Squire's Honor

by Peter Telep

  “Don’t you get angry sometimes? Angry at Him?” Jennifer’s frown slipped into a look that might have been pensive. She stared past him and out through the open window. “It’s not His fault. It’s simply what hap­pened. Or happens.”

  “I resent Him sometimes,” Doyle admitted. “For my hand. For my parents. All of it. He’s supposed to be gen­tle and kind and forgiving. Why has He done this to us”? She turned from the window, stared him directly in the eye, and then touched his cheek. “To bring us together.”

  The next morning, in the yard outside the stables, Doyle checked Christopher’s saddle straps to make sure all were secure. “You’re ready,” he reported, then stood back to rejoin Moma, Jennifer, and Montague.

  “Thanks, Doyle,” Christopher said, from atop his mount. “I wish you could come back with me.”

  “No fear,” Montague said. “We’ll keep him safe and busy”—he eyed Jennifer, winked—“and loved.”

  “Safe home,” Doyle told his friend. “And give Arthur my regards. Tell him there is no bitterness in my heart.” Doyle meant that, and he wished he could tell it to the king himself.

  “I will.” Christopher regarded Moma. “And thank you,” he said with a shrug. “The words are plain but all I have.” Christopher pursed his lips. He heeled his mount, reined the horse around, then trotted away toward the bluffs.

  “I wish he had found her,” Moma said as all of them watched Christopher leave.

  “She may be dead,” Montague noted soberly.

  “She’s alive,” Doyle said, “and we’re not done looking for her.”

  “What do you mean?” Jennifer asked, then grabbed his arm.

  “Yes, tell me, laddie,” Montague joined in. “This I want to hear.”

  5

  The practice field below the castle of Shores was cast in twilight. Christopher trotted into the field, and soon he gained a clearer view of the castle’s west­ ern wall.

  Or at least what was left of it.

  Nearly half of the heavy stone rampart had been smashed away, exposing the outer bailey. The wall that made up the inner bailey had also been mangoneled apart, and he could now see the outer wall of the first story of the keep. It was as if a giant had come along and taken several vicious bites out of the fortress.

  That giant was, of course, King Arthur.

  Christopher rode on toward the castle, and he was struck by more and more of the devastation. He was so transfixed by the ruined structure, he barely saw any­ thing else. Then he heard the charge of a horse and looked down.

  A mounted figure drove hard from the east, toward him. He glanced curiously at the rider a moment, then took up his crossbow, which was already windlassed. He nocked a bolt, then leveled and aimed the weapon.

  “Christopher!” the rider called.

  After another moment, Christopher recognized the rider’s squat frame. “Neil? What are you—how did you know I’d be—”

  “We’ve watchmen all around here now. One of them spotted your approach,” Neil answered before Christopher could finish. “And he happens to be a friend of mine. All of which is to say that luck brings me here to welcome you!” He reined his courser to a halt. It was a magnificent mount, reminding Christopher that he had been away from such excellent steeds for far too long.

  “We’ve much to talk about,” Neil added. Christopher eyed the castle. “That we do.”

  Neil took the hint. “They’re gone, Christopher. It’s been a glorious day. The battle is won. The castle is ours. Arthur stands in it now.”

  “Stands in what? A pile of rubble?” Christopher asked dryly.

  “Always a price to pay, eh?” Neil said, taking the fact a bit too lightly for Christopher’s liking. “Now. Let’s ride back,” he said, steering his mount around. “Brenna told me all about Blytheheart and that Pict cog. You tell me about the trip north. You didn’t find her?”

  Christopher goaded his rounsey to join the other horse, and as he came alongside Neil, he answered, “No.”

  “I’m sorry,” Neil said, his voice low and sympathetic. “Not as sorry as me. Now. Take me to King Arthur.”

