by Peter Telep
I thought Mavis was sent to your quarters, lord.” “My linens are fresh, my chamber clean.”
Orvin stepped toward her and rested one of his flabby, leathery arms around her shoulder. She didn’t know exactly why, but the feeling of his arm, the notion that he understood her pain, brought a legion of tears to her face. She couldn’t repress the sorrow anymore. She turned and rested her wet cheek against the old man’s tunic.
He held her a little tighter as he spoke. “Our young patron saint breathes, believe me. I, on the other hand, have lost my son. There is no preparing for it. His going to battle made me ill, and his death blights me further still.” He paused, then, “But you should not grieve. Be sad only for the distance between you. That is all.”
Brenna lifted her face from his tunic and craned her head up, looking directly into his soft, silvery eyes.
“How can you be so sure he is alive?”
Orvin shut his eyelids and nodded. She wondered what he saw when he closed those eyes. She won dered why he nodded. Was it some affirmation of Christopher’s survival? Nodding didn’t exactly make Christopher live. Seeing Christopher standing in the doorway would be perfect proof for Brenna.
She turned away from Orvin to the door. She tried to see Christopher. She saw nothing. Her gaze shifted back to Orvin. “You cannot be sure, can you? It has been nearly a moon. He has still not come back.”
Orvin stared beyond Brenna. She turned around and saw him looking through the cross-shaped loop hole in the wall that framed a bit of forest supporting a cloudy sky above. “The young doubt so much,” he said. “If you would only cling tighter to your faith, you would not be so troubled. Such a simple thing.”
“What of your faith?” Brenna asked.
“My faith lies where yours should. With young Christopher.”
He had helped her feel better, but now depressed her all over again. Their lord was surely dead. Their castle was about to be attacked with barely enough men to defend it, and now they would have to leave their home. What was Christopher going to do about all of it? Probably nothing. But she loved him, and would love him whatever their state, be it free or in prison, in this life or the next. She felt young, but very sure of one thing. If her happiness had to depend on something, she would let it depend on Christopher. And if he was dead, her sorrow would pull her down to join him.
The lieutenant began to talk in his sleep as they left the room. Brenna carried a tall stack of sheets, while Orvin insisted on helping her with another pile. They exchanged no words. With silence came a fragile inner peace.
3
Kenneth was the only other Saxon besides Garrett who could speak to the cut-faced boy. And Kenneth’s squire had been killed when the Celts attacked. It was only natural that the boy became his squire. Only natural to Garrett, however.
Kenneth had argued with his lord that the boy should be put to death, that he represented a living host for the specters of Hasdale and the other battle lords to inhabit. Keeping the boy alive would surely bring treachery into their ranks. But Garrett had said he did not believe in the specters and superstitions that accompanied them. Kenneth continued his argu ment for most of the journey back to Hasdale’s castle. But Garrett would not concede.
The boy wouldn’t talk. They unstrapped him and he ran. They had to tie him to a rounsey. What kind of squire was that? Why keep the boy?
Kenneth took a long pull on his jug of ale. He swal lowed the strong brew, then exhaled loudly. He looked to his right, saw the boy astride his rounsey, his head hung low, his lips tight, his spirit clearly bro ken. The winds that accompanied twilight were upon them, but Kenneth saw no indication that the boy was chilled. He seemed devoid of all emotion. Kenneth admired that. He had never seen a boy numb himself as completely. He returned his gaze to the field ahead. They would be at the castle by noon the next day. The anticipation of battle spun around Kenneth’s heart. He knew the castle better than anyone, and, facing only a skeleton garrison of defenders, he expected to be in bed with Fiona by nightfall. They, of course, had some unfinished business.
He had yet to find another woman who excited him as much as she. He had had most of the serf women in the neighboring towns, rough, heavy females who bruised him before he had a chance to kill, then lie with them. Fiona was different; she was soft, vulnerable, feline. These sudden thoughts made his groin ache. He forced the fantasies from his mind; they would drive him wild. He flipped another glance to the boy.
