by Peter Telep
“That’s very good.”
Christopher went to the mule, and not disturbing it, placed his tape over the coarse gray hairs, taking width and length of the animal’s back. He made mental note of the measurements and repeated them twice in his head. “Your backside is in good hands,” Christopher joked, then turned toward the door of the hut. “I have work to do.”
Orvin nodded, then started for the mule. “Come on now, Cara.”
Christopher looked over his shoulder. The mule continued to drink, and though stubbornness was common in such a creature, Christopher could see by the look on Orvin’s face that he had long since aban doned his patience and eyed the beast with complete contempt.
“Fine, then. You stay here all day drinking from this filthy hole. And if you fall ill-do not seek com forts from me.” Orvin stiffened and marched off.·
The mule’s eyes did not leave the pond. Christopher grinned, then slipped inside the hut.
March and Torrey, the two leatherdressers who worked there and men with whom Christopher had dealt on many occasions, were out delivering saddles to a party of archers who had assembled in a practice field near the Cam. March and Torrey were not freemen as Christopher and his father were. They were serfs who resided in the castle and paid their rent in leather services. At least Hasdale was a fair man and regarded the saddles March and Torrey made as equal in worth to the ones he commissioned by those on Leatherdressers’ Row. But Christopher had twice come across the careless work the men tried to pass off as quality. He smiled inwardly as he examined some of the finished saddles hanging from the rear wall of the hut. I could teach them a lesson or two, he thought.
Christopher cleared himself a spot on the long bench that made up most of the small box around him, left the door open to lessen the stench, then sat down to work. He spread out a large piece of tanned leather over the table, but was interrupted by the sound of laughter from outside. Christopher looked up, and through the open doorway could see, on the opposite side of the pond, three young girls who stared at him, whispered secrets in each others’ ears, and giggled. One of them looked vaguely familiar, but Christopher could not place her. He rose from the bench and went outside the hut. Even though he had just started, it was good to get out for a moment. The hut warmed up as the midday sun beat down with a steady, inaudible rhythm on the wooden tim bers of the roof. The air carried the scent of the girls, a pleasant, almost soaplike smell that wafted and drowned out the rotting fumes of the pond.
They were all about thirteen, more or less, and Christopher wondered why they were not at work in the keep, sewing, mending, receiving instruction from their mothers. Their brightly dyed livery glowed with more color than Christopher had ever seen on anyone. The girls of Shores wore plain, workaday clothes that were uninteresting to his eyes. But these were castle girls, and Christopher was completely attracted to them.
One of the girls wore a headband woven of dark leather, the color matching her hair. She was the one that he seemed to recognize, but again, her smile and the flicker in her eyes set off no triggers in his mind. Her dress was the brightest of all, a green that was deeper and held more secrets than the hills of Somerset.
She spoke to him. “Is that your mule?”
Christopher glanced at Cara, the tired old animal that Orvin so loved and so hated, then returned his attention to the girl. “No.”
Christopher detected his own reticence building; he wondered if words were going to continue.
She’s beautiful.
“Oh,” she said.
Christopher smiled. He felt his stomach edge a bit toward his knees. Words were no longer a luxury he possessed. ·
The two other girls were much more timid; they kept to themselves and found the boldness of their friend entertaining and lived vicariously through it. Christopher sensed she would be the only one talking.
“What is your name?” she asked.
You have to answer her. Now think! Say it slowly, pla y it over a few times. M y name is Christopher. I’m Christopher. Christopher. Chris.
“Uh …” He had to swallow. And then, finally, “It’s Christopher.”
“Are you from Shores?” She continued her exami nation of him, and he could see how comfortable she was conversing with him and suddenly he was very jealous of her. How dare she not be nervous.
If she’s not nervous than neither am I.
“Yes, I’m from Shores.”
‘‘I’m sorry,” she said in earnest.
“It’s all right now,” he said, feeling like the greatest conversation wielder that ever stepped foot in the bailey. “I’ve found a new home here.”
