Squire

by Peter Telep

  “It does seem destined. How many nights have you walked these woods?”

  “For the last two moons.”

  It did seem coincidental that for the last two moons Christopher had been as close as ever to home-and it had been during that time that Orvin had not been able to sleep.

  Orvin studied Christopher. He brought an index finger up to Christopher’s face and fingered one of the nine scars that mapped Christopher’s cheek with the past.

  He was about to explain the scars to Orvin, to tell the man about Garrett, but wasn’t sure if Orvin would understand. Garrett was the man that had killed Orvin’s son, murdered him in front of Christopher.

  Being with Orvin made Christopher feel guilty about his own relationship with Garrett, but it had happened and he would have to accept it. Eventually, he would have to tell the old man. But why not keep this a joyous moment?

  “I have so many questions,” he told Orvin.

  “I can tell you this much, young patron saint. I knew you would live.”

  “How?”

  “I could tell you I saw it in the clouds, but it’s best I say I simply knew. You will never die in combat.”

  Christopher shook his head unbelievingly. “I speak the truth.”

  “Then I guess I will no longer be a squire.” “Why do you say that?”

  “Because if I remain a squire, the odds are that I will die in combat. What you are telling me is that I will not be a squire in the future. Or even a knight.”

  “You will always be a squire,” Orvin said firmly. Christopher sighed, though it was through a grin.

  “It is good to be talking about things that make no sense to me again, Sir Orvin.”

  “And it is good to be with one who makes me work at my philosophy. One who makes me strain to deliver the truth. My head has lacked that exercise for too long.”

  Christopher rested his palms on Orvin’s shoulders, feeling the rough leather of the old man’s tunic. “Tell me about people now. Brenna.”

  “We feared a siege after the battle with Garrett, and sent many to Uryens’s castle. Your raven maid has not returned from there.”

  “Then I ride to Gore to see her.”

  “You expect she has been waiting for you?”

  The excitement in Christopher’s voice ebbed away.

  “No.”

  He had told himself it had been too long, over two years, and many other things had obscured his thoughts of her. But now he was home, and he expected to see her. The expectation fostered the hope that there was still something between them. But just seeing her wasn’t going to rekindle what they had had. He felt much more mature. If they came together once again, it would be a different kind of relationship.

  “She did care a great deal for you,” Orvin said. “So maybe she did wait?”

  “Do not beg for alms of love. See her. Greet her.

  Expect nothing.”

  Christopher nodded, then other faces came to mind. “What of Lady Fiona?”

  “There is a sad story. And I weep when I think of how it ended.”

  “She’s not-”

  “By her own hand.” “When?”

  “Only a moon after the survivors returned.”

  “They were the rear guard,” Christopher said. “They were supposed to attack. Instead, they ran.”

  “Is a man a coward if he wishes to preserve his own life? Must he always step into the wake of death and chase it? Can a man decide not to die and live with himself?”

  Christopher yawned. “On the morrow we will debate this. Now we sleep.”

  “You sleep.”

  “Has Lord Devin given you a chamber?” “He did-but I refused it.”

  “Then where do you reside?” “You have a mount?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fetch it, then. And I’ll show you.”

  2

  Leatherdressers’ Row was completely barren, save for the three new stone-walled houses on the right where the road began. In the ocher light of sun­ rise, Christopher could see that reconstruction had begun, monitored by Lord Devin’s steward and financed by whoever the new abbot was. The black timbers that once littered the ground were gone, the earth now leveled in preparation for more tofts. Stone buildings were expensive, and Christopher marveled at the picture he drew in his imagination of a whole town built of the heavy rocks. It did seem that that was Lord Devin’s plan. The new Shores would be a strong, heavily peopled village, Christopher hoped.

  Orvin rode the rounsey and he walked alongside the horse. He tried to find the location of his old toft, but couldn’t be sure. Everything had changed. But the characteristic odor of the air, a blend of gorse and humus cut with the stench of leather, was still pre­ sent. Or maybe he wanted to smell it. No, it was there.

