Squire

by Peter Telep

  Christopher sprinted toward the three yards of wall that shielded the river beyond. The blocks that formed the barrier were laid with painstaking preci­ sion, and Christopher’s bare toes could find no pur­ chase in their cracks.

  “Dallas! Anyone! Throw me the rope!”

  The rope came over. He seized the twine and scaled the stone. He reached the top and did not look down as he jumped. His legs quivered as they made impact with the ground, and he bent his knees to absorb the blow. He took a deep breath, then got waveringly to his feet.

  It was Fergus who had helped Christopher. The old man stood alone next to his rounsey, his face reflect­ ing none of the danger of the moment. “We go now,” he said.

  16

  Christopher and Fergus were the first ones back at the camp. Fergus had yet to ask how it had went, but somehow Christopher suspected the old one already knew. Fergus’s enthusiasm for the entire plan had never been visible. He agreed with everything Mallory said and usually kept his own opinions to himself. He busied himself with starting a cookfire, one which Christopher thought was a bad idea.

  “Won’t the monks see the smoke?” “In the dark?” Fergus retorted. “What about the light?”

  “It could be anyone’s light.” “Or it could be ours.”

  “I like my meat warm, if you don’t mind.”

  It all came into place for Christopher. He and Fergus were very much alike. They had both gone along with Mallory, more out of intimidation than anything else. And perhaps this fire was Fergus’s way of letting himself be caught. Christopher had had the same notion back at the abbey, and realized it was truly a cry, to be rescued from Mallory.

  Why should he go to prison for Mallory’s actions? He certainly wouldn’t let Fergus make that decision for him.

  Take control of your life.

  The old man leaned over the small pit he had dug, emptying kindling from his hands into the hole. Christopher moved behind the man and picked up one of the small logs Fergus would use to build the main fire. He clubbed Fergus across the back of his head. The old Celt fell onto his cookfire ditch.

  Time to go. Wait. Wait. Wait. Don’t be rash. You need a horse. And don’t forget your sword. The old man’s got it. And some food. Money? Whatever Fergus has in his riding bag will have to do.

  Christopher rushed over to Fergus’s rounsey, opened up one of the riding bags, and found a small ration of wrapped meat, a leather purse that was full of deniers, and a pair of simple daggers in leather sheaths. He checked the other bag: empty. He ran over to Fergus, snatched the woolen blanket near the fallen man, rolled and stuffed it into the riding bag. He checked for his sword; it was in one of Fergus’s heavy scabbards tied onto the saddle. Next to the broadsword was a spatha in a thinner, lighter sheath.

  Good. Two swords. Two daggers. Some food.Money. You’re organized. Go!

  Christopher put his left foot into the stirrup, hoisted himself up, and slung his right leg over the horse. He cracked the reins and dug his bare heels into the black rounsey’s ribs. The animal beat a retreat along the river.

  The iron stirrups dug into·his feet as he rode. He thought he heard the hooves of another horse in pur­ suit, and shot quick glances back, but saw only the dim waters half-obscured by mist, the tall grass, and the shrubs, all moving away from him.

  Up ahead, a thicket blocked his path. He steered the horse around it, but the rounsey responded too slowly, rounded the comer too closely. Christopher winced as the shrubs scraped over his foot. He looked down to see if he bled, but couldn’t tell.

  His destination wasn’t important; he’d figure that out once he found a place of sanctuary. Anything would do, but it would have to be at least a day’s ride away. He would work the horse until it fell.

  As he rode, a thought jelled: for the first time in his life he was totally alone. He’d gone from his parents to Hasdale and Orvin, then to Garrett, and finally to Mallory. He answered to no one now. It was unnerv­ing. There had always been someone to regulate his life for him. Now he was in complete control. It was a challenge he would face with a racing heart.