She left her friends and crossed very slowly around the pond until she stood a mere three feet from him. She did smell very much like soap, a long bath most certainly in her recent past. A quick image of Fiona slipping into her tub passed through Christopher’s mind and then dissolved, only she had taken the place of Fiona. He couldn’t believe the clarity of her com plexion, how smooth and fair it was, and how full and deep her lips were. There was such a sharp juxtaposition between her and the surroundings, Christopher felt the strange desire to take her someplace else to talk, as if she did not belong here, as if she would somehow be spoiled by the muddy ground, the pond, and the steamy, stench-filled hut behind him.
“I’m Brenna. It means raven maid. My hair is much the same color as my mother’s-and the bird’s, as you can see.” She pulled a thick strand of her dark mane and twirled a finger through it, as if to prove the fact to Christopher.
“You’ve been to Shores before, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Never.”
“I’m sorry. I thought I knew you from some where.”
Brenna shook her head. A giggle from her friends caught her attention and she glanced quickly over her shoulder and widened her eyes, eyes that said, “Quiet! I’m talking to him!” Brenna turned back to him, apologetic. “They want to meet you.”
Saddle making was a lost art in the face of these three girls. Christopher was so entranced by their faces, their smell that he forced himself to walk with out a limp, bearing the pain for the sake of presenting the girls with an image he hoped would live up to their expectations. He made it to the other side of the pond without passing out and greeted the other two girls.
“This is Mavis, and Wynne,” Brenna said.
Mavis was the tallest of the three girls, with blond hair plaited in a neat pattern and topped with a white coif. She nodded politely, and when Christopher took her hand he felt her tremble. As he had seen his father do, he kissed Mavis’s hand, and the girl’s cheeks went crimson. He repeated the greeting on Wynne, whose thin brown hair was parted in the middle and ran like so many ribbons down the sides of her head. She, too, shook and blushed under his touch.
But he had forgotten to greet Brenna with such a hand kiss. It wasn’t too late. He turned to her, reached out, and took her hand. “I beg your forgive ness. My absentmindedness was terrible.” The back of her hand was soft, and, as his lips met her skin, he lingered a moment longer than he had on the other girls, saw himself in his mind’s eye kiss not her hand but her lips. When he pulled back and his gaze was on her again, he could see he had affected her. A rose glow gently bloomed on her face.
Here he was, a poor craftsman’s son surrounded by the great curtain walls of the castle of Shores, stand ing in the presence of three of the most lovely girls he had ever seen, wooing them with his simple though honest chivalry.
The future was not paved completely in death.
6
In the silvery light sliced by the deep shad ows of the curtain walls, Christopher made his way back to the keep and took a seat at one of the trestle tables of the great hall for dinner. Orvin sat next to him, tearing into a pork rib with his few remaining teeth. The sound of the old man’s eating was not a pleasant one, but Christopher knew he would grow accustomed to it; there would be hundreds of meals in which to listen to the horrible music of Or
vin’s mouth.
Brenna sat with her parents on the other side of the room, looking up at him occasionally. His gaze never left her table, food going into his mouth like faggots into a fire: just piling in without regard to content. Meat, some kind of vegetable, some unimportant liquid to wash it all down. Her smile meant much more than the hunger that struck his body.
Orvin licked his fingers, and then his lips. “You should enjoy your food, not shovel it down like pottage.”
Christopher saw Brenna look at Orvin, then her gaze suddenly dropped to her plate as the old man’s eyes met hers.
It was an ugly grin that cracked open his leathery face. “Fenelia’s daughter has eyes for the young patron saint next to me.”
Christopher turned away from Orvin and stuffed a large chunk of boiled carrot into his mouth. He chewed hard, burying his true feelings in the act. He wasn’t sure if he could tell Orvin, if it would even be proper to converse with the daughter of serfs. If he ever decided to marry Brenna, it would only be by the permission of Lord Hasdale. She was, in effect, a piece of the lord’s property, and Christopher had never dealt with a serf on this level.
