by Peter Telep
“It will be worth it,” Christopher said.
“False promises create anticipation, and then misery.” “You already feel both,” Christopher guessed, “so
what’s the difference?”
“How do you know what I feel?”
“Come,” Christopher urged, getting them away from the stables and the argument.
They walked past the fences of the piggery toward the bakery, its elaborate chimney jutting into the sky and emitting spirals of thin, sweet-smelling smoke. They could have walked to the marketplace and bought a loaf from one of the merchants, but Christopher wanted a loaf fresh from the oven, and Orvin had taught him the way in which to acquire such a treasure. Christopher and Doyle reached the entranceway to the bakery, and Christopher gestured for Doyle to wait outside.
Christopher’s mouth watered as he stepped into the heavenly place. Three brick ovens made up the back wall of the bakery. A long worktable stood before the ovens, and he counted six serfs pulling loaves from the oven with their long-handled, wooden spatulas. Christopher considered what it would be like to work in such a place, wrapped every day in the blissful smell of bread, able to sample as much as you want of the soft, sweet loaves. But he reasoned that if he did work in a bakery, he would not appreciate the bread as much as he did otherwise. That truth was worn on the bored faces of the bakers.
“Good day, sirs. I am the reeve’s servant sent for two loaves to be tested.”
“The steward was here just yesterday,” one of the serfs fired back.
Christopher’s mind raced. “Yes, but the loaves were mixed up. We apologize for that, and require two more loaves today. Picked at random, please.”
The serf who had spoken frowned, then reached to his left and picked up two warm loaves. He set them in a basket which another serf pulled from a storage shelf, then handed the package to Christopher. “Tell your lord that all of this testing is unsettling the bak ers. We have never cheated on quality or weight. His suspicions are unwarranted.”
“I will.” Christopher ran toward the doorway, but caught himself in time to slow down and walk out casually.
Outside, Doyle’s gaze lit on the bread. Christopher handed his friend one of the long, steaming loaves. Doyle bit off a hunk and chewed with a fierce delight. Christopher nibbled on his own bread, eyeing the bai ley. If he were younger, this crowded castle would have scared him. So many people. So many alleys in which to get lost. But he had been through so much. This place was only an obstacle to cross in order to get to Brenna.
The serf who had given Christopher the bread emerged from the doorway. “I should have known!”
Christopher and Doyle bolted away, hearing the serf’s booming voice trail off behind them. They threaded their way through people and horses, turned right at the comer of the chapel, then paused behind the building, sucking down air and exchanging smiles.
“You’re a criminal,” Doyle said playfully.
“I am wanted by the abbot of Queen’s Camel. And now by a baker. Call me the rogue squire, I guess.”
“What I’m wondering is what your plan is to meet Brenna, young rogue.”
“I think I like patron saint better. But yes, you are right. I do need a plan. I want to appear before her, startle her, and see if she still has feelings for me.”
“What you’re talking about is breaking into the keep, slipping past all the guards, and catching her while she’s at work in some chamber.”
“That’s perfect.”
“What did they teach you, Christopher? Or per haps it was Mallory and not the Saxons. Why do you want to attempt something that risky?”
Doyle had posed an interesting question. Had a little bit of Mallory’s thrill-seeking crawled into Christopher’s veins? Christopher could not deny that the idea of sneaking into the keep and surprising Brenna excited him. Perhaps before encountering Mallory he would not have entertained such a thought. If he learned to control the feeling and not let it consume him as Mallory had, then it was a good thing. He felt it bol stered his courage and gave him the ability to walk along the edge of a wall and not fall off, the danger spurring on the will to do so. The thrill.
Doyle stared at him. “Well?”
7
When twilight purpled the sky above the keep, and the serfs had gone home to the one-room houses on their tofts, and the craftsmen had set down their tools and filled their hands with warm, sweet meat, Christopher and Doyle hunkered down near the base of a tower that stood near the keep’s gatehouse.
