her, both physically and mentally. Once again he sensed a feeling coming on, a tearing, as if he were on a torture rack. He looked to the door on the tiller room, then back up at the taut sail. He turned leeward, getting the wind out of his eyes, but they still felt sore.

  The changes in his life had always seemed clear. He’d gone from saddlemaker’s son to squire. Then from there to squire of the body, squire to King Arthur. He’d lost that title, but had, however, come to terms with the birth of his son. He’d accepted the responsibility of fatherhood. And so his life should have gone on from there. He should have served Lord Woodward and shown King Arthur that he was ready to reassume his rank as squire of the body. He should have been able to spend time with his child, to be the father he had promised he would be. He and Marigween should have been married, and though explaining their child would have been difficult and drawn a lot of criticism, with the king behind them, their acceptance would have been assured.

  But what was all of this? Woodward’s murder? Marigween’s fleeing the cave and getting captured by Seaver? His child lost? Doyle appearing in Blytheheart with a man who had tried to rape Brenna? And Brenna. How in the world had she becomed mixed up in all of this? And now he was involved in the theft of a Pict cog, had killed men to obtain the craft, and was sailing toward who knew what. His life had been a fairly straight line. How had he strayed off course? What was the purpose of all of this—if there was one? Was God testing him? Was it God who had put that vision of someone’s death in his mind? Was he supposed to learn or gain something from all of this? He dared not ask the sky what would be, for the answer might prove more disconcerting than the past.

  He closed his eyes and listened to the voices of the wind and the sea.

  PART FOUR

  THE SEARCH, THE COUNCIL, AND ONE TOO MANY FAREWELLS

  1

  Christopher lay in his hammock and was rocked gently back and forth by the cog’s passage. He wondered how long he had slept. He guessed he had dozed off at least twice while watching the lines the night before. He remembered that Doyle had led him below and helped him into the hammock. But the rest of the night and early morning was lost in the mist of his exhaustion.

  From the hammock came a slightly muffled straining of the ropes that was overpowered by the louder sounds of the waves breaking against the hull and the resulting reply of the beams around him. He scratched an itch on his arm. Then another. And then his legs began to itch. His body stiffened with the knowledge of why he was so itchy. He opened his eyes and squinted, but saw only a mottled brown. He sat up, forgetting he was in a ham­ mock, and was pitched into the air. He fell forward onto the deck, and the wind blasted out of his lungs. His knees and elbows felt sore. But the itching felt worse.

  “Christopher?” Brenna called. “What’s wrong?”

  He got to his feet and felt dizzy, felt as if the floor were dipping and rising. It was. He turned to face her. She was there for a moment, coming into focus in the dim, single candlelight of the crew’s quarters, then lost as he pulled his shirt up and over his head. “Fleas!” he said from behind the shirt. His throat was dry and had made the word sound as horrible as what it implied. He threw the shirt to the deck, frantically rubbed his arms and chest, then bent down to brush off his exposed shins below his breeches. “This room is full of fleas!”

  She giggled under her breath, then he looked up. She ran a thumb under her sling to adjust its place on her neck, then came to him, inspecting him from his eyes to his feet with a narrowed gaze. “You probably don’t have that many. And they’re not going to kill you. I know six ways to get rid of fleas.”

  “You’re not going to dab me with birdlime, are you?” he asked, having heard of a knight who’d undergone that sticky form of flea exorcism.

  Brenna frowned. “Birdlime? No. I think you can wash them off with seawater. I don’t think they like the salt.”

  He continued to scratch and swat away the tiny black horrors that ran dizzying patterns across his flesh, and he silently prayed that she was right. “How long have I been down here?” he asked.

  “The sun has been up a while now,” she answered. “The sky is more red than orange. It’s pretty.”

  “I’d better get up there before I scratch myself raw,” he said, glancing down a moment at the many crosshatched red lines on his arms and chest.

  “One question before you run off?” she asked, her voice tentative.

  “Quickly, please.”

  “I wanted to ask you again about that night at the three rivers.”

  He drew in a deep breath, then let it out in a huff. “You know that’s not a brief question, Brenna. Let me bathe, and then—perhaps -we’ll talk about that.”

  Christopher left her behind, and after he splashed sev­eral buckets of seawater over himself, dried, changed, and finger-combed his hair, he decided to heed his groaning belly’s cries and get a bite to eat. He had _ planned to meet Doyle in the captain’s quarters, where Orvin had set up a makeshift dining table, but found Brenna waiting there instead.

  “Doyle said he was sorry he couldn’t join us, but Montague is teaching him something about the sail now,” Brenna said evenly.