Who am I kidding? I have never dealt with any girl on this level.
“Oh, come on now, boy. Tell me about her. Have you met her?”
There was a knot in the wood of the trestle table that seemed to stare back at Christopher. He shifted his gaze to his plate.
“A life of leatherdressing. Sounds lonely. You could have been trained as a squire, but you refuse to open your thoughts to your master.”
“That’s not fair,” Christopher blurted out.
Orvin leaned in close to Christopher. “Come now. Tell me of young Brenna. Hold out the olive branch to an old man and let him relive the days of his youth.”
“Otherwise you refuse to train me.” “Knowledge has its privileges.”
Christopher sighed deeply for effect. He tossed a quick glance to Brenna’s table and saw that she and her parents had risen to leave. No matter now; he was stuck telling Orvin all about it. “She says she likes the way my cheeks look when I smile. All right?”
Orvin moved his eyebrows up and down several times, the skin on his head and around his eyes rip pling like waves across a brown, lackluster sea. “She is in love with you.”
Christopher frowned, then shook his head. “No.” “Oh, yes.”
“She enjoys my company.”
“Trust your master on these things.” “I just met her today.”
“She is in love.” “How do you know?”
“The ravens have told me.”
Christopher remembered that Brenna’s name meant “raven maid.” Was she linked to the ravens other than by name, birds with which Orvin communicated? The whole thought was ridiculous. “You see the future in the sky and find out what love lies in the hearts of young girls by speaking to the ravens. I cannot-”
“Doubt is a fever that will forever strike you down, young patron saint. If you would clear your mind and let the open arms of fate embrace you, you would be a much happier lad.”
“She is a serf. I’m not sure if-”
“She serves my son. And if she wishes to befriend you, to love you, then so be it. Those lines have been crossed many times before. But heed this warning, do not let love blind you-as it always does.”
Christopher took a long swig of wine from his tankard, then wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve. Do not let love blind me-as it always does. It made as much sense as everything else Orvin had tried to tell him; that is, it made no sense. “How can I avoid blindness when it is sure to come?”
“Do not look too deeply into her eyes. Let her make you happy. That is all.” Orvin adjusted himself on the bench, a loud, ugly movement that disrupted the uninitiated.
“Tell me of your own experience with love, Orvin. Hold out the olive branch to this young man so I can learn from the mistakes you made.”
Orvin squinted a little, staring deeper with his mind’s eye into the suddenly beckoned past. He was years away from the table, the great hall, and Christopher could tell from the old man’s silence that he had opened up many doors, some of the chambers beyond radiating with joy, others brimming with the shadows of death. He hoped he had not upset Orvin, for the empty reaction he was faced with made him uneasy.
The old man’s parched face gave way to a smile,and relief spilled over Christopher. “My son’s mother was a great woman, a strong woman, a wise woman. She let common sense dictate her decisions and was always full of advice. I would not be the man I am if it were not for her.”
“Why?”
Orvin patted his heart. “This old drum, which somehow continues to beat, has always been my guide.” He tapped his head with a black-nailed index finger. “Never this.”
Christopher furrowed his brow, thought very hard about Orvin’s words, tried to piece some advice out of this puzzle from the past. “So a man must let his heart be his guide, is that it?”
“Not completely,” Orvin said. “There must be a balance of mind and heart. And love can give you that-or take it all away.”
Christopher stood. “If I try to consider this any more, I will go mad and run wild through the bailey like the dogs!”
“That’s love.”
Christopher trunked it all away. If love would drive him mad, then he’d rather not think about it and just let it happen-if it had to. And perhaps that would be the pattern. “Good evening, master.”
“Sleep well, young patron saint. Dream.”
Christopher slid from behind the bench and moved toward the tunnel exit that would take him up to his chamber. If he would do any dreaming at all, it had better be about Brenna.