“We don’t even have a place to sleep,” Doyle whis pered. “There’s an inn in the valley. I think I’m going there. I’ll figure out a way to pay the keeper.”
“Your brother would’ve liked this, Doyle. I wish you wouldn’t go.”
“Sorry. You don’t know how you’re going to get in there.” Doyle started off, and in the shadows did not see the sentry, who had materialized from the comer of the tower.
Doyle bumped into the man.
“Halt!” the sentry yelled, brandishing his javelin. Then he hailed his comrade on the wall-walk above. “Chief of the watch. Two trespassers down here!”
They had refused to answer any questions, and so they had been escorted by the sentry to the prison block. They had been pushed roughly into one of the musty cells, the door slammed behind them. If they would talk, they might be released.
Unfortunately the first question had been their names. If word reached Brenna and Doyle’s parents that they were in the prison, everything would be ruined. But, Christopher had argued to himself, if they didn’t talk, when would they ever be released?
‘Tm telling them who I am,” Doyle said. “I’m done walking this path.”
“You said we needed a place to sleep… . ” “Amusing, Christopher. Perhaps you missed your calling. The lord is looking for more jesters.” “Someone else said I would be a good jester.
Anyway, we’re inside the keep, aren’t we?”
Doyle tsked loudly for effect. He stepped to the bars, pressing his cheeks against them. “I wish to speak to the chief of the watch.”
“Yes,” Christopher added. ‘We’re ready to be released.” After a few moments, they heard the jingling of keys, the yawning of a door, and then the chief paraded into view; he stopped before their cell. The head watchman was a broad boar of a man with hard, miss-nothing eyes and a smile that had died many campaigns ago. If he had any emotions, the chief kept them sheathed.
“Names?” he asked in his rumbling voice.
“Uh, Doyle and Christopher of Shores,” Doyle said. “I’m Doyle.”
“Why were you loitering outside the gatehouse?” “We were waiting for a friend,” Christopher answered. “Who is this friend?”
Doyle shot Christopher a pleading look. “Let’s tell him the truth.” Then he faced the chief. “I’m here to see my parents, maybe. And he’s here to see a friend. Brenna. She’s a chambermaid.”
“Who are your parents?” the chief asked. “Lord Heath and Lady Neala.”
As if commanded by a silent leader, the chief turned and exited quickly.
“Your father must wear some title around here,” Christopher said.
Doyle shrugged.
The chief was gone for what seemed a moon. Christopher did not want to risk conversation with Doyle, for he felt his friend was on the verge of argu ment; he could see the frustration rimming Doyle’s eyes.
When the chief returned, he was not alone. In tow were Doyle’s parents. And Brenna.
Christopher was denied view of the initial shock wave that must have passed through Brenna’s body upon hearing he was alive. He had wanted to see that very badly, and with her right in front of him, stand ing just beyond the bars, all he could do was imagine what her reaction had been for a second-and then her voice thrust him into the present.
“Christopher?” She uttered his name-a question as if not fully recognizing him. Had he changed that much?
Lord Heath tugged nervously o
n his gray beard. “Get my boy out,” he ordered.
“Yes, lord.” The chief unlocked the door, then Christopher followed Doyle out of the cell.
“You couldn’t have planned this any better,” Doyle whispered grimly over his shoulder, then turned toward Lord Heath and Neala.
As a stiff, fragmented conversation between Doyle and his parents began behind him, Christopher found himself lost in by the raven maid’s eyes.
Do not look too deeply into her eyes. Let her make you happy. That is all.
She touched his cheek with her index finger. “What happened?” Then she lowered her hand.
Self-consciously, Christopher reached up to his face and ran fingers over the scars. “I got hit.” He wasn’t concentrating on his words. He felt his fingers trembling on his cheek. He dropped his hand, balled it into a fist to stifle his nerves.
“I can see that,” she said.
