by Peter Telep
7
Christopher rode on a black courser, one he sensed was Celtic trained, and shared a loaf with Elgar. Kenneth’s funeral pyre dwindled in the distance behind them. A long stretch of lazy brown hills was the path ahead.
Elgar was not unlike Orvin, though far more agreeable to the eye-which was ironic for a Saxon. Elgar’s hair was slate gray, and rose thickly off his head in a widow’s peak. The eider’s eyes were nearly the same color, and his face was split only by a dozen or so lines, not the regiment that marched across Orvin’s skin. Christopher could not speak to him, but could sense his loyalty to Garrett and was witness to his consideration for others. He usually shared his portion of food with someone, an archer, a bowman, or even Garrett. His jug was every man’s jug, and he seemed to take pleasure from his own gen erosity.
The Saxons had long since used up the supplies confiscated from Hasdale’s carts, and now their own stores diminished. There was no castle to support their army, no kitchens, armorers, hostlers, maids, or scullery boys to wash their plates. They caught and cooked what food they could as they traveled, mended their own armor and the shoes of their horses, washed their own shirts and breeches in the many brooks that straddled their paths, and aban doned the use of plates altogether. They were self sufficient, and their only protection was their mobility. The only way to acquire more supplies was to pillage. Christopher knew it was only a matter of time before that terrible fact became a reality.
He turned his attention from the path to Elgar. The old Saxon smiled while chewing his bread. He was the only Saxon Christopher had ever seen smile. Even when they drank their faces held a long, cold look, one that was at once somber, at once fierce. Maybe they viewed smiling as a sign of weakness. Maybe they didn’t know how to. Christopher thought about it as he looked at his bread, then took a healthy bite. He knew something brewed in the minds of the Saxons behind him. They were not happy over Kenneth’s death; they loved and worshiped the young man. Garrett had told them Kenneth was a traitor, but Christopher doubted that the army believed it.
A wandering column of smoke rose in the sky above the farthest hill. Christopher could see it clearly, as they were on a crest and began to descend. Murmurs that sounded like animal noises grew behind him.
From the rear, four scouts galloped outside the lines of cantering Saxons, passed the entire group, and headed toward the smoke.
Christopher guessed the gray clouds came from a village just like his. He knew they would bum it just like Shores. Only this time he was supposed to help.
He had decided to make Garrett trust him. He had not tried to escape, now rode freely with the army, and was shielded from the other Saxon squires by Garrett. The young barbarians eyed Christopher with contempt, and he was glad Garrett kept him away from them. He did not need another attempt on his !ife. But at the moment, he was confronted with the inevitable. If he cooperated with the Saxons, actually helped them in the raid, it would surely strengthen his position with Garrett, and per haps the Saxon squires would look at him with dif ferent eyes. But how could he participate in the violence? To stand by and watch it happen was bad enough, but to join it?
They needed food, fresh horses to replace lame ones they had abandoned, new carts, for many had broken down, and whatever armament they could steal. They didn’t need to kill every serf and free man in their way; they didn’t need to rape every female of age and some not of age; they didn’t need to burn everything in their wake. But they would. And there was no changing that. Christopher would either accept and join or create a new plan. A per fect trust in Garrett’s heart would allow him a per fect escape. That fact seemed so true that he saw no other way.
He had already killed. Maybe it would be easier the next time. He would ride in as a warrior, not a squire, and show Garrett the violence that lurked in his heart, a violence he would harness for Garrett.
And he would address Garrett as lord.
They crossed four more hills, then the scouts returned. They reported seeing a village. And it waited for all of them.
8
On a patch of ground that was mostly dirt, Christopher and four Saxon lieutenants watched Garrett use his dagger to draw a map of the village.
A main road arrowed straight through the town, with four narrower intersecting paths that curved into a perimeter road linking all the dirtways. Garrett used the tip of the blade to mark attack points, spouting off commands to each of the lieutenants as he did so.
Christopher looked back over his shoulder. Darkness had come, and he saw the flickering candle light that illuminated the windows of the tofts in the far distance. It was a silly notion, but Christopher thought the light held some kind of innocence-an unsuspecting light that lit the homes of unsuspecting citizens about to be robbed and killed.
When the meeting was over, Christopher mounted his steed. A feeling of regret took root in him.
He watched as three groups of Saxons, each of about forty men, rode ahead of his group. They would circle around to the rear of the village and concentrate on the manor house.
The village did not support a castle as Shores did, but a smaller, much more vulnerable and uncurtained structure, next to which was an even more accessible abbot’s tithe barn, from which they could steal the eggs, poultry, fruit, bread, and ale stored there.
Christopher would stay close to Garrett. The Saxon leader’s group of one hundred would ride straight into town and do most of the butchering. The rest of Garrett’s men would rifle the needed supplies and load the stolen carts. The two hundred inhabitants of the village were outnumbered more than two to one; what resistance the Saxons encountered would be easily suppressed.
Christopher wished he knew the name of the village. For some reason he felt he should have that information, to keep the name in his memory; when they were done with it he knew it would be unrecognizable, as Shores was in the aftermath of Garrett’s attack.