  He guessed she was glad they had been left alone, but there was no hint of satisfaction in her tone. He won­ dered if she had orchestrated the moment. He smiled crookedly, then slid onto a barrel chair before a barrel­ legged table that had a top made of several wide, loose pieces of timber. On the table was a tray of smoked fish and assorted raw vegetables, along with several ornate tankards filled with ale. He looked at the food, then up at Brenna. “Have you tried any?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  It might have been his imagination, but her tone seemed to imply something more. He took a Jong piece of fish and broke it apart with his fingers. He felt her gaze on him as he ate, then finally looked up to confirm the fact. “What?” he asked.

  Brenna looked down, embarrassed. “I apologize. It’s just good to see you,” she said.

  Odd girl. “Me? Christopher of Shores? With these scars on my face? This flea trap”?

  “When that sailor jumped down and knocked the bow from your hands, and then when you fought with him, I thought, welt you know what I thought.”

  He looked into her eyes, eyes so big that he fancied he could see the reflection of his entire face
in them. “All I can say is thank you. It’s not enough, I know.”

  She reached out to the tray, chose a spinach leaf, tore a piece from it, then paused before placing it in her mouth. “I thought by now I’d be able to forget about killing him. He had to die to save you—but I killed him. I didn’t know anything about him. What right did I have to end his life?”

  “I … I understand. I know what it is you feel.” He lifted his brow. “Let it go. Just let it go.”

  Christopher assumed they would reflect on that night at the three rivers, where he had inadvertently asked her to marry him. An unintentional marriage proposal seemed ludicrous. But it had happened. He wished the conversation centered around that night instead of her guilt over the killing. Though awkward, words about their relationship would not upset his stomach.

  After a long moment of silent eating, Brenna asked, “How far off is the Port of Magdalene? Did Merlin say”?

  “Last night he told me we might reach it before mid­ day. But this morning he says before sundown. The two Saxons he questioned from Seaver’s cog gave him only the name of the port; they never said how long it would take to reach it.”

  “I hope we arrive soon. I hate to think of Marigween with those Saxons. If I were she …” Brenna stared at another spinach leaf between her fingers.

  It was the second time that Brenna’s words had trailed off into thought. He could sense she wanted to say more. Her love was there. The conclusion was not a wild conceit. She had always been somber when speak­ ing of Marigween, and that tone had revealed her jeal­ousy. Her affection for him, though beaten back into a rear guard, was, to his eyes, in the fore. Yet he needed to hear it from her. He had to be sure. Why, he did not know. “Earlier, you wanted to talk about that night we camped at the three rivers. I’ll tell you about it if you answer a simple question for me.”

  Her eyes widened. “All right.”

  He leveled his gaze on her, a deep, penetrating gaze that might have hinted to her that his question was seri­ous and more than a little difficult to answer. “Do you still love me?”

  She blushed, then looked away from him. “Why do you want to know”?

  He would not let her throw back a question. He sim­ply shrugged.

  Brenna did something under the table with her hand, either scratched at the wood or rubbed her nails across her palm. “Let’s talk about something else,” she finally said.

  “You do not want to know why I asked you to marry me?” he asked in his most convincing and enticing tone. “No,” she said curtly, then turned her head a little farther away from him.

  He slid off of his barrel. “Then I’m going on deck.”

  As he made his way up to the hold, Christopher tried to think of ways to settle what was going on between himself and Brenna.

  What exactly is going on between us?

  Once he climbed up and over the frame of the main hatch, he stood on the sea-soaked deck. He found Montague standing next to the ladder that led up to forecastle. The bare-chested man’s wounded hand and shoulder were freshly bandaged, and his good hand was cupped over his brow. He looked toward the east, toward shore. Christopher took a look for himself. He saw only a faint line of land on the horizon. “Have you spotted the port?” he asked, then stepped toward the brigand.

  “No, lad. But know this: we’re aboard a Pict cog in Celt waters. Understand?”

  “You’re looking for other ships?” Christopher asked, turning away from the man and crossing to the rail.

  “Aye. Trading might be peaceful at the ports, but out here our cargo and ourselves are fair game. And that blasted red sail doesn’t help.”

  Christopher turned from his second inspection of the horizon. He saw Doyle coming up through the small hatch below the aftercastle. “Are we there yet”? his blood brother asked to no one in particular. “I’ve been sick twice so far. My stomach cannot stand much more of this.”

  Jennifer arrived on deck behind Doyle, and her hair was instantly whipped into a frenzy by the breeze. “You cry like a child, Doyle. And I thought you a warrior,” she teased.

  “Warrior, yes,” Doyle assured her, “seaman, no.” Montague chuckled briefly. “You sound as I did, lad­die, back on the Quantock hills.”

  Behind Jennifer, the door to the tiller room opened and Merlin stepped out. The druid held a foot-long piece of twine, and tied to its bottom was a long, gray stone about half the length of a dagger. The wizard called the hanging rock his “lodestone,” and said he could pinpoint directions with it. Christopher was a bit skeptical, as was everyone else, but the druid paid their doubt no heed. He swore by the stone, and now fol­ lowed its movement with wide, intent eyes.