  17

  By daybreak, Christopher arrived on the perimeter of an expanse of fallow fields that bordered on the village of Falls, a bustling nest two days ride from the remains of its sister village Shores. He had been to Falls once when he was ten, or eleven; he couldn’t remember. It was there in the marketplace he hoped to purchase a pair of riding boots. He wished he could buy a new body. His rump was sore, the soles of his feet red and beginning to blister, his left foot scratched and caked with blood.

  His rounsey had fallen off into a canter some hours ago, and was now barely able to trot. Christopher took pity on the animal and braked it to a halt. He climbed down, and his feet made painful contact with the dewy grass. Bones in his knees and arms cracked. He walked the rounsey down to the shore­ line, and the horse lowered its head immediately to the murky water.

  Christopher took off his tun_ic and threw it over the rounsey’s croup. He stretched out his arms, twisted his torso, then bent down, keeping his legs stiff. The night ride had taken half the life out of him.

  There would be no serfs with ox and plow tilling this land. Christopher saw that the fields were not sown, this being the year for these grounds to rest. It was a good place for him to rest as well. He opened one of the riding bags and fished out a scrap of roasted pork. He chewed on the meat, savoring its salty sweetness. Then he padded down to the river. He cupped his hands, scooped up and downed a mouthful of water; it was cold and refreshing, if not a bit dirty-tasting. He splashed some over his head and shivered. He raked his hair off his forehead, rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, then put on his tunic. He pulled the woolen blanket out of the other riding bag, spread it out on the ground, and settled himself onto it, resting his head in his palms. He closed his eyes.

  Christopher felt the warm sensation of sunlight on his face and flickered his eyelids open. The summer sun climbed toward noonday zenith, the sky clear, the river devoid of mist.

  How long have I been sleeping?

  He shot upright and stood. His rounsey was there, its ears twitching away flies. The horse whinnied, as if acknowledging Christopher. He cocked his head field­ wise. No one. He breathed a small sigh of relief. He pushed his shoulder blades together, feeling the tight­ ness, then he ambled down to the river and, once again, he splashed water over his face.

  When the dreamworld was fully gone from his head and eyes, Christopher repacked the blanket and mounted the rounsey. He spurred the horse away from the river and brought it onto a path that had been rooted with wheat the previous year. He fol­ lowed the strip toward the wood on the horizon and the village beyond.

  18

  The marketplace of Falls took up both sides of the narrow main road. Each shop was essen­tially a stall, with a pair of horizontal shutters that opened upward and downward. The upper shutter was supported by two posts, making it an awning. The lower shutter rested on two legs and acted as a display counter.

  The first group of stores Christopher trotted past were those of the food purveyors, a dozen or more shoppers scattered in front of the stalls. At one of the counters, a pig was slaughtered on the spot, the blood drying in the sun amid piles of offal and a swarm of flies; at another, geese were tied to the apron of the stall, honking and gabbling; still another was fronted by chickens and ducks, their legs trussed, causing them to flounder like fish on the ground. Christopher saw two housewives, dressed in tunics with sleeves laced from wrist to elbow, pinch some of the fowl. One of the women opened her purse and handed over four deniers to the grizzly shopkeeper for one of the chickens.

  Next he came upon a pastry booth with a sign offering three pasties for a denier. In the shop behind, Christopher saw an apprentice taking the cakes from a stone oven with a long-handled wooden shovel. Christopher suddenly realized his pork break­ fast was not enough. He reached down into his riding bag and pulled out the leather purse. He pushed the string that bound
it open and dumped the coins into his palm. He counted ten deniers. Christopher stopped his rounsey, but remained mounted. He called out to the fair-haired shopkeeper tending the booth. “Three pasties, if you will, sir.”

  The keeper stacked the pasties on his palm, slipped back into the shop, then emerged through the open doorway next to the stall. He walked up to Christopher, the exchange was made, then the keeper nodded and returned to his booth.

  Christopher took a bite out of one of the pasties; it was filled with raspberries. He closed his eyes in ecstasy.

  “Fresh-brewed ale. Try some here!”