“What village is this?” he asked Garrett, as they cantered down the final slope and were about to cross a shallow stream on the outskirts of the town.
“Why do you ask?”
Christopher shrugged. “Curious.”
“It belongs to Fitzralph. I do not know what he calls it.”
“Thank you.”
“I want you close to me, Kimball. I don’t want you to do anything.”
“Yes, lord.” The word left a sour taste in his mouth.
Garrett’s eyes were blue suns of surprise. The man studied Christopher, perhaps searching for some physical change in him that accompanied his new attitude.
Christopher turned his attention to the town ahead, the sleeping little village that was about to plunge into a nightmare.
Garrett raised his arm and circled his fist in the air: a silent signal to gallop.
Christopher was jolted by his courser; the animal responded much better than the rounsey he had rid den to the Mendips. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected the horse belonged to Condon or Malcolm, or even the lord for that matter. It had been stripped of its saddle when given to him, so he would never know. All around him Saxons charged, and it was odd to be riding with them instead of against them. These were supposed to be his broth ers-in-arms; that notion would take some getting used to.
As they hit the first dirt of the main road, doors on houses swung open. Sleepy eyes that were thin slits widened in the face of the attack.
Behind Christopher, Saxon soldiers launched quicklimed glaives and arrows into the air; the flam ing missiles found the sagging gables of the old tofts and set them ablaze.
Even now, as the attack began, Christopher hunted for some means to demonstrate his loyalty to Garrett. He couldn’t just observe, even though that had been Garrett’s order. He sensed the Saxon leader feared for him. Doing nothing would put him in no better position with Garrett. He needed to act in order to gain trust, and that trust would gain him his goal.
But in gaining trust, would he have to kill? It seemed the ultim
ate proof to Christopher. There, I’ve killed for you. I’m with you. See?
What about the victim-some innocent man protecting his land? Wasn’t Christopher once the victim? Wasn’t he the one who had ridden into his village and found it dead? Wasn’t Garrett the man responsible?
He could not think about the victim, for if he pon dered any more on that subject, he would put a dag ger in his own heart. He had to think of it as a game and play by the rules. But the game was life and death and someone had forgotten to tell him the rules. It got painful and confusing and he pushed it all out of his mind, took in his surroundings, and thought only of the moment.
Most of the Saxons behind them had dismounted and entered the first row of houses. Four other sol diers accompanied Christopher and Garrett as they turned down the first intersecting road. Each side of the street was lined with tofts, many sharing a com mon wall that would only aid the fires.
A man with long, silvery hair stepped in front of his door, wearing only his breeches. He one-handed a rusting hatchet, apparently his only weapon. The man pulled his arm back and let the ax fly. The blade tum bled end over end, and its wooden handle connected with the gaskin of a courser behind Christopher. The horse bucked and neighed, kicked up its forelegs, and threw its rider.
Garrett dismounted and ran after the man. The villager fled into his house. Christopher guessed Garrett was more insulted than anything else, and was now bent on killing the man. Rage motivated Garrett, nothing else. Christopher was already off his horse as Garrett entered the home, the Saxon leader’s spatha slipping in ahead of him.
Christopher pushed in the door; the setting was painfully familiar: workshop bench, leather pegged to the wall, snippets scattered about the floor, the stench everywhere. The man was a craftsman. His life was in this room, this town. Surviving serfs would be taken care of by Fitzralph if he lived, or sold to a neighboring manor by the abbot. Freemen like this leatherdresser would be left with nothing, and would have to start again. A lifetime of work, of nurturing business relationships and developing a reputation would all end in a single night. Death seemed ironically easier than starting again.
He heard a struggle in the back of the house and moved through the workshop into a cooking area shielded by a partition wall. He arrived in time to see Garrett knife the man in his ale belly; dark blood drenched the craftman’s hairy skin and filled up the man’s navel. The villager shot Garrett a black look as he fell onto his back.
Christopher heard a woman scream behind him. He turned to see a pale, bone-thin villager, her eyes red and tearing, her face twisted into the growl of a wild dog. She came at him with a scythe held high, the hooked blade used for threshing hay about to thresh his neck.
“Kimball!” Garrett yelled reflexively. But Christopher didn’t need Garrett to tell him he was in trouble; the flash of sharpened iron was a better alarm. The blade touched his neck, and was about to draw blood, but he fastened his fingers around the oak handle of the farming tool. The woman was not strong. Christopher forced her back with a single shove, a motion that was so abrupt that she lost her grip on the scythe and fell back, unarmed.
As the woman slunk back from him, crying and feeling with her hands for the workbench behind her, Christopher pulled the scythe back. He would hit her hard. Bash her across the face with the blade and crack her skull open like a nut. He felt the power to do that surge in his arms.
He pitched a look back at Garrett. The Saxon leader gave no indication of what to do; he only watched.
The woman moaned, “no” as he looked back at her. Then she spun around and ran for the door.
Christopher started after her, but then his heart seized his mind. He stopped. He could pursue and kill this woman, but was gaining Garrett’s trust more important than human life? He knew it would come . to this, but tried to force the guilt that accompanied murder out of his mind. But it wasn’t him. He was not a cold-blooded killer who thought only of his own goals.
