by Peter Telep
“Then-“-
“I fell intentionally. ” Baines pulled himself up, brushed his tunic and breeches off. “I’ve taught you to ride a rounsey, carrying sword and shield-not an easy skill. I’ve heard lords say if a boy cannot ride by thirteen, he will never learn properly. But can you fall?”
“I have. Twice,” Christopher answered. “Both times I walked with the pain for days.” Christopher remembered the early evening he was allowed to ride a loriner’s hackney. He had started forward near the wood, lost his balance, and come crashing down on a thicket that cut lines in his back through his shirt.
“You have seconds to decide which way to adjust your body. One wrong move and you may break your neck. A proper motion will deny you walking pain. Mount my horse.”
Christopher did so and moved the steed around and back to the edge of the clearing. He shouted and dug his heels in as Baines had done. He felt the wind rush over his face and the muscular rhythm of the horse. He reached the halfway point. Time to throw himself off. Icicles of fear pierced his nerves. He tried, couldn’t, kept going, reined in at the other side. He rode back to where Baines was, feeling dejected, a failure.
“Your memory of pain is too clear. It will take time to conquer the fear-but you will.”
“Maybe.” Baines’s confidence in him made Christopher’s spirits rise one level in the darkness.
“Why do you wish to become a squire?” Baines asked. “Besides the fact you loathe saddle making.”
Christopher considered the question for a long moment. It was a feeling coiled around his heart, one he could not describe. “I’m drawn.”
Baines nodded his understanding, then gestured that they leave. As they slipped back into the wood, Baines said, “We’re going to the Cam. I have some thing I want to show you.”
Those words were too familiar to Christopher.
8
Garrett gazed at Quinn’s funeral pyre all afternoon. Only embers now, a thin wandering line of smoke trailed up and was dispersed by winds, which also swept the sky azure, giving way to the sun. Within Garrett’s head a black, motionless sea with reflective waters drowned his thoughts, choking hope, memory, future. A cyst of violence grew in him, tensed every muscle. A hand touched his shoul der, and he jerked his head around.
“Lord,” Elgar said, his voice smooth and whispery, “The tents are packed. The cookfires are doused.”
Garrett turned back to the pyre. “You were the filth of the land when I found you. What every Celt imagined a Saxon would be. Blackened, wearing arm rings, and riding short horses with no saddles. You were stupid and vulnerable.”
Elgar did not answer, let his hand drop off Garrett’s shoulder. ·
“I made you who you are,” Garrett continued. “I brought you the great war-horses from the north; I showed you how to ride, to fight, to win.” Garrett swallowed, rubbed his forehead, then spit into the pyre. “And this is how-”
“Not me,” Elgar interjected. “A few who would take our campaign into their own hands. We are not responsible. Only them.”
“Why didn’t you stop them?” “We didn’t know.”
“I have lost faith in my men. I do not trust them now. Maybe I don’t trust you, Elgar.”
Elgar moved in front of Garrett and hunkered down, blocking Garrett’s view of the pyre. “I have taken what you have done for us and buried it here.” Elgar smacked his chest. “I will always be loyal. You have to believe in that.”
Garrett stood, and Elgar followed. Garrett stared into the man’s eyes, tried to read what he could from those flecked irises. “Do not betray me, Elgar. It is a plea. And a threat.”
Elgar nodded. “What is our destination now?” “Shores.”
“We lost many men there,” Elgar reminded. “And Hasdale has reinforced the towers with a larger; better-equipped army.”
“We won’t have to attack the castle. I want the village burned to the ground. If all goes well, I plan to have Hasdale’s baby son in my arms when he turns his lands over to me.”
Garrett pivoted away and marched toward his waiting courser. Was it Quinn’s death that sparked this sudden attack on Shores? The thought had floated in his head since his first defeat there, though the odds of victory seemed slimmer as the years had gone by. Now it was all or nothing. Was he just being reckless, trying to prove to himself that the words he spoke to Quinn were truth? Garrett felt a nerve in his eyelid flutter as his foot slid into the stirrup. M y life will not be in vain, Garrett thought. As it seems my brother’s was. God help him.