7
Below the mist-shrouded castle, past the jagged ramparts that surrounded it, and beyond the thin forest that grew from the slopes, ten squire trainees were lined up in the middle of a rolling, open field. Ten boys of varying heights and builds and lengths of hair were shoulder to shoulder, a motley crew of pubescent plebes who stood under cloudy skies on wet grass with sleep grit still lodged in the corners of their eyes.
Four tall weapons racks behind the squires sup ported a wide array of lethal irons and were damp from the early-morning dew. Near the racks, two archers on horseback were paused, scouting for a pair of varlets to serve them. Not every boy would serve a knight, but attending an archer was no less honorable a task, and would tum a lad into an expert bowman.
Christopher pulled on the padded tunic Orvin had given him; it felt hot and sticky. He hated the humid ity as much as getting up early in the morning. But, it was his first day on the practice field, his calf finally healed enough to support the rigors of the training, and he would miss it for nothing.
Orvin sat on top of Cara and watched the proceed ings from some fifty yards away. Christopher winked at the old man, who acknowledged with a slight tip of his head.
As Christopher stood, anticipation of another kind filled his mind. Tonight was the rendezvous with Brenna. They had planned it all week and were going to meet in the empty prison cellar after dinner. Brenna’s parents would think she was at the chapel with Mavis and Wynne. Christopher would slip out of the squires’ quarters and arrive in her arms soon after midnight.
His heart ached for her as his sandaled feet sank into the mushy earth. He was sure the other boys felt as uncomfortable as he did, but their faces revealed nothing. Nine names had whipped past his ears in such a hurry he had barely caught the syllables of one. Later, when the session was over, he would have to meet them again. There was nothing exceptionally friendly about the other boys, for they all wore the same dark masks of determination, all standing very stiffly like statues as the gusts of thick, wet air split around them.
“If any of you do not know me, my name is Sloan, and I am one of Hasdale’s battle lords.” He paced before them in full armor, and Christopher could not help but admire his stout stature. He was immense, pure muscle and steel guided by a keen mind that took in informatio
n through near-black eyes, a stubby, rough nose, callused fingers, and a wide, thick-lipped mouth.
The boy next to Christopher turned his head slightly, and Christopher caught the motion on his periphery. Christopher looked at the boy. The pale, would-be squire with the stubble of hair growing below his lower lip crinkled his nose and bared his clenched teeth. Christopher looked away.
Sloan ran a hand over his bald head, pulling the perspiration from it before continuing. “Some of you may find today’s session a bit simple, but it is a combination of endeavors that will tum you pages and scullery serfs into squires, and perhaps even knights.”
Christopher liked Sloan. He spoke simply and truthfully and wasn’t the austere trainer that he had expected to find.
“You there, what is your name?” Sloan spoke directly to him.
“Christopher.”
“Step up here. You’re to be our first victim.”
Christopher was hesitant, looked to Orvin, who urged him on with a hand wave. He put his feet in motion. Christopher felt even colder as he came within a few feet of the battle lord. At this distance, he could see the scars embedded in the man’s skin; one clean slash across his forehead, another jagged line through his eyebrow that skipped over his eye and cut down the top portion of his cheek, finishing near the earlobe. The hair of the brow had not grown back and gave it an odd moustachelike look.
“Arms identification. It’s a simple game, and many of you think you’ve already mastered it.” Christopher was close enough to smell the wine on the battle lord’s breath, and twitched his nose several times as Sloan spoke to the boys behind him. “But you have not.”
Sloan led Christopher by the arm over to the racks. Christopher studied the several-sized lances and glaives, the halberds to hook mounted men off their steeds, the picks and javelins and spiked maces. He glanced over the bills, spears with varying tips and side hooks, the deadly balls and chains, the cat-o’- nine-tails, and the battle-axes of differing designs. One rack held nothing but spathas, dozens of horn and brass-hilted types .. Christopher knew he could identify each and every weapon on the racks, but as Sloan had said, “Many of you think you have already mastered it.” There was a catch.