by Peter Telep
The door slammed inward and connected with Christopher’s forehead, knocking him flat onto his back. He heard the man’s voice before he saw him. “Why do you keep running, Kimball? Why don’t we finish this here and now?”
Christopher’s gaze focused on the tip of Seaver’s spatha, which was poised about a thumb’s length away from his nose. He pushed himself backward in a crab walk retreat, his dagger still concealed in his grip.
Seaver advanced, holding the gap with his spatha. “What is this?” The voice belonged to a man, and it came from behind them.
The short Saxon turned his head, and in that flash Christopher lifted his right leg and slammed his boot into Seaver’s blade, knocking it away but not out of the Saxon’s grip. He sat up while simultaneously flipping his wrist up and bringing his dagger to bear. He brought it down toward Seaver’s foot.
But the short man was faster, jumping out of the way as the blade sank into the wooden floor of the shop. Christopher heard the merchant stepping from around the counter, and he saw that Seaver now moved away. Christopher craned his neck in time to see Seaver thrust his spatha into the merchant’s heart and withdraw it as quickly.
“You’ve killed me!” the man yelled, then collapsed to his stomach.
Christopher wrenched his dagger out of the floor, then hauled himself up. Through the open door of the shop, he caught a glimpse of one of the elite guards walking by; the young man’s gaze swept the street from side to side, and his crossbow was at the ready.
“They catch us,” he began, turning his attention fully to Seaver, who closed in with his spatha, “and we’re both dead.”
Seaver narrowed his brow. “I failed Woden, Kimball. That’s why you came here. That’s why you’ve ruined my new life.” He beat a fist once on his chest. “I’m already dead because I gave up his work.”
“I came for Marigween. But she won’t leave. And so I’m going. Just let me go,” Christopher said, then gently eased the door closed behind him. “Why try to kill me? What does any of it matter? What does revenge matter?
We were once friends. Let me go and you’ll have your life back. I didn’t ruin anything.”
“I lost my command because of you. And now I’ve lost her,” he said.
“Are you listening? You haven’t lost her. She will not leave.”
“She will. She’ll leave for you. But—” he trailed off into his thought, paused, then lunged with his blade.
Christopher parried with his dagger, but the blade slid off the much larger weapon, which kept coming at him. Were it not for a reflexive tum to the right, the point of the spatha would have struck him squarely in the heart. As it was, the blade caught his left shoulder at a tight angle, and the dreaded sting came. But he kept turning, pulling the blade out of his shoulder, freeing himself of the short man. He knew the wound was more slice than stab, but he couldn’t sense how bad it was.
He bolted forward, rounded the counter and headed into the hall toward the rear door of the shop. As he reached the intersecting hall, he realized that someone on the other side of the door was pounding on it. Suddenly, the rear exit did not look promising. He turned around. Seaver came toward him. He stole a look to his right, saw a staircase, then started for it. Now he felt his shoulder begin to throb, and he detected the dampness of blood on his shirt.
Taking the stairs two at a time, in short order he reached a small landing, then turned and hustled up a dozen more steps. He reached a door, threw the latch, and shuffled into a sleeping quarters that looked generally dusty, unused, and reeked of mold. There was a large, open window on the opposite side of the room that looked down onto the market street, and a bed up against the right wall. To his immediate left was a small desk clutteired with scrolls, and behind it several travel ing trunks. He turned, closed the door, then threw the inside latch. He backed away from the door, expecting Seaver to begin rapping on it. He waited, but heard nothing, save for a few shouts, the bark of a dog from down below in the street, and the very distant tapping of someone on the rear door of the shop. The pungent smell of the room was a curiosity, and he could not understand its presence in light of the open window. He moved to the bed, took a long whiff of the woolen blanket covering it, and realized the odor was created by the blanket. It smelled as if someone had died in the bed. He rose and stepped backward, and for a moment, his gaze froze.