Garrett and Elgar led the long line that was the Saxon army down from the hills toward the quiet nest of Shores.
9
Their reflections were perfect in the water.
As his rounsey drank from the Cam, Baines led
Christopher through the marshy, mysterious shore line. Their sandals became encased in mud, but Christopher didn’t mind. The cool sensation was good and took away the occasional itch he got in the warmer months. The humidity was high, and by the time they reached Baines’s destination both boys had sweat dripping from their brows. Christopher wiped his forehead, then eyed the landscape. They were standing in tall grass near the water. In the distance, trees were sparse, and cattle grazed, their heads low and their bellies full. Above the c9ws, crows circled and swooped down on unseen prey.
So what wonder was Baines to show Christopher now? In the past it had been naked women, dismem bered corpses, stolen jewels, and, perhaps the most dangerous of all, with a captured Saxon, who hung shackled to a wall deep in the belly of the keep. “Want to see a real Saxon up close?” Baines had asked. Christopher remembered the feeling of the Saxon’s spittle as it ran down his cheek. The man did not want to be taunted by two boys, and his only defense had been his mouth.
But what now? How would Baines top himself, Christopher wondered, here in the middle of nowhere? Sanborn and Cornelia would be home soon from the chapel, so Baines had better make haste.
Christopher’s friend dug around in the grass, close to the earth. This Christopher found even more odd. “What are you doing?” he asked.
Baines became more frustrated as he pushed tall blades of grass and reeds aside, finding only mud below. He kept his gaze fixed on his search as he answered, “I know it has to be here-wait!”
Baines leaned down and came up with a package wrapped tightly in brown wool and tied with leather string. It was long, rectangular, and Christopher guessed right away it must be a weapon.
“Let’s go back,” Baines said, tucking the package under his arm.
“What is it? A mace, javelin, sword?”
“Patience, Chris.”
“The heat has taken mine away.”
“I’ll show it to you and then we’ll go for a swim.”
“Good!” Then Christopher remembered he was supposed to be back at the toft working on more sad dles, making the asses of knights comfortable as they paraded into battle. I comfort the asses of men! he thought. Where is the glory in it? “Maybe we’ll have to skip the swim. I have to get back,” he told Baines, not happy or comfortable with a word he uttered.
“If you must.”
They returned to the spot where they had left the rounsey. Baines got on his haunches near the horse and unwrappedthe package. The object that . emerged from within the wool reflected the sun with even more intensity than the Cam. It was a weapon, all right. A broadsword. The most ornate and intri cately detailed blade Christopher had ever set eyes on.
“Where did you get it?” he asked Baines.
“You would not be happy if I told you. Suffice it to say I have it now and it is mine. I’ve hidden it here for a while but I fear someone will come upon it.” Baines rose with the sword, gripping the hilt with both hands. “I want you to have it. It will be yours but best you hide it, perhaps in your yard, or your loft. Never show it to anyone.”
“Tell me how you got it-or I won’t take it.” If possessing the sword was dangerous, Christo
pher needed to know why.
Baines was apprehensive. He sighed, twirled around, and struck a patch of grass with the blade, mowing it down instantly. “You must take it. It’s too great a prize to toss away.”
“How did you get it.” Christopher held firm. “I stole it from the lord. Satisfied?”
Christopher stared at Baines, as if he suddenly did not recognize him. How could his friend do such a thing? Steal one of his own lord’s swords? “Why did you do it?”
Baines’s gaze would not meet Christopher’s. “He has over a dozen spathas. It is such a waste. He never uses it. All the smith’s work has been wasted.”
“Why didn’t you just ask the lord for it?”
“He would never let me have it. I’m not worthy of a sword such as this.”
“You have to give it back. I won’t take it from you.” Christopher considered how much fun they could have practicing with the sword, how much trouble Baines would be in if he confessed to Hasdale what he had done, how great the punishment would be. Right and wrong were very clear, but right meant punishment and wrong meant fun. Baines had always opted for fun.
