by Peter Telep
The trumpets blew, jolting Christopher to attention. A herald announced his name: “Christopher of Shores! Step forward and become a knight!”
His armor rattled as he trudged toward Arthur, who stood below the dais in his red velvet robes, gripping the hilt of Excalibur with both hands. Moonlight shone down through the smoke hole and painted the hall silver. He glanced left and saw Doyle sitting with a group of other archers. His friend shook a fist of pride in the air. Christopher trembled.
He walked a little farther and saw Orvin seated at the end of a table. The old man touched the skin of the roasted duck plated there, then licked his finger. At the sound of his approach, Orvin turned, then raised and lowered his eyebrows; the skin on his fore head did its dance. Christopher tried to smile, but his lips would not curl.
Over two hundred people in the hall, and the only sound was his armor. He was twice relieved as he stopped before the king, once for the burden of keep ing the suit moving, once for the noise it made. But those were physical dilemmas now gone. The mental burdens he carried were about to break him.
“Young man. Kneel,” Arthur said curtly.
Christopher was about to say something but found himself moving to his knees, helped by the weight of his armor.
Arthur raised Excalibur over Christopher’s head. “In the name of God,” he began, about to touch Christopher’s left shoulder with Excalibur’s tip, “of St. Michael-”
Christopher’s left arm sprang up and his gauntleted hand locked around the blade of Excalibur before it touched his shoulder.
A wave of murmurs rolled toward the back of the hall and broke at the rear entrance. Christopher knew everyone in the hall was shocked. Everyone except Orvin.
“Christopher,” Arthur gasped, “what’s wrong?”
Christopher released his grip on the sword. Arthur withdrew. “If I may stand, my liege?”
Arthur nodded, appearing confused and more than a tinge insulted. Christopher brought one leg up, but found himself losing his balance. Doyle’s father raced from his table and helped Christopher to his feet, then, like a leveret, scampered back to his seat before he was noticed by those in the rear.
“I mean you no insult, Your Majesty, but knight hood is not my true place.”
Arthur frowned. “Young man, do not be modest. Perhaps you think fifteen is too young. That was the age I became king.” Arthur addressed the crowd. “Was I too young?”
“NO!” was shouted back by everyone.
“Thank you.” He stared at Christopher. “Do not tell me you’re too young or that you think you’re not worthy.”
“No,” Christopher said confidently, “I am worthy. I do not want to become a knight.”
That last brought on another flood of talk behind Christopher.
There was no mistaking Arthur’s anger. “You refuse my generosity? Dare you insult your liege in such fashion?”
Christopher trembled. How could he make Arthur understand his decision? “Forgive me, sire. I believe I have found my place in this world, have acted to the best of my ability and employed my true talents.” The words were once Orvin’s, but were now his.
“And what talents are those? Squiring?” Arthur asked sarcastically.
“Every man is a servant, sire. He is a servant to his heart, his mind, and to God. And each must serve as
he serves best. For me, that means being a squire. There is no shame in that.”
Arthur held Excalibur in one hand and stroked his beard with the other. A long moment passed before he spoke again, but when he did, his voice was softer, calmer. “At once you confuse and anger me, but now utter truths we all need to learn.” Arthur put his hand on Christopher’s pauldron. “If you are going to serve, then serve me. Will you be my squire, squire of the body?”
Christopher grinned. “I will.”
Arthur looked up to his subjects. “Well, we have here not a knight, but the most loyal squire I’ll ever find.” Good-natured laughter erupted from many. Arthur raised his sword. Christopher cowered. “No fear. I can do this and still not make you knight.” Christopher dropped to his knees, then raised his head, ready to accept the sword taps on his shoul ders. “In the name of God, of St. Michael and St. George, I make you squire of the body of all of England.”
The tension in the air snapped as the crowd applauded. Uryens stood from his seat on the long table and raised his tankard. “A toast to the squire.”
Arthur leaned over and whispered in Christopher’s ear, “You should face the people.”
Christopher whispered back, “Can you help me?”
Arthur helped him up, and he turned to gaze upon the smiling faces and the sea of tankards held under them.
Uryens shouted behind him: “To young squire Christopher. May he serve his heart, his mind, and God to the best of his ability.”
Christopher looked over his shoulder to spy Uryens; the toastmaster winked.