  Then, suddenly, his wizened free hand went to his brow to screen out his periphery. He scanned the hori­zon a moment then stopped. He pointed. “There. Everyone, there! See the reflected light. That is the Port of Magdalene.”

  The druid, with his strange rock and ancient eyes, had been able to locate something that both Christopher and Montague had not. Christopher looked to where Merlin indicated and, indeed, saw reflected light flash from the shore.

  “Magdalene,” Jennifer said darkly. “A wonderful name for a port.”

  He cocked his head to where Jennifer and Doyle stood leaning on the rail. “What do you mean?” he asked her.

  “Have a monk explain it to you sometime, Christopher,” she answered, then turned into the wind so that her hair would blow out of her face.

  Christopher looked at Doyle, who lifted his shoulder in a slight half shrug.

  “All right, lads and lasses, enough tavern talk. Time to practice your seamanship once again,” Montague barked. “Merlin? Back in the tiller room with you. Listen for my calls to steer us in. Now, you two lads, fol­ low my instructions and you won’t get hurt.” He smiled over that, then looked around. “Where are Brenna and Orvin? Jennifer, go below and summon them. We’ll need their help.”

  Before long, Christopher was able to identify the light from the shoreline; it came from two polished crosses atop the spires of one of Magdalene’s churches. He mused for a moment that God had called them to shore, He in all of his divine, and in this case, reflected light.

  And then, moments later, a second smaller but still meaningful miracle came into view. Magdalene had two wharves, and docked at one of them was the Saxon cog. Flooding with an anxiety that set him pacing along the rail, Christopher stared at the stern of the ship. He wished he could see through the hull to a cabin where Marigween might be imprisoned. “It’s here!” he cried to the others. “The cog’s there!”

  Longshoremen gathered into a throng on the unoccu­pied wharf. Apparently a ship’s arrival was of great import, signifying monetary gain to many of its inhabi­tants. The shoremen waved and paced about. One even jumped into the air with joy. All of them, it seemed, could not wait to load or unload cargo, as if they’d been waiting days for the opportunity. They were not the pas­sive, weather-weary loaders of Blytheheart, who proba­bly saw twice the number of ships arrive at their port. A ship’s arrival was an event here.

  Christopher looked above the wharves to the bluffs behind the small port; they rose much higher than the ones that cast shadows over Blytheheart. Magdalene’s marshal probably had many hidden lookout points strung along the peaks. Their approach to the port had probably been carefully monitored.

  Two small rowboats were launched from the shore to pull in and help navigate the cog. Soon it came time for the sail to be furled, and if getting it up had been a difficult task, drawing it in seemed nearly impossible; the wind, once a welcome friend, was now a foe. By the time the task was complete, Montague had no voice, which Doyle described with a broad grin as a blessing. Christopher did not miss the brigand’s shouting, but he did miss the singsong cadences of the fat man’s northern accent.

  After a few moments, Doyle tossed doWn the mooring lines to the three men in each of the rowboats. The cog was guided deftly toward the wharf, and, in what seemed like a very long,
nerve-racking time to Christopher, they finally were secured to the pier.

  Montague explained to one of the longshoremen that they did not have a gangplank of their own, that it had been lost. The shoreman frowned and sent two others off to fetch one.

  Doyle ambled over to Christopher. “How do you feel?

  Are you ready?”

  “We’re going to do it Merlin’s way first. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll consider what you said last night,” Christopher said, referring to Doyle’s idea that they employ a few guards and storm the Saxon cog. The idea was ill conceived and reckless, but knowing Doyle, he’d find a way to make it work.

  “They already know we’re here,” Doyle said, “and they’ve done one of two things: kept Marigween on board and even more guarded than she was before, or moved her off of the ship.”

  “In which case we are in trouble,” Christopher said sadly.

  “No, in which case we find her.”

  “I’m glad you’re with me,” Christopher said, feeling that ever-present pang of wanting to thank everyone around him for all that they were doing but knowing they would brush him off for it.

  Doyle did just that by turning to look to Montague. “Monte, what’s keeping us? I don’t want to spend another second on this flea boat,” he informed his part­ner, then cocked his head back to Christopher, “and yes, I got them too.”

  Once they were off the ship, Christopher and Doyle were directed by one of the longshoremen to the Customs House, where they were told they would find the marshal. As he and his friend moved into the busy street traffic, Christopher sensed they were being watched. The notion made his shoulders draw together and made him cock his head once, twice, then an obvi­ous third time to the somberly clad loaders and mer­chants that shuffled in the path behind them.

  “Yes, Christopher, they’re watching us. Pretend you do not notice. They’re all asking themselves what a small, motley group of Celts is doing with a Pict cog.” Doyle did not tum his head as he spoke; his gaze was fixed on the knots of people that lay in front of them. “We should have let Jennifer do all of the talking from the start. We might have been able to fool them. But Monte had to go and open his mouth.”