Squire's Honor

by Peter Telep

  And what was most important, she had a son back.

  A son. A child to care for, a boy named after her father who would remind her of him and fill the void created by Baines’s loss. Seaver had made sure the things that had been absent from her life were now pre­sent: a father, a mother, a child, a home.

  But did she truly love him? Or did she love him because she thought no one else would accept her the way he did? That question she could not answer, but she couldn’t deny that what she felt for Seaver was love. After all, she was free to leave Ivory Point. Seaver had made that clear. But she had stayed. And he had been honest in everything he had done for her. There were no secrets, no lies.

  He turned his attention from the window, looked at her, then smiled. “There is a glow all around you. I wish you could see it.”

  She did not have to see the glow. It was more impor­tant that she felt it. Life was not all that bad now. She thought of how it would be to grow old here.

  A tapping sound came from the ceiling. And then more tapping. And then the tapping became a steady drone.

  “There’s our rain,” Seaver said.

  “I’ve never known anyone with eyes for the weather like you,” she told him.

  “Not eyes, but a nose,” he said, then took a step toward her. “Do you remember the morning after Mother’s pyre, when we were down at the port? Do you remember those sailors we bumped into?”

  “How could I not? They knocked that grain sack right off of your shoulder,” she answered, seeing the incident replay in her mind. “And they spoke Celt.”

  “Ah, yes, they were impressed. But one of them, he pulled me aside—”

  “Yes, I forgot to ask you what he had said,” Marigween broke in. “He thought you were a Celt, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. And he apologized. And then he told me he had never seen a woman as fair as you, nor one with hair as shiny and red as yours. He told me I had a beautiful wife—that I should treasure her.”

  “Did you tell him I wasn’t—” she cut herself off, realizing what he was getting at.

  “It might be premature, but I have been thinking about it since then. A troth. You and I. It’s what I want. And I want you to think about it.”

  Marigween looked down, stroked Devin’s head. “I will, Seaver.” She hoped he did not notice her trembling.

  8

  The guards who dragged Christopher out of a sound sleep and out of Arthur’s tent smelled like spoil­ ing fruit. As they shoved him along the trail that led to the castle’s north curtain wall, he asked them, “While I was gone, the king did not forbid bathing, did he”? “No,” the dumber-looking guard answered.

  “Then why have neither of you exercised your free right to clean yourselves?”

  “Insults will only serve up pain—murderer!” one of them shouted in his ear, then tripped him to the damp, rutted earth.

  Gripping the back of his shirt, the two began to hoist him to his feet. Then Christopher saw a shadow pass over the ground that was etched by the rising sun.

  “That will be all, guards. The king has instructed me to bring him.” The voice was wonderfully old, wonder­ fully familiar.

  Christopher looked into Orvin’s eyes and saw the anger in them directed at the guards. He turned to the guard who had shouted at him. “You’d better heed Sir Orvin.”

  The two oafs released him, nodded politely to Orvin, then marched off, holding back their murmurs until they felt they were out of earshot—but were not.

  Orvin rolled his eyes. “Peasant levy. Dolts.”

  Christopher raised his arms to hug his mentor, but he remembered his shackles. Orvin noticed them too, and he frowned and shook his head, an act that made Christopher feel embarrassed. He had let his mentor down. He crawled into a mental hole, hunkered down, and shivered there.

  “Young saint who has traveled the realm far and wide. You have returned. And you look as bad as I,” the old one said with a grin that was ugly and marvelous at the same time, for it began to lure him out of his despair.

  “Look at me, Orvin,” Christopher said, extending his arms, gazing at his manacled ankles, “this is what my life has come to. What happened to the days of the tour­ nament? The defeat of Mallory? What happened to my rank”?

  Orvin turned around, waved for Christopher to fol­ low, then began walking. “There is nothing more power­ful in the realm than a woman. She has the power to build a man—or destroy him.”

  Christopher sighed resignedly. “And I have looked too deeply into her eyes.”