  Christopher opened his eyes and saw an ale crier in the road ahead. The man had been hired by the local tavern owner to draw in customers by giving out free samples of the ale. The crier was a thickly bearded, potbellied man with a lazy gait attributable to the oversampling of his product. He held a tankard and a flagon of wine stoppered with a bit of hemp. “You, boy. Some ale?”

  Christopher shook his head, his mouth still full with the pasty. He chewed quickly and forced himself to swallow. He cleared his throat, then asked, “Do you know where the shoemaker’s shop is?”

  “Tum right at the end of this road. It’s just down the way, next to the saddler’s shop.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The crier nodded, then moved on. “Fresh-brewed ale. Try some here!”

  Christopher passed the farrier’s, then armorer’s stalls, helmets, swords, and plates being made by individual specialists, as they were in Shores. He drew closer to the end of the main road and could already smell the stench from the saddle and shoe­ maker’s shops. But it wasn’t a stench now. It was familiar, and settling, and it made him feel wistful. He sensed he was a little closer to home.

  He dismounted in front of the shoemaker’s shop. The counter was filled with rows of sandals and goatskin and cordwain shoes.

  A young woman appeared behind the counter. She was plain, her eyes dull from sleep, her hair flattened from a pillow. She yawned. “I’ve a nice pair there, in the front.” Her glance lit upon the cordwain shoes she mentioned.

  “I need riding boots.”

  The woman looked over the counter at Christopher’s bare feet. “Indeed, you do!” She waved to him. “Come inside.”

  The shop was simple enough, not unlike his father’s workshop or that poor soul’s in Fitzralph’s village, with a bench supporting tools, and tanned leathers hung from the walls.

  “My husband died four moons ago. This shop is mine now.” The edge in her voice told Christopher she was still not used to the idea of being a shop­ keeper and widow. “I have a pair of boots in the loft that I think will fit you. Wait here.”

  She disappeared through a hall, and he listened to her pad up the stairs. He walked absently around as he waited, touched the leathers, examined the stitching on a pair of shoes. She returned with one of the finest pair of riding boots Christopher had ever seen.

  “I’m stunned,” he said. “Try them on,” she urged.

  Christopher sat on the workshop bench, then slid his right foot into one of the boots. He marveled at the softness of the leather and the irony of such a perfect fit. He slid his injured foot into the other boot, careful not to break open the scabs that criss­ crossed his skin. He stood, wiggling his toes. “I want them. How much?”

  The woman shook her head. “They’re yours.”

  Christopher did not believe her. “Why would you give this excellent pair of boots to a stranger?”

  “I have no need for them. And I do not wish to sell them.” Her next was delivered in a singsong way. “Now go. Ride away. Savor the comfort of your boots.”

  “At least let me pay something. If I take them, I feel I will be in debt to you.”

  “You owe me nothing. You’ve done me a favor. I am in debt to you.”

  Christopher shrugged his confusion. “Thank you?” “Yes. You are welcome.”

  He turned slowly away, then stepped out of the shop, the new boots spoiling his feet. He climbed on his rounsey, then heeled the horse on. He looked over his shoulder and saw the woman wave good-bye to him from behind her lonely counter.

  It was then he realized that the boots had been her husband’s.

  19

  Mallory used his boot to squash the rat in the comer of his cell. The rodent’s eyes bulged and had dark gore erupted from its mouth.

  “You won’t be bothering me anymore, will you?

  WILL YOU?”

  He had spent the entire morning in a rage. Four of his men were locked up five cells down from his, and had repeatedly asked him if he was all right. It must have been his screaming.

  His only luck-the word sarcastically humorous to him now-was that Dallas had not been captured. The boy, the damned boy. He failed to lure the abbot out. And who counted on the monks to be armed with spathas? It was ludicrous! Have they been robbed before?

  He picked up the dead rat and tossed it through the bars of his cell, into the hall. “Dinner is served, watchman!”

  It felt good to talk, to release some of the fire inside him. He wanted to kill badly now, to punch a dagger into someone again and again. To taste another’s blood, to strangle the life out of someone, to gouge out the eyeballs of the fat old abbot, the bas­tard. When I’m free, you die, man of God.