The bed, the blanket, the room. He’d seen them before. They were from the vision he’d had in the channel. A strange shock rocked through him, made him feel dizzy, made him feel as if he stood outside of his body. Perhaps the vision he’d seen in the channel was of his own future. But where was—
He heard someone crying. A woman. And then a baby added its tiny voice to the lamenting. Outside, he heard people shouting. For a heartbeat, he felt as if he could not lift his head, but the sensation vanished, and he looked up.
Marigween stood behind the closed door, her child in her arms. She stared at the bed, and her eyes brimmed with tears. Christopher looked toward the object of her sorrow.
Seaver was on his back, eyes closed, the hilt of a dagger sticking from his chest. Christopher averted his gaze and opened his palm, his empty palm, the palm where his dagger had once been. Then he looked at Marigween and thought of all that had happened to her, all he had put her through. She had found a small corner of peace, of love, and even that he had taken from her.
The door to the room smashed inward and passed through the image of Marigween and her child. They dissolved into the form of Seaver, who came wildly for ward and broke his fall on the bed. He pushed up on his forearms and stood. He steadied himself and lifted his spatha, then crossed slowly around the bed.
Christopher backed toward the window, then chanced a look down. No, he would not be doing much walking in this lifetime if he opted to jump. Not only that, it seemed that the number of guards combing the street had doubled. He already saw three. It would be hard to run from them with broken legs.
He turned his attention back to Seaver, then let the dagger fall from his palm and clatter softly onto the floor. “I cannot fight you, Seaver. Marigween needs you.”
“What kind of noble folly is this?” Seaver asked, his bewilderment splayed across his face. “You would have me kill you now—and not defend yourself?”
Christopher shook his head, no, not to the question but to accompany his own thought. “We don’t have to fight. All you have to do is walk away.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Doyle said, standing before the open door, rolling his dagger in his palm.
Seaver spun around, took one look at Doyle, then abruptly turned back and thrust his spatha toward Christopher’s heart.
Grimacing, Christopher caught the blade with both hands before it pierced his chest. As Seaver applied more pressure to the weapon, it slid slowly forward, cut ting into Christopher’s palms. Groaning, Christopher was forced back into the window, then smashed into it. Shards of glass rained upon his head and shoulders. He felt the thin wood of the window frame give way, and knew if Seaver pushed just a little harder he’d be on a swift trip to the ground.
But Seaver whipped the blade out of Christopher’s grip and shifted back, just as Doyle was about to bury his dagger in the nape of the short man’s neck. Seaver made a horizontal swipe across Doyle’s chest, and the archer jumped back, avoiding the spatha by a hair’s width.
“I took your fingers, archer, now I take your life.”
Seaver stepped forward and made a back slash toward Doyle, who once again dodged the blade’s path.
Christopher looked to his dagger.
Seaver kept coming at Doyle. The short Saxon made another slash left from high to low, then another back slash, then a stab, a feint, and a surprise slash at Doyle’s legs.
You have to do it. Pick up the dagger. Use it. What about Marigween?
What if Seaver kills Doyle?
The mind-set of combat fit like an old, worn-in gaunt let. Acting—not thinking—Christopher
let his body do the work. He barely felt himself lean down, shards of glass falling from him, and fetch the blade. His legs carried him across the room in three running steps, and his blade hand drew back and came forward toward Seaver’s back.
The short Saxon cocked his head over his shoulder.
But he was too late. Christopher gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as he punched the blade home, just below Seaver’s left shoulder blade. He opened his eyes and pulled back from the man.
Seaver turned slowly toward him, and his cheeks sunk in. He looked about to vomit, and his eyes begged for something. The spatha slipped from his hand.
Doyle circled around the man and retrieved the spatha. He took Seaver’s right forearm in his hand and held out the Saxon’s hand.
“No more, Doyle. He’s already going to …”
Doyle shook his head, then spoke softly in Seaver’s ear. “Let this be the last thing you feel.” He drew the spatha high over his head and brought it down on Seaver’s wrist, hacking off the short man’s hand.