  “As you always have, first with the raven maid and then again with Marigween. Your vision, your wisdom, your honor has too often been blinded by love.” He wrapped an arm around Christopher’s shoulder. “It seems to me that many aspects of squiring can be taught; but ah, loving, loving cannot.”

  “Tell me Orvin, where is the council to be held? Are the battle lords already there?”

  “Forget the council, forget all that has happened. What are you?” Orvin asked, stopping dead in the midc die of the trail.

  “What do you mean?”

  Orvin widened his eyes and seized Christopher’s shirt at the collar. “What are you?”

  “Uh, uh, a man.”

  “A man, just any man? No. A dead man? Maybe.” Orvin released his collar. “No. What you are is a true servant. A servant to your heart, to your mind, and to God. Those who will judge you, they are no better. They are all servants. Their honor is no greater than yours.”

  “Honor? I’ve none left,” Christopher said weakly.

  Orvin’s hand came out of nowhere and connected with Christopher’s cheek. “Wrong! You’ve a lot of honor—honor you must defend now. You know your word to be true. And God will see that the truth is heard.”

  There were few times in the past when Christopher had seen Orvin as furious or as unraveled. It was as if the old man wanted to assume his place, but since he could not, he became a bellows to heat the fire within Christopher, a fire which began on the outside, on his face.

  “All right. I believe you,” Christopher said, rubbing his cheek.

  “Be passionate, young saint. You will be defending your life!” Orvin swung around, then resumed his pace. “And you’d better do a good job of it.”

  Christopher hesitated. “Did you see anything, Orvin? Do you already know? Is it God’s will that I’m to die”?

  “What I know … and what will be … there’s only darkness. But if darkness says something, we’ve a lot to worry about. Now come on.”

  A horse-drawn cart and driver waited for them at the end of the trail.

  “What’s this?” Christopher asked.

  “You don’t expect me to walk all the way there, do you?” Orvin answered with a question of his own, and a rather pronounced grimace.

  “How far away is the council?”

  Orvin waved the driver over to the rear of the cart, then answered. “We’re going to the eastern wood. To the place where Woodward’s body was found. That’s where the council is being held.” He regarded the driver. “You think you can get me on this flatbed?—because I sure as the day cannot make it up on my own.”

  After several unsuccessful tries, the driver was finally able to boost Orvin onto the cart. Christopher put his back to the flatbed and jumped up. He landed on his rump and then crawled around. Orvin’s expression said he envied Christopher’s agility. During the ride, the old man spent most of his time complaining to the driver, directing him to steer around the ruts and rocks in the path. Once they hit the perimeter of the field that led to the eastern wood, the ground leveled out, and the ride became smooth.

  There was a curious peace that pervaded Christopher; it had come on slowly, and now fully blanketed him. He considered it a calm before the great storm brewed in that clearing of the forest. Before he knew it, they were threading their way through those trees and headed for that storm—but the calm was still there.

  “Hold nothing back, young saint,” Orvin said softly, following
behind him. “And when you speak to them, move around, look into each of their eyes. Show them that truth fears nothing.”

  It had been raining the last time Christopher had been in the eastern forest, and its scent had been fully alive. Now, so many moons later, it seemed little had changed.

  The rain was replaced by morning dew, but the strong, mossy odor was still here. The stretch of time that lay between the day Woodward had been murdered and the present was shrinking fast. The details of what had hap­pened were returning with remarkable clarity. It was wise of Arthur to hold the council in the wood.

  A fallen beech tree lay ahead; its thin gnarled trunk marked the entrance to the clearing. He looked beyond the tree and saw that a few of the battle lords stood in the clearing. Once on the other side of the trunk, he took several more tentative steps, and then stopped.

  Sirs Camey, Gauter, Ector, Nolan, Bryan, Richard, Bors, Cardew, Allan, Uryens, Leondegrance, and Lancelot were all present. They stood around in knots of three or four, murmuring amongst themselves. Sirs Nolan and Bryan were inspecting the brambles, from where Christopher suspected the crossbow bolt had come.