  He attempted to see the thrill in being locked up, but for once Mallory was at a loss. The thrill would only return if he attempted to escape. That was a thought. Get caught robbing the abbey, become imprisoned awaiting trial-then slip out like early­ morning fog, damning them all to hell and laughing in their faces. Oh, it was good to be locked up now. To think about how exciting the escape would be, how the monks would remember him for the rest of their sheltered lives. Mallory could already see in his mind’s eye himself and his men on horseback, their dusty wake clouding the vision of the abbot’s clumsy men. Then they would tum tail and surprise the pur­ suing guards, slash swiftly and take lives. He rubbed his back against the iron bars of his cage, then grinned.

  “You say nothing now, lord,” one of his men called. “Are you all right?”

  Mallory dropped his smile and sighed disgustedly. “Will you please HOLD YOUR TONGUE?”

  20

  The night sky shone with a brilliance Christopher could not ignore. As he rode onto the practice field below the castle of Shores, his gaze was stolen by the heavens. Across the white stars came streaks of light that, like glowing embers wafting up from a fire, were there and then gone as quickly. It was a rare night, and he fancied something special was happening, as if the local sky were welcoming him home.

  What will be?

  Many questions and many fears still lurked within him. But it was good to be out in the balmy air of a summer night, watching stars shoot above the gray curtains of the castle. Absently, he fingered the soft hairs that grew on his cheeks, chin, and under his nose, then reached higher to the scars on his face. He would look different to those who knew him. As dif­ ferent as he felt. He had seen much more than he could have imagined on the day he had left Shores. And now he brought himself and his story back.

  What he was going home to, he wasn’t sure. But he was going home.

  PART FOUR

  SQUIRE OF THE BODY

  1

  Christopher slept_ in the wood below the ram­ parts of the castle. It was a black sleep, and in the darkness he traded blows with a faceless enemy who wielded a broadsword much larger than his own. All he could do was lash out, for if he stopped, he felt he would lose his life. He woke, chilled. The din of the night creatures enveloped him. He stared up through the broken leaf cover. The sky had dulled into a gray dome of clouds. He heard a branch crack. Then another. Then the sound of leather soles pressing into the soft, wet earth. He rose and gingerly padded over to his rounsey. He pulled his broadsword silently from its scabbard, then assumed the en garde position.

  He had become a light sleeper. Most of the horrors of his life had happened at night. No one would ever attempt to
kill him again while he slept. He was alert, not frightened. It had to be a guard or perhaps a pilfer­ ing serf. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, but it would be hard to see in the shadows. He would have to call out, revealing his location. It was either that or try to render the trespasser defenseless and then identify him or her later. It was dangerous either way.

  Christopher heard the footsteps stop. And then a voice. “God, remove this curse from my shoulders and let these old, tired bones have one night’s rest. Why can I not sleep? Why do I walk this path every night, and spend my days squinting and even more tired? Let me rest. Bring me peace. I beg of you.”

  Christopher grinned with recognition. “Sir Orvin?”

  “Who calls?” the old man shot back tersely. “Show yourself.”

  “I will.”

  “I know … I know you,” Orvin said.

  “Where are you, Orvin?” Christopher felt his pulse thump in his neck.

  “Here!”

  “Keep calling out!”

  He followed the voice, plowing his way through benches of low-lying shrubs and over a carpet of fallen leaves toward the silhouette of Orvin that was framed by a pair of thin beech trees.

  When he came upon Orvin, he could not see the old man’s face clearly. But he saw enough to know it was his master. And Orvin, too, recognized his form. Christopher felt Orvin’s arms wrap tightly around his back and hug him hard. He hugged back, wanting the embrace to mean something, to mean he would never have to be separated from his master again. They broke their embrace.

  “Is it chance we meet here?” Christopher asked.

  “Is it?” Orvin’s question was a challenge. The old man was the believer in magic and mystical portents.