As blood shot from Seaver’s wrist in irregular pulses, Doyle released the man. Seaver stepped forward. He now wore a strange, vacant look on his face. He man aged three more steps, and arrived at the window, leav ing a bloody trail in his wake. A blood pool formed at his feet. He seemed to take a look down, and then let himself fall forward.
Christopher could not move. He stared at the red ribbon on the floor that ended at a small hunk of fingered flesh. Nothing completely registered in his mind. He was aware of the fact that Seaver was now dead, but the fact meant nothing. All he could see was the path of blood.
A woman’s scream wafted up to the window, and it broke Christopher’s shock.
Doyle went to the window and gazed down. “The guards will be everywhere now. We’d best make haste.”
Christopher hazarded a look to the street. Seaver’s body lay prone, its arms and legs twisted in unnatural directions. “It’s so grim. All of this. Seaver and I, we fought with great armies, fought in castles, inspired many men. And it all comes to this. This room. This Godforsaken port. It makes me feel like our lives—his and mine—are really worth nothing.”
Doyle grabbed him by his shirt collar. “Don’t believe that. This was just an ugly matter. It’s over.” He released Christopher with a jolt. “Now we go. Monte’s downstairs with a couple of guards’ uniforms. We’ll be escorting him back to the cog as our prisoner.”
“What about Seaver’s two friends?”
Doyle raised his brow. “The guards picked them up already.” He started for the door.
“You and Monte go,” Christopher said. “I have to see Marigween one more time.”
Doyle stopped and blew out a sigh that must have contained all the air in his chest. “Why do you always have to make things difficult?”
Christopher looked at his friend, and there was some thing immediately understood between them, something Christopher could not describe but felt was there.
Doyle closed his eyes, then nodded resignedly. “All right. But Monte’s not going to like it.” He opened his eyes, squinted into a thought, then brightened. “There’s a wagon out back hitched to an old mare. We’ll use that.”
13
They approached Seaver’s toft, and some thing odd caught Christopher’s gaze. The front door on the main house swung open and creaked loudly in the breeze. Then he heard a sobbing from within the house, a sobbing that came from more than one per son. Doyle and Montague, who were hidden among the barrels on the flatbed, began to stir. Christopher reined the mare to a halt, then jumped down from the cart and ran toward the door.
He sprang into the main room, and his gaze immediately fell to the floor ahead. What he saw there brought him to his knees, made his breath stagger, and his head shudder.
Two middle-aged women sat on the floor, and one of them had Marigween’s head in her lap. Marigween’s white shift was drenched with blood from the waist down, and Christopher spotted many long slashes snaking horribly from her wrists up her delicate fore arms. The knife she’d used lay at her feet. He heard a baby’s cry, and only then noticed that the other woman cradled Devin in her arms.
“Who are you?” the one holding Marigween managed to ask.
Christopher swallowed, then gasped several times before replying in Saxon. “I am Christopher of Shores.”
“Did you know her?” the woman continued.
“Oh … dear Lord,” Montague said, from behind him.
“Who are you?” the woman asked Montague, not waiting for Christopher’s reply.
Montague’s answer was probably a look, since he neither spoke nor understood Saxon.
A hand fell upon Christopher’s shoulder, and Doyle crouched at his side. I’m sorry.”
Christopher began to tremble, and what little breath he had left threatened to vanish. “Oh, God, we shouldn’t have come.”
“It’s my fault, Christopher,” Doyle said. “I should have stopped searching.”
Christopher shut his eyes, then bowed his head. “No one’s to blame but me.”
He traced her life over and over, and he imagined what it had been like for her to have lost her mother. He knew how hard it had been for her to accept her father’s death, and worse, she had been present when the man had been murdered by Mallory. Furthermore, she had been betrothed to a man she did not love, and had a child with another man out of wedlock. She had been forced to live in seclusion and had rebelled against that life, an act which had left her so vulnerable that she had been raped. She had lost her dignity, her self respect. She had fought to regain them, and had been on the brink of winning them back—when Christopher had come along and reminded her of their lost child, of their lost love, of their lost world. He knew now his presence in Ivory Point was the blade that had ended her life.