  The great hall of the castle of Shores—the one Christopher remembered from his youth, the one where he had been proclaimed squire of the body of all of Britain—was a smoldering, acrid storehouse for debris. In the light of two torches burning from wall sconces, he saw a jagged, gaping hole six yards wide in the east wall of the room where a mangonel stone had broken through. The stone lay on the opposite side of the hall amid piles of charred rafters and wooden floorboards that in some places rose well over Christopher’s head. He lifted his gaze and was able to see all the way up to the stone roof of the keep. It dawned on him that every floor between here and the rooftop wall-walks had gone up in flames and then had collapsed into the great hall. The main fires had proba­bly been extinguished days before, but it would take some time before the smell and faint wisps of smoke finally diminished.

  He probed deeper into the wreckage and spotted a crushed shield, then a crossbow bolt sticking from a beam, and then a mangled pike. He expected to find a body or two, but thus far there were none; they must have been cleared away. He was glad for that. The place reminded him of the burned-out chapel where he had found his parents murdered. He remembered coughing hard and feeling his guts attempt to turn inside out. The smoke had taken its toll on him. The smoke, and the Saxons.

  The nausea returned, but then diminished as he purged the past from his mind.

  “Quite a mess, wouldn’t you agree?” someone asked from the other end of the room.

  Christopher stepped forward, and, after rounding another pile of rubble, he found Arthur. The king wore a simple pair of breeches and drawstring shirt, and he sat cross-legged in a corner, resting his chin in a palm. The pose was uncharacteristic of a king, childish and odd, Christopher thought as he nodded.

  Arthur thrust himself up and groaned a bit over his apparently stiff muscles. “That Kenric was a stubborn one. In order to save the castle we had to destroy it.” He eyed the rubble with contempt, and now it was clear to Christopher that the king was troubled. His odd pose had been a result of something boiling within him.

  “Thank you for seeing me, my lord,” Christopher said. “I know that Merlin and Orvin have informed you of what has happened to me—”

  “From the time you left them at Magdalene,” Arthur interjected. Watching his step, he moved into the center of the room. “Come closer. I can’t see you very well in these shadows.”

  Christopher complied and brought himself to within a yard of his liege. Arthur had changed very little; his eyes were still as green as the slopes of the Mendips in spring, his hair and beard still as dark as the Savernake forest. “Can you see me now, my lord?”

  “I can. And what I see before me is—”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” Christopher broke in quickly, sensing that Arthur was ready to pass judgment on him, “but if I may tell you exactly what happened in the eastern wood—”

  “I already know what happened,” Arthur pointed out, silencing Christopher with a wave of his hand, “and I believe your story as you told it to Orvin and Merlin.”

  Christopher sighed.

  “But you were wrong to lie to me,” Arthur continued, his tone dropping to uncomfortable depths. “You lied to me and to the battle lords. You knew that Woodward was dead—and yet you lied.”

  He swallowed back his premature sigh, then felt a shudder wipe across his shoulder. “I wanted to speak to you in private, my lord. I feared the battle lords would not believe me. I did not want them to know.”

  Arthur pursed his lips and shook his head negatively. Then he said, “I must tell you that Lancelot has had sev­eral meetings with the battle lords. They believe it was you who murdered Woodward.” Arthur ran a hand through his hair, tugged through a tangle, then scratched the back of his neck.

  Christopher clenched his fists, not in anger, but in a battle to remain stiff, standing, fighting
off the urge to throw himself at the king’s feet. “But you believe me, my lord. You said so. And you are the king. Is that not all that matters?”

  Arthur puffed air in disgust, turned away for a moment, as if brooding over something, then finally regarded Christopher. “When one of their own was struck down, the battle lords warned me that justice must prevail. They told me that someone must pay for the murder. If there is no justice, there is nothing.”

  “Then the true murderer must be found,” Christopher concluded.

  “If I overrule the battle lords, I will lose their loyalty. I have worked very hard for this union. I need their skill and their respect. I must build a new realm. And justice must come to pass.”

  Christopher’s eyes burned with these facts. He shud­dered again, then a second and third time. “If they believe I am guilty, then …”

  “On the morrow you will stand before a council. You will be heard along with them. Afterward, I will make my judgment.”