You’re just waiting for Hasdale to take you. And then you’ll come for us in the night. He considered killing the boy in the coming siege. His doing so could be easily explainable to Garrett. Done. You die on the morrow. Sleep well.
Kenneth grinned in self-satisfaction. He felt a tiny rush of power course through his veins; it was the thought that, as he looked at the boy, he knew he was in control of the squire’s fate. And the young Celt knew nothing of it. The boy was a leveret sniff ing in the wind, unaware of the fox poised in the gorse just behind him.
4
Every tower is fortified, my lord. The wall walks are lined with bowmen. There is even an infantry banded along the berm. They received help.”
Kenneth squinted in the sunlight that fisted down on himself, Garrett, and the young scout. The bad news was a mace blow to the head of his lord, inflict ing about as much damage.
Garrett’s wide eyes would have said it all, but he added, “I cannot believe the word spread this quickly. Whose men are these?”
“I don’t know, lord,” the grave-faced scout said. “Perhaps Uryens’s or Lot’s. There are rumors the king has formed a new union.”
“I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE KING OR HIS NEW UNION!”
The scout was jolted and took a step back from Garrett, sinking his head into his neck. “Sorry, my lord.”
Kenneth did not react to the news with anger. He was annoyed at the setback, yes, but his mind raced to find the answers to two questions-how to get back into the castle and be with Fiona, despite the new garrison, and how to murder the boy and make it look accidental.
If they were smart, they would not attack. It would be a long, drawn-out battle, they would lose many men, and even if they did gain control, there might not be enough Saxons left to form a garrison. Thus, another army of Celts would soon come and over throw them quickly.
That was it. He had to convince Garrett to attack. He might be able to breach the curtain walls himself and find Fiona. He would certainly be able to murder the boy. Victory was an empty purse to Kenneth. It was Garrett’s dream to rule a castle, not his. Garrett didn’t have any problem following his own agenda, and so neither would he. Rape and murder. The words didn’t sound as pleasurable as the acts really were.
Kenneth pounded a fist into an open palm. “If we strike hard and fast this evening, I believe we can win.”
Garrett shook his head negatively. “We’ve tried twice to take this castle, and with smaller garrisons defending it.”
“The men are borrowed, lord. They fight not to protect their home, but because they are ordered to. A hard first strike will send many of them running.”
The Saxon lieutenants that now crowded around Kenneth murmured their support for his plan. Kenneth waited for Garrett’s reply, shooting Garrett as intimidating a look as he could muster.
Garrettthoughtamoment,gazingthrough Kenneth and the rest of the men. “No,” he said curtly. Then walked away.
You’re very wise, lord. And very foolish.
5
Christopher slept well. He hadn’t understood the conversation between Garrett, the scout, and Kenneth, but he understood a worried look, under stood a shout of frustration, understood the fact they would not attack. They spent the rest of the day retreating, and the castle was out of sight by the time they set up camp for the night.
Dreams tunneled through his mind, short ones lasting only seconds, quick visions of people and places. Brenna’s face flashed many times, as well as the warm, soft smile of
his mother, and the harder, more thoughtful look of his father.
Garrett came to him too, not as an ugly, horrible demon, but as a man weeping. He repeatedly called out something in the Saxon tongue. The image was bizarre and made Christopher claw at the pair of sad dle cloths which he slept on.
Some time during the night he woke. He didn’t open his eyes, but remained still, listening: the embers of a nearby cookfire crackled softly; the snor ing of drunken Saxons volleyed overhead; crickets announced tomorrow’s heat; and then, the very minute flip-fla p of approaching sandals.
He was about to keep his eyes closed, feign sleep, but thought better of it. Who would lurk around camp in the middle of the night? A sudden, chilling, though hopeful thought: someone to take him away. He opened his eyes, rocked himself into a sitting position.
In the silver-and-copper light delivered by the haloed moon, he saw Kenneth step over sleeping men and come toward him. Strange. Maybe the Saxon could not sleep. If so, why step so precariously over men when the perimeter field provided open ground for a night walk?