Christopher continued, “I know you’re thinking you will be in a lot of trouble if you give the sword back. But you are a squire. You told me a squire must be true and loyal to his knight, yet you are not true.”
“Perhaps I can replace the sword without Hasdale knowing. He has yet to notice its absence.” Baines’s eyes were wide with the idea.
“Is that being true and loyal?”
Christopher watched as Baines’s gaze dropped to the earth. He had struck a chord in his friend, the same one he had struck times before.
Baines looked up, his face full of guilt. “You are my conscience, Christopher,” he said. “And maybe that is why you are such a good friend. Would you like to try it out before I return it to Hasdale and con fess my crime?”
Christopher slowly smiled, first for Baines’s com pliance with right, second for the opportunity to wield a great broadsword. He had played with the simple, functional spathas down Armorers’ Row, those used by the garrison and villagers alike, but never a true fighting sword, one that was almost mystical in its proportions, as if it had been forged by the hands of some greater force, perhaps even God. As Christopher took the blade in his hands, he felt some thing on the order of love, not for the object, but for the moment to be physically linked to a life which was only a dream. The sword represented that world, that existence which worked on a higher level than saddle making. He held the blade up close to his face, studied the metal, saw his own eyes, reflected by the blade, deepen with intensity. He felt as if he could stand here in the mud, gripping the hilt of the sword, forever, for to let the sword go would be to let the dream go. His mind created greater symbols than truly existed.
“It looks good in your hands,” Baines said. “Why don’t you attack the Saxon grass. Show it your power.”
Christopher’s trance was broken by Baines’s words. “What?”
“Try it out,” Baines suggested.
Christopher turned from Baines and struck a mighty blow to the barbaric, waving grass, chopping off the advancing blades with the single stroke.
“I see fear in their eyes, those Saxons. They will return to their camps in the hills with stories of the mighty Christopher, who, with his unstoppable blade, cut hordes of them down in a single afternoon.”
Christopher laughed as he lowered the sword. “Those days will never come for me. I’m next in line to become a member of the saddler’s guild, remember?”
Baines shrugged. “There must be a way out.” “There is no way out of bad blood. There is only fate.”
‘‘Why? Why must you bow down to something you despise?”
“I must obey my parents.”
“Yes, you must. But must they control your future?”
“I’m helpless.”
“This is a problem we will work on,” Baines said. “Now how about that swim?”
All this questioning of his future and the dismal direction in which it was heading made Christopher rebellious. Why must he obey his parents? Why couldn’t he ask Hasdale if he could become a squire? Would it truly kill his father and mother if he did so? Why must he return now to sit in the thick air of the workshop and labor over a saddle when he could enjoy a cool swim?
Christopher pulled down his breeches. “A swim it is.” A moment later the two boys were naked and splashing about in the Cam, the only disturbance on otherwise tranquil waters.
Christopher went under the water and held himself there. He enjoyed the refreshment and absolute solitude the Cam provided. He closed his eyes and pic tured himself coming home that very afternoon and breaking the news to Sanborn and Cornelia that he wanted to become a squire.
Sanborn would be screwed into his workbench, as always, as if it were a part of his own body. Cornelia would be at the mud oven cooking lunch, or gather ing vegetables in the backyard as was her wont in the afternoons. When he entered, Christopher knew it would go thusly:
“The saddle for Steward Farrel has been waiting for you all morning. Where have you been?”
“Out with Baines.”
Sanborn would rise and fire off that look, the one that tore Christopher’s soul apart and promised a whipping afterward. “Out with Baines? Again? And why do I find the Tressel’s saddle on the floor? Why do I come home and find your bench abandoned and you out taking in joys? Why must you make me whip you? I love you, Christopher. You are my son. Make me proud-not ashamed.”
His father had another talent besides saddle making. He knew how to combine love with guilt, deriv ing from the mixture a substance as potent and lethal to Christopher’s dreams and aspirations as a battle-ax to the heart.