  As Orvin came up next to Christopher, the battle lords noticed their appearance, and as Christopher expected them to, they fell silent as they regarded him for a moment, then turned back to their conversations.

  “When the king arrives I’ll ask him to unchain you,” Orvin said.

  He nodded. Then, after a moment, said, “I wish Montague were here.”

  Orvin snorted.

  “No, I do,” Christopher said, gazing at the battle lords, at the way the sun filtered down through the canopy of boughs and cast a few in shadow, a few in light. “He’d be able to get me out of this—what with that mouth of his.”

  “He would lie to get you out of this,” Orvin pointed out. “You forget that freedom rests on the foundation of truth. Now,” he said, looking around, “why is it that my presence is always required in places that do not have comfortable seats”?

  Christopher ignored Orvin as the old man shuffled a few steps away to find a place to sit down. His attention was drawn to the opposite side of the clearing, where, among the trees, he spotted as many as half a score of junior and senior squires gathering to watch the council. He noted the tallest of them and made eye contact with the young, blond-haired man, then averted his gaze. He was Robert of Queen’s Camel, the new squire of the body, and Neil’s friend.

  “Christopher?”

  He looked askance and saw Clive stride across the clearing, toward him. “Hello, Clive.”

  “I said a prayer for you last night.” The young boy gazed shyly at Christopher’s feet. “I wanted you to know that.”

  “Thank you. I’m afraid Ihaven’t been a very good example.”

  Clive looked at him. “Yes, you have. All of us have been talking about you for moons, about how you risked everything to save someone you loved. You’re gallant, Christopher, you are.”

  “With gallantry comes responsibility. And Ifailed to assume responsibility for what happened here. You, on the other hand, accepted the responsibility of stealing the king’s horse and confessed to your crime. That is something to be proud of. That is gallantry.”

  Once again, Clive’s gaze found the forest floor.’ ’I thought you would be angry with me. Ijust couldn’t hold it in anymore. The king told me he would have punished me even more severely had Ilied about it. I spent three days in the stocks—the longest three days of my life.”

  “I’m not angry with you, Clive. You did what a knight would have done. Despite my inadequacy as a trainer, you still managed to find the right path. Stay there now.” “I will. And God help you this day, Christopher.”

  With that he turned and walked back toward his friends.

  Christopher sensed the approach of someone from behind. He half turned to spot Brenna and Neil stepping over the fallen beech. They came toward him. Brenna carried a small basket covered with a thin linen cloth. As she got closer, she pulled away the cloth to reveal some pears and a small loaf of bread.

  “Is that for me?” he asked her, his mouth already watering.

  Brenna nodded. “I knew they wouldn’t feed you. Guards don’t think about such things until their prisoners are falling down with hunger.”

  “The king could’ve told them to feed me, but he has a lot on his mind,” he told her, snatching the loaf and div­ ing into it with his teeth. He bit off a large piece and chewed it heartily. “He’s a land to rebuild.”

  “Are you ready to address them?” Neil asked, then added, “I know you have some sort of plan simmering in that head of yours.”

  He shrugged. “All I can tell them is the truth.”

  “The king!” a voice cried from the other side of the clearing. “Here comes the king!”

  Christopher returned the loaf to Brenna’s basket. “Thank you for bringing this.”

  Something was building in Brenna’s eyes, a powerful emotion she seemed to be warring with—and losing. She said nothing, then closed her eyes, stepped up to him, and gave him a long, hard hug. She released him and turned away without looking.

  “The truth, Christopher,” Neil said. “You are right. Tell them the truth.” He nodded his agreement, then turned to find Brenna, who had walked quickly off in a path that took her around the edge of the clearing.

  Arthur marched forward, wearing his surcoat and a particularly ornate tabard. Merlin trailed behind Arthur,and when the druid spotted Christopher, he gave him a slow, serious nod.

  The king looked at the crowd that had gathered around the clearing, then he frowned. “I thought this was to be a private council,” he said.