Everything he had wanted to happen had gone wrong. The surprise meeting, the things he would tell her, the moment they would share. All of it was changed, forgotten. But it didn’t matter. The moment was as good as he could have wished. He hadn’t real ized how much he had wanted to be in her presence until now; he hadn’t realized how happy it would make him feel. She did make him happy. Too happy. He didn’t want it to end, as he knew it might.
“I wanted to surprise you,” he said softly. “You did.”
Behind them, Lord Heath, Neala, and Doyle moved toward the exit at the end of the prison block.
“We’re going to eat,” Doyle called out. “Meet you up there.”
Christopher craned his neck. “Fine.” Then he shifted his gaze to hers. “I have a moon’s worth of stories to tell you.”
“And I have as many questions.” The light that he wanted to see in her eyes was there, and the color that flushed her cheeks complemented it perfectly. She turned her head slightly, and he caught sight of the back of her hair, much longer than his memories had painted. It was only now he noticed her dress, a sim ple wool gown, linen shift, and wool stockings. He remembered her bright-colored clothing, but felt even her present drab attire did not deplete her beauty.
He stepped toward her, extending his arms. They embraced. Time had made him feel awkward about hugging her on first sight, but as he felt the curvature of her back, he felt anything but odd. He felt wanted.
She broke the embrace. “I really thought you were dead. And I-”
Christopher put a finger over her lips. “I’m hungry.
Can we eat together?”
She pursed her lips, nodded. “I still have to tell you about-”
“It’s all right. I didn’t expect you to wait for me. I just wanted to see you. To tell you I’m alive. To tell you I missed you. That’s all. As Orvin is fond of say ing: expect nothing. And I do.”
Brenna smiled knowingly, then her grin faded with another thought. “He’s not dead, is he? I’ve heard rumors.”
“Oh, no. He lives. He cooks. He makes his funny noises and wrinkles his forehead in that odd way. And he’s still reading the skies.” Christopher took Brenna’s arm in his. “Show me to the hall.”
“We’ll be dining with my parents-and with Innis.
He’s a varlet.”
Christopher stopped. “If you don’t feel right about this-”
“I’ll set you a place at our table,” she said firmly.
She might have given some of her feelings to another, but he knew she still had some left for him. She wasn’t just being nice, or showing him pity. He found truth in her words, in the way she looked at him.
As they were about to leave the prison block and mount a staircase for the garrison quarters, they both paused, turned, and glanced at the row of cells, then each other.
8
Simple pleasures. Meat that was cooked well and peppered. Vegetables that were boiled, not cold and raw. Fresh-brewed ale. The merry sounds of minstrelsy. The company of people he liked-Celts-not Saxons or criminals. Christopher sat at the trestle table with Brenna’s parents and her suitor Innis, breathing in the moment of dining once again in a great hall. Like so many other things, routine things, you took them for granted until they were lost. Now he treasured the moment and hoped it would once again slip back into his routine. If he found a lord who would take him, it would.
Uryens and his nobles sat at his long table on the dais, and Christopher studied each of the lord’s knights, wondering which he would ask for the chance to prove himself as a squire. But he also felt a strong desire to be home, to serve one of Devin’s knights at the castle he knew so well. He wanted to be close to Orvin, be able to seek his master’s guidance when the need arose. This was a great place, and Brenna was here, but he felt a guest. He did not know if he wanted to stay. He needed to talk to Doyle, to find out how things were with his friend. He spied Lord Heath and Neala at the first trestle table closest to the lord. But strangely, Doyle was nowhere in sight.
A conversation took place between Brenna’s mother, the vociferous Fenelia, and Innis. Brenna’s father, Arlen, a fat, dark-faced man who had become one of Uryens’s private armorers, was too busy gob bling down his food to pay attention to anyone. Christopher himself was too lost in thought to listen to the discussion until he was yanked from introspection by a question from Innis:
“Christopher. What is your opinion of Arthur’s new union?”