Now, how would he break the news?
Cornelia would come in and provide more fuel to the dream-burning fire. “Your father works day and night to provide a good home and a good future for you, Christopher. You owe him your honor and your respect. How quickly you forget that when you gallop off with Baines.”
The poisonous mixture would take effect, and Christopher would swallow back his words; bury his notions to become more than a simple saddle maker because he owed it to his parents to become one.
But did he?
Did he have to sacrifice his life for them just because they were his parents? By giving birth to him, did his own mother actually curse him to a life of leather and hammers and foul smells? Why did she have to marry a saddle maker? Why not a knight? Damned fate! Damned fate!
None of this would solve the problem. He needed a plan of attack, one which would shield him from the guilt. Christopher exploded out of the water, inhaling deeply. He raked his hair off his face and rubbed his eyes with the backs of his index fingers. He looked around. Baines was gone.
“Baines!” The rounsey was still watering on the shoreline, so his friend could not be far.
Then Christopher saw it. Smoke.
Clouds of blackness rose from the distant tree line. Not some traveling band’s cookfires, but a tremendous fire blazing from the direction of Shores. But how had it started so fast? He had only been under the water for a minute.
Baines broke through the tall grass. He was deeply worried and his eyes never left the smoke. “Let’s go!” Christopher’s future was suddenly very petty in the shadow of the smoke. Here he was in the water worrying about how to tell his parents the truth, and in the meantime his past flamed away.
Christopher mustered all his force and drudged his way through the water and onto the shoreline. He tugged on his breeches and tunic, then hopped onto the rounsey with Baines.
“The sword!” Baines pointed at the blade lying on top of the wool wrapping.
“Forget it!”
“No,” Baines said. “We may need it.”
Baines’s words sent fear rushing through Christopher’s veins. Please let it be only a fire, he prayed silently as he climbed back down from the horse and fetched the bl
ade. He swung himself up behind Baines, clutching the weapon in a trembling hand.
They started off, and once beyond the marshy area around the Cam, they were at full gallop over a path cutting between two open fields of low-lying grass, an emerald sea whipping by them. Muscles in their steed’s legs flexed, and hooves pounded the dirt.
Christopher’s eyes went repeatedly to the sword as they traveled. Could he use it if he had to? Should Baines use it? Should he let Baines use it? He had never killed a man before. In fact, he had never struck a man with an actual blade before. He had never even seen a real battle before. Should they hide if Shores were under siege? They didn’t stand a chance if they engaged the enemy, did they? Perhaps all this worrying is for nothing and it’s only a fire. Yes, that’s it. Only a fire.
When they reached the end of the path and the beginnings of the forest that would open up into the village of Shores, they found a dead man lying in the dirt, a mace buried in his skull, the hilt stick ing out like some odd handle with which to carry him around.
Baines reined in the rounsey, and the two boys stared at the corpse. The man was not more than twenty, his face contorted in terror.
“That’s Ames,” Christopher said. “I spoke to him about a pommel only a few days ago.”
“Saxon bastards!” Baines cried. He dug his boots into the horse and they lurched forward.
Christopher gulped down saliva and repressed a shudder as they entered the forest and made a ser pentine path around trunks and brush. The shouts of unseen men and the terrified cries of women drew closer. Tears began to well in Christopher’s eyes. M y home, he thought. My home.
10
Garrett’s spy stood on the forward wall walk of Hasdale’s castle, gazing at the tremendous mushrooms of death sprouting above the nearby Shores.
Garrett had trained the spy well. He passed per fectly now. He spoke, drank, fought, and even loved like a Celt. But underneath his civilized mask was the mind of a barbarian, a Saxon true to soul. He took the name Kenneth, for he was the most comely of his Saxon brothers. And so it was he had come to the castle of Lord Hasdale bearing a message and gift for the lord from the imaginary Sir Lincoln of Lowthean. Lord Hasdale and Lady Fiona fell easily under his charm, and for the past moon he had been able to move freely within the castle.