Squire's Honor

by Peter Telep

  Christopher huff ed. “How do you know?”

  “Your friend Doyle told me everything.” He stood, fixing Christopher with a hard look. “All of us have suf­fered, Christopher. You, me, your friends. We all tried to act rightly and justly. And God knows that. But it was not God’s will that Marigween live. We must believe that. He has a purpose for what He does. And we must not question His will.”

  “But we never had a chance,” Christopher said, feel­ ing the bum of tears in his eyes, “we never had a chance to become a real family. Why would God not want that for us”?

  Robert closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Perhaps for you, he still does.”

  15

  “You must have resembled him when you were his age,” Brenna said, smiling at Baines, whose gaze was fixed on the ceiling of her tent. The shifting shadows of the boughs of the trees that hung over the shelter seemed to pass through the fabric and create a pattern of dancing lines for the young one’s entertain­ment.

  Christopher unfolded his legs to stretch them. “I’m going to see King Arthur this evening. Would you mind watching him? I was going to leave him with Orvin, but I’m afraid of what he might feed him. Have you ever tasted Orvin’s cooking?”

  Brenna smiled. “I’ll watch him,” she said, then smiled more deeply over something else. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked me about the council.”

  “I saw Neil. He told me the council’s decision,” Christopher informed her.

  “And what do you think?”

  “I’m not sure.” He looked at her intently. “Brenna, you can tell me now. Did you do it?”

  She bit her lower lip and sighed. “I wish I had; then all of this would truly be over.”

  “Do you know who did it? Did Neil or Robert of Queen’s Camel?”

  “No, of course not. But we’ve all been banished just the same.”

  “At least they believe that whoever killed Woodward did it to save me,” Christopher added. “That kept you all from the gallows tree, though I doubt any of you would have made it there. Orvin would’ve figured out something.”

  “They decided to spare us by one voice.” “So you’ll leave on the morrow”? he asked. She nodded. “I’ve sent word to Doyle.”

  “I’ll be going with you,” Christopher said. “No, you cannot. Arthur will want you here.”

  Christopher frowned. “For what? I’m not in his service. And what other knight would want me as a senior squire?”

  “It would be best to talk to the king about that.”

  He sighed. “I will. I wish I could go to him immedi­ ately, but he insists on seeing me this evening.”

  She paused, then said, “There’s something else. It’s about Marigween—”

  And that was as far as he let her go. “You’ve already said you’re sorry. And so has everyone else. I don’t want to talk about what happened.”

  “I know, but it’s more about me than her.” Still seated, she pushed herself closer to him, then lowered her voice. “I must tell you that I once wished she—”

  “Don’t say it. Don’t.” “I have to.”

  “Forget it. It’s over. We’re on to another life.” “You told me that in some other life I am—” “You are my bride. And will always be.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Have you been watching the sky with Orvin, my lord?” Christopher asked Arthur as they strolled along the east side of the castle’s moat.

  “I have not, but that figure up there is well-known.” Arthur paused to take another look at the stars. “Just as you were named after the patron saint of travelers, so was I after those stars. Arth, the great bear.”

  “A fitting name, my lord,” Christopher said, gazing at the points of light scattered across the dark blue vault.

  “They’re part of the dream, as I wish you were a part of it. But there are things in this world more important than wishes.” He lowered his head and turned his green eyes on Christopher.

  “Then you’ll honor my request, my lord?” he asked.

  Arthur lowered his gaze slightly. “The day your friends were banished was the day I knew I had lost you.”

  Christopher tensed. “May I ask you something, my lord?” Arthur nodded.

  “When I was stripped of my rank as squire of the body, why did you place me in Woodward’s service when you knew there would be hostility between us?”

  The king drew in a long breath. “The truth is, I thought I could teach you a hard lesson, one you needed to learn. I never saw this future.”

  Christopher nodded slightly at the irony. “Nor I.”

  Arthur returned his attention to the night sky. “You’ll leave, but you won’t be far.” He stroked his beard and squinted in thought. “I don’t know what it is that makes me so fond of you, Christopher. Others have asked me, and I have no answer for them. I do see myself in you, but there is something else, something about you that makes me believe that my kingdom will sorely miss your heart and spirit.” He sighed. “I hate to see you go.” Then he looked down to Christopher. “If I ever call, will you come?”

  Christopher did not hesitate. “I will, my lord.”

  “One land, one king under these stars. The day has come. A free land for all, even Saxons, Picts, Angles, and Jutes. I spared some of Kenric’s battle lords and offered them their freedom in exchange for spreading the word of a truce. Already the trade is free, why not the land?”

  He shrugged, for he had no answer. In fact, he had argued that very same point to Arthur moons ago; to hear his words echo from the king was nothing short of miraculous. “I share your dream, my lord. And even in Blytheheart, I will still be a part of it.”

  Arthur turned and resumed his pace. “What will you do there?”

  Christopher joined the king. “I’ve a son to raise, and saddles to make.” He smiled, though he knew the king could not see him. “I remember how much I had despised saddle making, and how much I had wanted to become a squire.”

  “Ah, yes, life sometimes takes you back to where you started. But you do not have to complete your circle, Christopher, you could join mine. Leondegrance is giv­ing me a round table for my knights. You could be at that table.”

  Christopher pursed his lips. Yes, he could see himself very clearly, a knight, admired, loved, respected, and honored by all. But he saw only himself, not his friends, or his son. “It is not my time, my lord.”

  The king stopped again, then faced him. “Still a true servant?”

  “Always.”

  The king withdrew his broadsword from his scab­ bard and raised it over Christopher’s head. “You already possess a knight’s heart. You simply need to be conferred.”

  Christopher was about to raise his hand and stop the blade, just as he had the first time Arthur had tried to make him a knight. But the king lowered the blade and turned the hilt toward him, offering him the weapon. And then he recognized it as the broadsword Baines had given him long ago, the one Christopher had lost in his escape from the castle.

  “You found it,” Christopher said excitedly, then took the sword into his grip and let his gaze run up and down its length.

  “An archer stumbled upon it when storming the walls,” Arthur answered. “Your friend Neil knew it was yours. It is a magnificent weapon. It is a knight’s sword.”

  He looked at the king, and then felt a tingle rise up his back. “Thank you.”

  “Hold on to it. You may need it one day.” Arthur’s smile glistened.

  Christopher straightened. “By your leave?”

  “Good-bye, Christopher. May God bless and keep you.”

  “Farewell, my lord. And may God bless you and the kingdom.”

  Christopher slowly turned away, and it hurt to put his back to Arthur. He started off in the direction they had come, back toward the wandering chain of cookfire lights that led to the ramparts.

  He had told Brenna he would never forget where his home was, and though he would be off to Blytheheart on the morrow with her, Robert,
and Neil, he knew he would one day return to this place, this place called Shores, this place Arthur now called Camelot.