Christopher averted his gaze from Lord Heath’s table to Innis. He had hated the varlet at first sight, not because the boy was cocky, and not because the boy had insulted him by not looking him directly in the eye when they had first met, but because, he admitted, he was jealous. Simple pleasures were now simple pains. Innis had moved into Brenna’s life. Christopher must be mature and accept that, he knew, but just then he wanted to rip the vaunting boy’s head off and mount it on a spear. Brenna deserved better than Innis. Christopher wasn’t sure he was worthy of her, but this Innis, this in-love with-himself arrow-shooter was certainly not.
“What was your question?” Christopher asked.
You foul boy.
“I asked,” Innis repeated annoyedly, “what do you think of Arthur’s new union?”
Christopher had never given it much thought. Mallory had told him a few things about the new king, but since then, Christopher had only stowed the desire to meet Arthur. He had no opinion of the new union. He guessed it was a good thing. ‘Tm for it,” he answered.
Innis flattened his pretty, pudding basin haircut, then pulled an errant wisp from his eye. “But what do you think of the delegation of power he and Lancelot have established?”
Christopher sensed that Innis was trying to prove him politically inferior, which he knew he was. He had never given any thought to the way their land was governed. He knew the structure like everyone else, and now the new order was changing it. If it worked, that was fine with him. The games nobles and kings played bored Christopher. “l will be glad to serve any knight who is true to the king.”
“One with such a small view will not achieve knighthood quickly. I think the king seeks ideas.”
“From a varlet? What plans have you to offer him?”
For a second, Christopher looked at Brenna. He saw she was not appreciating their verbal duel; she kept her gaze locked on her plate. But it wasn’t his fault. Her new love had struck the first blow.
“I have many. But will not disclose them now.” “Battle plans?” Christopher asked.
“Indeed.”
Christopher smirked. He didn’t have to listen to this know-it-all anymore. Now they were treading waters Christopher knew a whole lot about. “What do you know of the battlefield? Have you been on a single campaign?”
“No. But I have studied past campaigns on my own. I know enough now-”
“You don’t know anything.” Christopher tapped his scarred cheek with an index finger.
“I’ve heard about your Lord Hasdale’s failure and death. That I know.”
Christopher saw Fenelia nudge her husb
and with her elbow; he continued shoveling beef down his throat.
“Have you ever seen the body of a dead man? Have you ever killed a man yourself?”
Innis stood, then smote the tabletop with a fist. “And how are you going to change the world, squire?” Brenna pitched Christopher a scornful look. Arlen looked with equal disgust at Innis for banging on the table and disrupting his supper.
Fenelia scowled at her husband for not intervening.
Christopher knew that if the dispute continued, he and Innis would be outside with daggers. Time to concede, if only for Brenna’s sake. “Sit down. It belittles us to argue this way,” he told Innis. “You are right and I am wrong.”
Innis’s anger lapsed into hunger. He sat down and fingered a piece of meat, pushed it into his mouth.
Christopher noticed that the minstrels had stopped playing.
“I hope you will not-” Brenna began, but was cut off.
“The king!” a herald called from his position on the dais. “King Arthur!”
A pair of trumpeters played after the herald’s call, the notes echoing off the stone walls and reverberat ing in Christopher’s ears. From a side hall, he saw the king step onto the dais and find a seat in the middle of Uryens’s table, a seat normally reserved for Uryens himself. Christopher followed as everyone rose.
Arthur wore no crown, no gold-trimmed tunic or fancy jewelry. He sported the link-mail hauberk and woolen breeches of a common fighting man. In fact, he appeared to have just stepped off the practice field and into the great hall, perhaps having engaged in a little torchlight swordplay. He looked like king of the combatants to Christopher, and that made him feel good about the man. Here was a king who knew something about fighting. Or at least his appearance said so.
After the king sat, everyone else resumed their benches. Christopher did not take his gaze off Arthur. He watched as the king sipped ale from a shiny silver tankard, smacked his lips, then cleared his throat.