  They turned right at the end of the empty road and walked toward a row of stables. The buildings were under repair; sections of new roof created juxtaposi­tions with older, more weathered timber, and once­ wooden walls were now made of stone.

  Orvin pointed to the first stable, behind which was a small corral, home for two rounseys. “Here.”

  Christopher opened the wide door of the stable and pulled his rounsey inside. He helped Orvin down from the horse and then closed the door. The old man flinted a torch to life.

  “Mind your flame,” Christopher told Orvin, ner­vous about the torch among the old wood and straw.

  “Yes, yes.”

  A dozen stalls stood below a storage loft that was acces­ sible by a wooden ladder. The place reminded Christopher very much of the old squires’ quarters back at the castle. And it struck him as curious that Orvin chose to live in such a place. The old man ascended the ladder. “You pick a stable over a warm chamber in the castle?”

  “I am a curiosity now. The last member of a family that no longer exists.”

  “I will be your family.”

  “That is kind of you, young patron saint. But your life will carry you well beyond these stables. You can be my company for now.”

  Christopher climbed the ladder behind Orvin, reached the top, then crawled onto the floor. When he stood, he hit his head on the ceiling. He rubbed his sore noggin and silently cursed.

  “Mind your head,” Orvin said. “Oh, I am, sir. And it hurts!”

  In one comer of the loft there was a shabby, thin­ mattressed pallet, a pile of scrolls sitting on the floor next to it. The bed was as rickety and uncomfortable­ looking as the one Christopher had slept on in the squires’ quarters. It seemed unlikely Orvin actually used it for sleeping.

  “This is where you retire?” Christopher asked. “No,” Orvin said. “We ride hackneys through here.

  Of course it is.” “On that bed?”

  “What’s wrong with it?” “What of your back?”

  Orvin sat down on the bed and slid off one of his san- dals. ‘‘This bedding has done wonders for my bones.”

  “You hate this place.”

  Orvin furrowed his brow. “I do not.”

  “You live with horses, master. Like a farrier apprentice.”

  “I like horses.” He removed his other sandal.

  Orvin had changed. Hasdale’s death had changed him. And now his master wanted to run away from it, to live here in solitude with the horses and a few hostlers and builders. It was too easy to see. Christopher wondered if the old man knew how transparent a disguise it was; Orvin could not face life in the castle, the eyes that stared at him and the whis­pers that said, “Poor Orvin. His whole family is gone.”

  Christopher decided to confront his master. “You cannot face your loss. You hide from it here.”

  Orvin rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “No. I simply desire to be alone. I do not wish people buzzing about me, tending to me. I live my own life here. I am content.”

  “You hide.”

  Orvin yawned. “Later we will debate this. Now we sleep,” he said, quoting Christopher.

  “I thought you could not?”

  Orvin pushed himself back
onto the straw-filled mattress, and his head found the pillow. He lay on his side and within seconds began to snore.

  Some host. Where do I sleep?

  Christopher found a spare woolen blanket under the pallet and spread it out on the wooden timbers of the loft. He sprawled on the wool and eyed the rafters, unfolding an imaginary reunion with Brenna in his mind.

  3

  Dallas threw the watchman against the pitted bars of Mallory’s cell. Mallory watched as Dallas thrust his spatha into the man and saw the blade pop out of the victim’s back, a metallic serpent rising from its gambeson hole.

  Dallas wrenched his spatha from the guard. The watchman’s head thumped over the pair of horizontal bars as he fell to the floor. Dallas relieved the dead man of his keys and fumbled with the cell door lock.

  Mallory had an erection. The thrill was present, and he stood in the middle of it, throbbing with its energy. “You had to come the night before my trial. Why not a minute before? It would’ve been much more daring.”

  Dallas ignored Mallory and struggled with the lock. Finally, the tumbler dropped and the door screeched open. Mallory yanked the keys out of Dallas’s hand and hustled for the cell that held his other men. He freed them, and the group hurried out of the prison block.