Something shimmered at Kenneth’s waist. Christopher squinted, blinked hard, then his sleepy eyes took in the blade sticking from Kenneth’s fist.
Reflex overrode thought. He pulled at the leather straps that trapped his arms and ankles, binding him into helplessness. His legs pushed his buttocks six inches back in retreat, then another six. If he just had a weapon. His sword, the one given him by Baines, was lost on the battlefield.
He kept his gaze on Kenneth. The Saxon’s near pretty face was sour, his eyes dull, the lids narrow, his mouth turned down, and the skin on his nose bunched up. Kenneth extended his free arm to pin Christopher, while his other hand would work the dagger.
Another six inches on his butt. Christopher made little progress. A million fears unleashed themselves within him, and at least one found its way to his throat. “No! Kenneth! No!”
Kenneth fell to his knees before Christopher and thrust his hand toward Christopher’s throat.
Christopher ignored Kenneth’s free hand and used his bound hands as one unit with which to stop Kenneth’s dagger as it came down on him. His hands vised around Kenneth’s wrist. Saxon muscle strug gled against squire muscle, the tip of the blade a fore arm’s length from Christopher’s shirted chest.
Kenneth forced Christopher to fall onto his back, all the while remaining silent, wearing his murder mask perfectly, menacingly.
Christopher wanted to cry out for help, but the struggle gave his mind that second it needed to reason the cry away. He was in a Saxon camp. Who was going to help him?.
The blade was now a hand’s length away from his chest.
The fingers on Kenneth’s free hand dug into his neck; untrimmed nails pierced skin, gouged, bur rowed, cut off part of Christopher’s air supply.
The muscles in his arms were giving in to the greater mass and strength of Kenneth’s. He began to feel light-headed, but it was a different, terrifying feeling-not the one ale produced.
The dagger was a finger’s width away from his breast.
His strapped hands vibrated under the force of Kenneth. He began to choke, his air slipping away. Saliva rolled over his lower lip and down his chin; the foamy phlegm seeped onto Kenneth’s hand.
Christopher realized he was going to die. He did not want to feel the dagger punch into his chest, but he knew it was inevitable. He was willing to let go now; he just did not want any pain. He closed his eyes.
Let it be over. Quickly. Please.
The hand clamped around Christopher’s throat went slack, and he felt Kenneth fall to his left.
Christopher’s first breath hurt. His second gave him his life back. On his third breath, Christopher mustered the energy to open his eyes.
He felt soft fingers caress his cheek as his vision focused. The shadowy form of Garrett hovered over him, the Saxon leader’s eyes full of concern.
Garrett withdrew his hand. “Just breathe.”
Christopher looked over at Kenneth. A dagger of equal size and similar hilt to the one with which Kenneth had tried to murder Christopher was sunk in Kenneth’s back, just under his left shoulder blade.
He edged his gaze tentatively to Garrett. Christopher’s lungs galloped and his pulse charged alongside. He did not believe what had just hap pened. Garrett had sacrificed one of his best men for Christopher. Why? Christopher possessed no magic, no unique skills, nothing that he thought was out of the ordinary. He could make saddles, was told he was a fair squire, and that he was royally brave. Scores of other boys shared the same characteristics. And yet, Garrett had saved his life. Was it simply because he reminded Garrett of his brother? Christopher wasn’t sure.
But now, not only was he “in the service” of the man-but he owed his life to him.
He owed his life to the same man whose army had slain his parents.
Do I thank him or kill him?
Christopher could justify to himself that Garrett didn’t intentionally kill Sanborn and Cornelia, or Baines for that matter, but he felt he would betray himself if he did that. The most he could do now was break his vow of silence and speak to the man. Thanking Garrett wouldn’t put him in bed with the man; it would simply acknowledge his act. He would talk to him. But he would never forgive him.
“Thank you,” he rasped.
The barest of grins turned on Garrett’s lips. “Young Kimball has a voice.” Garrett caught him staring down at Kenneth again. “A dagger was destined to be in his back. I warned him. Don’t think I did it for you.”