As he stood awash in the clanking of tankards, he found his attention wandering to the faces he knew, to his blood brother Doyle, who once again shook his fist of pride; to Orvin, who nodded knowingly, then made Christopher smile broadly with his forehead skin dance; to Brenna, whose hair caught the torch light and moonlight just right, and whose eyes spoke an assured love. And then he saw Marigween’s radi ant image behind the first trestle table. Her smile brought undeniable heat to his face. He hoped Brenna had not seen him blush, and he looked to the raven maid.
No, she hadn’t.
EPILOGUE
Christopher and Brenna bored holes in two pairs of shinbones given to them by an amiable hostler, then tied the bones to their boots with leather laces. Alone, they skated on the frozen pond outside March and Torrey’s hut. Darkness would come soon, and most inhabitants of the castle of Shores were inside at Lord Woodward’s dinner party, bathing in the warmth of cookfires, for it was the day of Christ’s birth. Christopher was invited to attend, but had declined. There was something very important he had to do, and when he explained it to Woodward, the new lord of the castle understood.
Brenna’s cheeks and nose were red, and the woolen coif wrapped around her head did not shield her earlobes, for they, too, were crimson.
The air was clean and fresh-smelling, and Christopher took a deep breath of it, then let the steam blow from his nose. He skated to the edge of the pond and pivoted to face Brenna. The more he looked at her, the more he hated leaving.
Her visits to the castle during the past four moons had strengthened their bond and been the heaven in an otherwise worldly training and formation period. But now Arthur’s armies were ready, and the king’s campaign against the Saxons would commence on the morrow. Christopher would ride to Gore with the men-at-arms hired from Shores. Brenna would canter with them on her way home, but Christopher would not have the privacy for a proper good-bye during the journey, nor the time once they reached the castle. He suggested skating, was fond of it as a boy, and knew it was too cold for anyone else save the sentries to be out.
“Watch this,” Brenna said, then glided to the mid dle of the pond and twirled on one bone, gesturing extravagantly with her mittened hands.
Christopher applauded, then skated up to her, bal ancing himself with palms on her shoulders. Then he kissed her, and felt her icy nose on his cheek. He drifted back. “You’re cold!”
‘‘I’m freezing! You wanted to come out here!” She shivered visibly.
It was time to tell her why. He searched for the right words, but all he came up with was a summation of the obvious: “We’re back to where we started.”
Brenna nodded. “This is where we first met.” Christopher surveyed the bailey. “You’re right.” “Why is it that only women remember those things?” “I remember,” he lied. “That’s why I wanted to-”
Her look of disbelief cut him off, but then she grinned. “I know why we’re out here.”
Christopher grew serious. “It’s not going to stop- at least not right away. I’ll come back
, then have to leave again. But maybe one day I can help it end. War is so easy and peace so hard. It’s going to take a lot of work.”
“I know,” she began, then sniffled from another chill. “But I’ll be here.”
“You don’t have to,” he urged. He knew visions of the raven maid would always rattle his heart-but he didn’t want to sentence her to the loneliness, the wait ing. Christopher would take the pain for both of them.
“I know what to expect,” she argued. “I know how to wait, and this time I really will. And I know how to love.” She shrugged. “At least I think I do.”
“You do,” Christopher said softly.
She looked past him, focusing far away. “I loved seeing you in front of the king that day. And your words … they made me so proud.” Her gaze came home to his, and she touched his cheek with one of her mittens. “You’re blushing,” she teased.
“It’s the cold,” he said coyly. “Let’s go inside.”
They skated awkwardly arm in arm toward the lip of the pond and gingerly mounted the frozen shore line. They sat on the hard ground and untied the bones from their boots. Once standing, they rejoined arms and started for shelter. It took a score of steps before both were used to walking again.
A north wind lashed down from the graying sky, and Brenna urged him onto the drawbridge before the keep. Chains clanked as the bridge was lifted behind them. He felt Brenna’s arm shiver in his, then she tugged him as she broke into a sprint up the fore building’s steps. They both arrived at the door, out of breath.
A blast of warm air hugged them as they rushed inside, and Christopher shuddered through a long sigh. He had to reacquaint himself with the temper of winter, as a drafty tent would be his home well into spring. But for the moment, it was good to be out of the cold.