  “Will I be shackled now?”

  Arthur nodded. “And you’ll stay in my tent. Woodward was a friend to many. Their bitterness runs deep.” The king gestured toward the archway exit behind them.

  “One more item, my lord?” “What is it”?

  He paused, ordering and reordering the words in his head until finally he could hesitate no more. “Your horse. I-”

  “That junior squire you have been training—Clive, I believe his name is?—he came to me one morning and told me what he had done. Merlin informed me of the animal’s accidental death.”

  “I will do whatever I must to repay you,” Christopher said emphatically.

  “I’d worry more about your life now than the repayment of a horse,” Arthur said, putting it all into perspec­tive. “I’ve had time to get over that loss, time to get over my anger.” His gaze went out of focus as he looked up past Christopher. “There once was a face that launched a thousand ships. Men would do anything for her. So it was with you.”

  6

  Brenna found Christopher lying faceup on the trestle bed. His wrists were bound in heavy iron mana­cles and resting on his belly, and his ankles were shackled as well. His eyes were closed, and in the shade of Arthur’s tent, his hair and beard looked longer than they actually were, drawn out by the shad­ows. He resembled a shaggy highwayman, and his manacles were the result of a criminal’s life. Gazing at him now, it was hard to remember that he had once been squire of the body.

  She stood at his bedside, wondering how she would wake him. She thought her argument with the guards outside the tent would have stirred him, but his slumber was deep. She thought of kissing him awake. She thought of peeling off her shift, sliding into the bed next to him, and running her fingers through the soft hairs on his chest. She thought of all the nights she had spent thinking about him before closing her own eyes to rest. She had played over all that had happened to them, the journey to Blytheheart, the stealing of the Pict cog, their good-bye at Magdalene. She thought of the night he had asked her to marry him. She hung on to that moment, hung eternally it seemed. But the wishes and memories and everything else that crashed and foamed like mid­ night waves inside her meant little now.

  He might be sentenced to hang. This might be the last night she would talk to him alive. If Neil’s plan did not work, this would be their final good-bye. The more she thought about that, the more she wanted to cry. And the tears came as they often did, swiftly and uncontrollably. She leaned over him, and a tear ran off of her cheek and fell onto his.

  His eyes opened, and he blinked the world into focus.

  “Brenna?” he asked, rasping, his voice rusty from the disuse of sleep.

  She wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know you must be tired. It’s a long ride here. Too long.”

  He sat—up. “I was hoping Neil would tell you I returned.”

  She sniffled. “He did.” She wiped her eyes again, drew in a deep breath, let it out, then realized she was trembling. “I’m sorry you didn’t find them, Christopher. I know you may not believe me, but it’s true.”

  He looked at the edge of the bed. “Sit down.” As she did so, he covered a yawn with a palm, and his chains jingled. “I—I have to start getting used to the fact that they’re gone. That’s going to take a long time.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you really?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

  “Yes I do,” she replied. “And sometimes you never get used to the fact. Sometimes you hang on and can never let go.”

  He softened a bit. “It will never be the same for us, you know that, Brenna, don’t you? I cannot simply for­ get about my son and Marigween and leap back into your arms.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to do that,” she said. “Yes you would.”

  She shook her head slowly, no. No. “I lost you. You lost them. We’re both wounded soldiers, as it were. And the wounds need time to heal.”

  He nodded. “How is your arm, by the way?”

  “If I move it in certain ways, it hurts a little. And sometimes it keeps me up at night. But Merlin’s poul­tices worked.”

  “Good.” He stroked his thin beard. “Have you heard about the council on the morrow?”

  Brenna nodded. “ “I’m worried.” She bit her lower lip and wondered if she should tell Christopher about Neil’s plan. Neil had insisted that Christopher not be told, for he would surely be against the plan.

  “I don’t think Arthur can help me this time,” Christopher said. “They could sentence me to hang.”

  “They have yet to hear your account,” she said, her voice rising. “You have to make them believe you.”