Christopher had seen how the Saxon soldiers often sided with Kenneth. Kenneth was the handsome, popular knight, Garrett a great leader but still a Celt. Indeed, Garrett had cleared one problematic rogue out of his path, but in doing so had saved Christopher. That fact remained.
Garrett helped him off his back. The Saxon leader turned and picked up the dagger which had fallen from Kenneth’s hand. Garrett cut the leather straps from Christopher, freeing him. “You’ve run many times. My watchmen have always caught you. Sleep free this night. If you don’t try to escape, the bindings stay off.”
Christopher rubbed his neck with a free hand, felt the impressions Kenneth’s nails had made in his skin. It was nice to be able to do that, to now be able to scratch the itches that came every night and not have to think them away.
He smiled mildly, though reassuringly. “‘Til sunrise.” Garrett nodded, then turned to two men who had awakened and stood twenty yards behind them. He fired off a salvo of orders and the Saxons hustled over to Kenneth’s body, lifted and carried it away.
Garrett watched them a moment, his expression grim, then stepped into his tent.
Christopher was much too exhausted to try to escape that night. He would keep his word. Maybe that was it. Build up a sense of trust in Garrett, make the Saxon leader come to believe he was loyal, relate to the man in a way the Saxons could not: appeal to him as one Celt to another. Talk of God and not ghosts, of love and art and beauty, simple pleasures the Saxons discarded for war. The Saxon thirst for violence was unquenchable, but so was the Celtic thirst for knowledge. The abbot had taught Christopher these simple lessons, a history he thought he would never use. The abbot spoke fre quently about the invaders, convincing Christopher how much better Celtic life was than Saxon life. Christopher would pass on the lessons to Garrett. He was only a boy, but he would try. Despite his army, Garrett was a Celt.
He slid under his blankets, closed his. eyes, and never remembered falling back to sleep.
Later, the sky still the blue-black color of night, Christopher snapped awake and clutched his throat.
6
Orvin watched Brenna and her family pull out of the outer bailey and slip under the gatehouse. The cart carrying their belongings was pulled by Cara. Orvin wanted the old mule to be as safe as the girl, behind the protective curtain walls of Uryens’s castle. The invaders had still not mounted their attack. Fears burned, steady torches that played havoc with his m
ind.
He was warned not to stray beyond the confines of the castle, but needed one of his walks in the wood down near the practice field; it would settle his stom ach, and his head. A few moments after the cart was gone he followed its path, walking in the shallow trails cut in the dusty yard by the wheels. He was accosted by three sentries as he left the gatehouse and descended the slope. He ignored them.
Slipping into the wood was slipping deeper into him self. Moments alone were painful years ago, filled with loss. but he had come to enjoy them, to need them. And he was not really alone. The oaks and the beech trees were all around him, familiar friends whose silence was as much appreciated as the shade they cast on summer days. Within these tall men of bark were the tiny sparrows, lorded over by the dark knight crows. Orvin had watched the larger birds chase the smaller ones from their nests; it seemed unfair, but not any more so than the taking of a castle. The more pow erful always wished to dominate-even here.
He let his fingers run across the flowers of the gorse, and the other shrubs that framed and neigh bored the narrow path. His steps were irregular, and he stopped, scanning to find a bird who called out, then turned his head toward the rustling of a hare or fox or doe.
A fallen oak, whose life was taken by a lash of light ning, paralleled the path; the trunk provided a natural bench that Orvin had taken advantage of on many occasions. He sat down, taking the weight off his weary legs.
Sunlight mazed through the leaf canopy and picked out shrubs and portions of the path to color yellow. The low drone of insects was all around, and a faint trace of mold scented the air. He let his sur roundings take him. He surrendered to the forest, to a place that seemed truly a home.
He no longer felt the trunk under him, no longer felt the stiffness in his legs and neck, no longer expe rienced the stinging in his gums and the occasional jabs in his chest. He let his mind open.
Do well, boy. I will try to help you.