The craftsman’s wife slipped past the door and vanished into the night air.
Behind him, Christopher heard Garrett say, “Thank you.”
Christopher turned, regarded the Saxon leader with a frown. “For what?”
“Had you not been here, she might’ve hooked me from behind.”
But Christopher knew he hadn’t saved Garrett; the Saxon leader could easily have turned and gutted the woman with his blade, and done it alone. But Garrett made it easy, almost as if he wanted to believe Christopher would have saved him. “A good squire always lends assistance to his lord.” A perfect, Orvin inspired answer.
“That he does.” Garrett sighed, then furrowed his brow. “I sense you want me to trust you, Kimball. I will. But don’t cross me.” He took a step closer to Christopher, emphasizing the seriousness of his next dialogue with proximity and a pointed index finger. “I want you to know I don’t enjoy killing. I don’t.”
Christopher nodded, remembering how Garrett’s murder of Hasdale seemed an ugly, but necessary task to the Saxon leader. “But you’d force yourself to kill me if you had to?”
“And you would do the same, were you in my boots,” Garrett said. “In fact, you’ve probably thought of killing me yourself.”
Christopher bit his lower lip, bit back the truth. “It’s all right. Most of England wants me dead. It’s no insult.” Garrett smiled, then started for the door. “We’re finished here.”
9
The saddle stared up at her
A score of moons had passed since Christopher had gone to the Mendip hills. Brenna had long since for gotten the pain of losing him and had abandoned the notions of suicide. She could no longer see the image of his face clearly in her mind. She had not returned from Uryens’s castle, but had remained there and had become a respected chambermaid. She was fourteen now, and felt as much a woman as her mother. She was courted by a young varlet and entranced by his advances. Fortunately, the saddle did not bother her as much now as it had when she had been alone, uncourted, still grieving for Christopher.
The saddle was one Christopher had made for Orvin, and it had come along with them, to be used by Orvin to ride Cara when he came to the castle. But Orvin had never come, and the rumors were that he had died. She had kept the saddle under her trestle bed ever since, but now that they were moving their quarters, and the beds were coming too, the dusty seat sat uncovered on the floor.
Brenna reached down and fingered the pommel. Her finger came up dark gray. She frowned and wiped the finger on her apron. She considered throw ing the saddle away, or giving it to someone who could use it, or selling it; she could probably get a fair number of silver deniers for it. She could purchase a new shift and a matching tunic.
Brenna wiped the saddle down as best she could and took it to the leatherdressers’ hut in the outer bailey.
She immediately stopped breathing through her nose as she entered the workshop. The heads of two journeymen leatherdressers and four apprentices all popped up simultaneously, and she saw right away how inviting smiles came to their lips and their eyes seemed to touch her.
“I wish to sell you this saddle,” she said, holding up the heavy seat.
One of the journeymen rose from his bench, rounded the table, and took the saddle from Brenna’s hands. He studied the craftsmanship carefully. “Where did you get this?”
“I’ve had it for a long time. A boy I knew made it.” The journeyman could not take his gaze off the sad dle, and Brenna felt a bit ignored, considering the initial reaction everyone had given her. “This is the most detailed and refined work I’ve ever seen,” the leather dresser said. “The stitching is perfect. And I cannot believe how even the cuts are.”
“Do you wish to buy it?” she asked.
“I would not sell it, were I you,” the journeyman answered.
“I need to.”
“If you must.”
They negotiated a price agreeable to Brenna, and she left the shop with more than enough deniers t
o buy her shift and tunic.
She felt wistful as she entered the keep and climbed the spiral staircase. All physical evidence of him was now gone. She paused on one of the steps, remembered a prison cell, a blanket, and a jug of ale. She smiled.
10
How many chances had he had to escape? He had lost count moons ago. Every night was a chance to run. There were two particular occasions that stood out in Christopher’s memory.
The first was after they had pillaged Fitzralph’s village. He remembered waking up in the back of a cart filled with armor and smith’s tools. It was early morning, and the army had paused some distance from the village they had burned the night before. They were regrouping, reporting their losses and stuffing their bellies with a celebratory breakfast.
His first view was of the black smoke that belched into the sky above the indistinct hill, one massive funeral pyre for the innocent. He recalled how he uttered Orvin’s name out loud, told the old man, “Maybe you were right.”
He had summed up his situation quickly. No one was within a hundred yards of him. Knots of men surrounded the food carts and cookfires, or sat in their own cliques discussing the battle. Christopher had not seen Garrett.
The team of two packhorses that pulled the armor cart grazed quietly, still tied to the wagon. All he had had to do was untie one of the horses and make a gal lop for it. But he didn’t.
As he thought about it, moons later, pulling on the fine hairs that had recently sprouted from his upper lip and chin, he reasoned he should have tried to escape. The Saxons had been gorging themselves and would not have reacted as quickly.
The second occasion came only the day before, when Garrett had sent him and Seaver to spy on a small hunting party led by Lord Nolan of the castle of Rain in West Camel. The lord, accompanied by a falconer, a bowman, and a huntsman with two large, gray hounds, was completely unaware of their presence.