“Your friends are Celts,” the woman said, cutting Christopher’s dark reverie short. “Like her.”
Christopher looked up at the woman. I’m also a Celt.
Marigween was the mother of my child.” “This child”? the other woman asked. “No, but what will happen to this one?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll raise him if Yorn will permit it.” “Will you bum her”?
The woman who held Marigween nodded.
Christopher shifted forward on his knees. He leaned over Marigween and ran his fingers along her cheek. There was a time when he had seen her as an angel, an angel in a pale linen shift that flowed like ivory honey over her lithe frame. Her eyes had lit on him, and a lance of adrenaline had impaled his being. Without thinking, only reacting, he had dismounted and ran toward her, calling, “Marigween,” as he did now, “Marigween, Marigween, Marigween.”
She had been a dream. A dream made real.
14
The journey back to Blytheheart could not have been more miserable. The cog ran head-on into a storm which threatened to sink the vessel. Christopher spent two days vomiting in the crew’s cabin, and he felt the storm and the nausea were, in part, small pun ishments for what had happened to Marigween … He deserved to be ill. He deserved to be punished for a very long time. While Doyle and Montague feared for their lives, clinging nervously to their hammocks, Christopher was not at all concerned with dying. He could not stop thinking about her. He repeatedly unfurled the scrolls of the past, flipped from image to image, but always came back to her pale, lifeless face. With every fall of the ship he felt himself sink deeper and deeper into despair. He argued with himself that he should have fought to take Marigween’s body back to Shores where she could be given a proper funeral. He said that he should have taken her child and found a way to raise it as his own, instead of leaving it with the women. But doing those things took time, and time they did not have. They had been forced to leave Ivory Point to avoid being captured by the elite guards. Staying any longer would have further endangered his friends. He reassured himself that another time would come. One day he might go back for the child. But then he told himself that was
a lie. Then he told him self it was not. The guilt roared and he beat it back. He clamped its snout in his hand, but then let it go.
He’d eaten very little during the trip, and by the time they moored at Blytheheart on a cool, clear evening, Doyle told him that he looked gaunt and pale, and had better start eating. They went to the inn, and Christopher asked to be left alone in his room with Baines. The boy soon fell asleep in his arms, and then, after several hours, a knock came at the door, and dis gusted, Christopher rose from the trestle bed and answered it.
Marigween’s uncle Robert stood in the doorway, looking tired and sullen. “Christopher. May I come in?”
Christopher nodded and made way as the heavy monk ambled into the room. Robert crossed to the window chair, turned it toward the bed, then sat down. Christopher took the monk’s cue and plopped himself gently on his bed, careful not to wake Baines. “Montague told you?” he asked quietly.
Robert nodded, and then a tear slipped from one of his eyes. He wiped his cheek, then said, “There was so much pain in her life. But she was strong. I thought—” “She’s gone to hell, hasn’t she”? Christopher asked darkly.
“I do not know,” Robert said, but it sounded like a lie, a denial, a fact he did not want to face.
“You should,” Christopher countered. “You’re angry.”
“At myself.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Christopher looked away. “What do you know of my innocence?”
“I know a lot. She wrote me.”
“But she didn’t tell you everything.” Christopher looked to his sleeping son.
“No.”
He sighed, then tossed the monk a sour look. “Why are you here?
“For brotherhood,” he replied, leaning forward. “It’s not God’s will that you suffer alone.”
Christopher pushed himself off of the bed, walked around the monk and went to the window. He stared down at the street, a strip of ruts, sand, and shadows that was devoid of people. “Was it God’s will that I was blamed for a murder? Was it God’s will that Marigween was raped and then took her own life because of me?” He craned his head to glare at the monk, balling his hands into fists. “I took everything I believe, the code of knights and squires, and threw it all away to try to save her. I stole, I killed, I used my friends—all for nothing.” “No, not for nothing,” Robert said, raising his voice. “You thought only of her. You wanted to help her, and you did everything you could.”