  “We could spend most of the morning driving them away, but I think it is wise to get this council under­ way,” Merlin said to him. “If they are silent, they will pose no problem.”

  “I hope you’re right, Merlin,” Arthur fired back. Then he stepped to the center of the clearing and raised a hand. “Silence.” The murmuring tapered off, but a few of the junior squires were still chattering behind the king. He whirled around to face them. “Silence!” The word trailed off and fell away into the chirping of the birds and the rustle of the leaves by the breeze. “Battle lords, you will come forward and be seated in a circle around this clearing.”

  “My lord, I beg your pardon,” Nolan said, scratching an itch on his temple, “but you want us to sit on the dirt here”?

  “Yes—without protest.”

  And Nolan was the first and last man to argue.

  Slowly, the battle lords were seated in the ordered circle. There was something about this formation that struck Christopher. He would be standing in the middle of them, telling his story, looking down at them. They were not up on a dais, appearing high and mighty and very intimidating. The king had obviously planned this arrangement, and Christopher would thank the man for it, no matter how the council decided.

  “Now,” Arthur began, “we will first hear from Lord Uryens, who will speak for the council majority.” Arthur moved to the perimeter of the circle and found a seat of his own on the ground.

  Uryens had some trouble getting up, and one of his junior squires rushed to aid him as the other battle lords began to hoot and guffaw.

  “Enough!” Arthur yelled.

  The laughs died off as Uryens moved to the center of the clearing and faced Christopher. “We, the council of battle lords, based on what we have seen and heard, do hereby accuse Christopher of Shores of the murder of Lord Woodward of Shores. It is pointless to drag through every minor detail. What we know is this: Woodward set a meeting with Christopher the day before the latter was to return to service. Woodward was found dead on the very spot in which I now stand. The morrow after, when asked about Woodward, Christopher lied and said he had not seen him, when, in fact he had left Woodward dead. And then the boy dis­ appeared for nearly a whole year. Everyone who knew Christopher and Woodward or anything about the mur­der has been questioned.” He looked Christopher straight
in the eye. “The guilty finger points to you, boy. We’ve had many moons to make up our minds.”

  “Are you finished?” Arthur asked the battle lord.

  He cocked his head to regard the king. “Not yet.” He turned and began to pace along the perimeter of battle lords, firing occasional glances at Christopher. “Not only do the events—Woodward’s murder, your lying and sudden disappearance—point the finger at you, but you had a reason to kill Woodward, didn’t you?”

  Though Uryens’s gaze was now fully upon him, Christopher was unsure if he was supposed to answer. He looked to the king.

  “Do you want him to answer?” Arthur asked the bat­tle lord.

  “I’ll answer it for him, and I beg of you, I don’t mean to shock everyone present. But Christopher here had a son out of wedlock with the former princess Marigween, a woman who all knew was betrothed to Woodward.”

  Uryens had set the crowd up for a gasp, and it was no surprise to Christopher that it came.

  “You see,” the battle lord went on, resuming his circu­lar pace, “Woodward was a problem for Christopher. He had betrayed the very master he was supposed to serve. And when Woodward called a meeting out here, perhaps a private one to discuss their relationship, Christopher saw it as a perfect opportunity to rid a problem from his life. But he’s not a very good murderer. He left many of his ends untied. And so we stand—excuse me, sit —here this day, and are finally able to mete out justice.” Uryens returned to his place and was helped to the ground by his squire.

  Christopher looked to Arthur, whose gaze found his. “Christopher, you may speak now.”

  He began to step into the circle when a hand seized the back of his shirt and yanked him backward. He turned to find Orvin standing behind him. “Wait here,” the old man said. He moved in front of Christopher and went to Arthur, then spoke softly to the king. Christopher could not hear their words, but after a moment Arthur produced a ring of keys from his pocket and handed them to Orvin, who returned to Christopher. “I almost forgot, young saint,” Orvin said as he unlocked Christopher’s shackles. “Accept my apology.”