  He smirked. “Their ears are already deaf, I assure you. Woodward was shot. I fled and have been gone for nearly twelve moons.”

  “If you are guilty, then why would you return?” she asked.

  “Perhaps out of remorse. They probably believe I’ve come to pay my debt.”

  She huffed over his resigned attitude. “Then you have to tell them why you fled. You have to explain every­ thing to them. It all happened at once. It was not your fault.”

  His sigh was very long and very loud. “I’m sure they’ve already heard why I fled. And they all know about the child I had out of wedlock with Marigween. They see me as a fornicator—and a murderer.”

  Brenna’s anxiety brought her to her feet. “But every­ one knew Marigween would not have him. She would have taken her own life first.”

  He ripped the blanket off his lap. “That has nothing to do with it. The only way I will be found innocent is if the real murderer appears and confesses.”

  There it was again. She shook with it. If she could only tell him that they had a plan.

  No. Neil is right.

  He collapsed onto his back, sighed again, swore under his breath, then stared at the sloping ceiling of the tent. “What’s happened to my life? Maybe Father was right. I should have been a saddlemaker—then none of this would have happened. Now please, leave me, Brenna.”

  Now was the time to be strong, not to feel sorry for himself. She wished he knew how much she cared for him, how much all of his friends cared for him. He had seen it in the past, but had forgotten too easily. He’d already condemned himself. If he only knew how des­perately his friends wanted to save him.

  7

  Marigween finished packing the cauldron with the stew, boiled fish, and oatmeal pudding. She began to lift the pot, wanting to bring it to the hearth where Seaver had built a fire, but it was far too heavy for her. “Let me do that,” Seaver said. With tiny Devin slung in one arm, he stepped fully into the main room of their farmhouse.

  “All right.” She set down the cauldron’s handle, went to him, and reached out to accept her baby.

  Before Seaver handed her the child, he lifted the boy in the air and shook him a little. “Would you look at this strong boy? Would you look at him?”

  She smiled. Oftentimes she wondered if Seaver loved the baby more than she did—despite the fact that the child
was not his. Was it possible? His actions said it was. “There,” she said, accepting Devin. “Mother’s going to feed you now.”

  While Seaver went to the table and lifted the caul­dron, she took Devin to the rocking chair in the far cor­ner of the room, and settled down. She loosened the drawstring on her shift and exposed one of her breasts. Devin drank heartily.

  Seaver groaned as he wiped his hands and stepped away from the hearth, then he went back to it to double­ check that the cauldron hung securely from its chain above the fire. “I think you have this pot loaded up even more than mother used to—and that is difficult to believe.”

  Marigween felt a pang at the mention of Edris. She had only known the woman for five moons, but in that time she had learned enough Saxon to hold simple conversations with her. She was glad to have been able to thank her in Saxon for midwifing Devin. Nearly a moon had passed since Edris’s passing. Her death had turned Seaver into a boy whose emotions were readily dis­ played. The strong shield he had held up for so long, the one that had helped them escape from the cog and drive all the way north to Ivory Point, had fallen. And Marigween couldn’t be sure, but it was that pouring out of Seaver’s heart that had probably brought her as close as ever to him.

  How had hate gone to tolerance, then to friendship, and then to love?

  She watched him go to the window and draw in a deep breath through his nose as he inspected the toft. “The summer will be cool. And the rains will come. I can smell them.” He laughed. “My father had gone from warrior to farmer. And so it is I follow his path. But I don’t think his first crop was as rich and abundant as ours will be.”

  Marigween looked at him, and though she heard his words she ignored them. She realized how difficult it was to pinpoint where in the past twelve moons she had come to love him. Was it along the journey here, when she had grown ill and he had nursed her back to health? Was it the kindness he extended to her once in Ivory Point, kindness combined with an unconditional accep­tance of her pregnancy? The child was a product of rape, yet he loved it like Christopher never would have. Was it that fact that made her love him? Or perhaps it was the situation as a whole? She had a home, a man who could easily become her husband and would pro­vide for her; he had already proven that.