  As the others rushed through a hall that led to their waiting rounseys in the courtyard, Dallas and Mallory found their way to the sunlit tunnel of the cloisters, and then to the entrance of the church.

  Dallas handed Mallory a small dagger, an anlace, then led the way with his own spatha. They banged into the church. The abbot stood, in all his obese glory, at the altar.

  Mallory ran straight toward the abbot. The old man cowered, putting his hands up in defense. Mallory let the momentum of his feet carry him up the wooden stairs and into the abbot, knocking the old man onto his back.

  Mallory heard the monks behind him scream as he punched the abbot in the heart with his anlace, and damned the man with his eyes. Again. And again. The abbot’s surplice became soaked with blood, and the old man’s eyes were so wide that they looked ready to burst from their sockets.

  Why had he wanted to kill the abbot so much? The humiliation of being incarcerated, he reasoned. Yes, that was it. Punch. Punch. Punch. Now go!

  As a last moan escaped from the abbot’s mouth, Mallory pushed himself to his feet.

  “Come on!” Dallas begged.

  Mallory looked around. Here he was in the middle of the house of the Lord smeared with the blood of the abbot. There wasn’t much more he could do to defy God. He shuddered. God would understand. God knew how he felt. God knew the thrill of it.

  Mallory stepped down from the altar as the last of the monks fled the church. Dallas ran toward the transept entrance on the river side of the church. Mallory followed, still dazed by what he had just done. It was a different kind of killing; at least it felt different. Was he cursed now that he had murdered in the house of God? No. God understands. He does, he does, he does.

  As he passed through the transept door, the anlace, which was slick with blood, fell from his hand and onto the floor. Mallory did not stop for it. Something told him to leave it behind. To leave as much as pos­ sible of what had just happened behind him.

  Four of his men stood brazenly on top of the perime­ter wall, nocking arrows into their shortbows; they sent their missiles into the air toward the monks, who poured out of the dorter doors and brandished their spathas.

  Mallory and Dallas roped their way over the walls, then mounted their rounseys. The archers leapt from their perches and joined them.

  Now he could feel good. He was away from that place. He loved the feel of his rounsey between his legs as the animal galloped along the river. He loved to be among his men again, free from those iron bars, which had seemed to close in a little tighter as the hours had worn on. He loved the idea of leaving a mental slash across the minds of the monks, an indelible memory that would be whispered among the clergy for many moons to come.

  He loved being himself at the moment. Every aspect of it. He peered over his shoulder. The abbot’s mounted men pµrsued them, as he had dreamed they would.

  4

  It would be some time before all the prepara­tions for the tournament were completed and the actual event could be scheduled. Arthur himself planned to attend, and this shook Lord Devin to the core of his being. Everything had to be perfect. But wasn’t that the order of his life? Perfection? Lord Devin had never met anyone more fastidious than himself. He constantly reviewed everything he did, as well as the deeds of those around him. Some called him too critical. He paid them no heed. How could anything be less than perfect for the king? It was incomprehensible.

  He sat before his breakfast table as his steward voiced a progress report on the reconstruction of Shores, but he ignored the old fool. His mind was focused on one thing: the tournament. He wanted messengers dispatched immediately with the invita­tions. He wanted to know the date of the event now. He wanted the tents pitched, the grandstand built, the tourney ground cleared, and the bachelor and banner knights ready now. What was the delay?

  He interrupted the droning syllables of the rodent­ faced steward. “Enough. I want to know about the tournament.”

  “What is it you wish to know, lord?” “When will it happen?”

  “The preparations have begun.”

  “That tells me nothing!” He wasn’t sure why he was so furious. It had to be the fear of having the king at his castle. He hated criticism and worried that the king would find fault with him. Criticism from the king would kill him.

  “Before the next moon, lord. The tournament will commence before the next moon.”

  “Can you promise that?”

  The steward rose. “I will.” The man turned and scurried out of the great hall.

  Devin had to calm himself. He already knew his tournament would be the most talked about one in all of England. No one would put on a better time of festivities. He might be fussy, but the spoils were worth it.

  Marigween stepped gracefully into the hall, and it saddened him to see how radiant she was. Her long, red locks were bound with a colorful linen tie, her cheeks flamed, and her vert eyes caught the sunlight pitched in through the smoke hole in the ceiling. She was beautiful. What a pity. His only daughter would be swept away from him. She would live in the castle, but once married, he would see little of her. How old was she now? Sixteen? There were only scant moments left. The eyes of his battle lords seemed to find her no matter how hard he tried to shelter her. A knight would take her and she would be gone.

  “Father. I wish to watch the archers practice, but the sentries will not let me leave the bailey.”

  He sighed. “They are under orders.”

  She stepped back from him. “Your orders?”

  He frowned, turning his head to the unfinished pork on his plate.

  “I thought we spoke of this already,” she said. “I thought you agreed to let me go where I wish. Instead I am your prisoner!”

  “No. I just don’t want you to be hurt.” “By whom?”

  “How about a game of chess?” “Don’t change the subject!”

  Her torments could no longer be ignored. He stood, his legs pushing the high-backed chair out from under him. “You are my daughter and you will obey me. You may travel anywhere you please within the walls of the castle.”

  “I repeat-I am your prisoner, not your daughter !” Tears brimmed in her eyes.

  “I don’t know how to explain it to you.” “What?”

  “You … you’re all I have left.”

  “Ever since Mother died you have nosed into everything I do. I cannot breathe!”

  “When I die, your husband could become lord of this castle. Do you know what that means?”

  “It means you wish to pick my suitors. You have tried for too long, Father. I will go to a nunnery if I must!”

  “Perhaps that is best.”

  He had called her bluff and it infuriated her. She blew out he
r breath disgustedly, iced up, and stormed off.

  A nunnery was the last place in the realm

  Marigween desired to be; she was too consumed by her friends and her flirting with his men. Someone should teach fathers how to manage situations like this. A lesson in fatherhood, that’s what I need. Why were these things not taught to me earlier? Why was I not warned of situations like this? They are com­ mon, but no one speaks of them. What is a father to do?

  Devin collapsed into his chair. He tried to tum his thoughts away from Marigween and onto the tourna­ment, but his mind galloped along a single path. He massaged his temples with his fingertips. He had to make sure she did not fall into the wrong arms. He would give her to the champion of the tournament. He hated the idea, but it was the only way to ensure her marriage to nobility. At the moment, she was as likely to marry a serf as a knight banneret. She had to be controlled, and, in doing so, he would lose her after all.

  5

  What is he cooking?

  It was a difficult way to wake up to the smell of something horrible cooking; the fumes were like quicklimed spears in Christopher’s nostrils. He sat up, crinkled his nose, then felt his back crack. I abso­ lutely refuse to sleep on the earth or another wooden floor. I am home now. I need a trestle bed!

  Christopher looked down to the floor of the stable. Orvin had the door open and had built his cookfire just beyond the building. A small iron cauldron hung from a chain fastened to an Iron tripod, and a nox­ ious liquid steamed with life over the rim of the pot. “Master? What poison are you brewing?”

  Orvin sat on a small bench near the cauldron, stir­ ring the evil brew with a long wooden spoon. He either ignored or did not hear Christopher’s question. Christopher crawled to the ladder, turned, and lowered himself onto one of the rungs. He started down, and in his foggy state missed a step and fell six feet to the hay-dappled floor. He lay on his back as the dust settled around him. His left buttock stung. He tasted dirt, craned his neck, and spit. Then he coughed and rolled up with a groan. He glanced to Orvin. Still, the man was in his own world, stirring his breakfast. Christopher stood, hobbled over to the cookfire while rubbing his rump. By the height of the sun, it already looked to be noon.