Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  BATTLEFIELD!

  Christopher heard the unmistakable shouts of the Saxons mingle with the hammering of hooves. He wished he did not understand what they said, for their total confidence and sheer might was intimidat­ ing. And the group was smart. Tactical. They were not the arguing cavalry of Garrett’s army, but a smooth, lubricated team of mounted killers whose speed, flexibility, and split-second reactions were a gloomy surprise to every Celt who witnessed them. They were wolves. And their bellies were empty.

  Arthur sringed! Excalibur from its sheath, raising the sword in one hand while holding his reins and escutcheon in the other. The king slammed down the visor on his helm, and Christopher did the same on his salet. Both were as ready as they would be for the onslaught… .

  Table of Contents

  Cubierta

  BATTLEFIELD!

  TITULO

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  PART TWO 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  PART THREE 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  PART FOUR 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Squire’s Blood was written with the help of:

  Robert Drake-my agent, sidekick, shrink, and first reader.

  Christopher Schelling-my editor, sympathetic ear, and faith keeper.

  Joan Vander Putten-my friend, fellow brain­ stormer, and adviser.

  David Hamilton-my sometimes partner, all times friend.

  William Shakespeare’s Henry V, act 4, scene 3, provided the inspiration for parts one and two of this novel, and as such deserves to be acknowledged.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Arthurian legend contains many anachronisms and contradictions that are maddening to writers who wish to be technically and historically accurate. While the military strategy, accoutrements, and poli­tics were carefully researched, some were borrowed from other time periods for dramatic effect. Indeed, the description of King Arthur as “a knight in shining armor” is a misnomer. In the sixth century, the time Arthur supposedly lived, he would have worn leather plates. Yet if one settles a suit of fourteenth-century armor on the son of Pendragon, he is restored to his venerable image. That aside, lean back, quibble if you must, but most of all, I hope you enjoy this second volume in the Squire Trilogy.

  Peter Telep

  PROLOGUE

  Christopher of Shores fell on his rump before the Saxon, his broadsword wrenched from his grip by a mighty horizontal swipe from the ax-wielding soldier. The young squire watched as the Saxon, his face streaked with blood, narrowed his eyes and hoisted his weapon over his shoulder.

  For a second, Christopher saw the outline of the Saxon against the dull iron sky above the Mendip Hills, saw that the barbarian wasn’t much older than his own fifteen years. He wished the Saxon were a lot older, his reflexes slower. But most of all, he longed at the moment to be back at the stable in Shores, to have a warm, sweet loaf of bread to his lips, and have his ears filled with the amusing tales of old Orvin.

  Christopher cocked his head and reached futilely for his broadsword; the weapon lay just over an arm’s length away. Every sinew in his arm tensed, and in his mind’s eye Christopher saw his arm extend to the sword and his gloved fingers clench around the bejew­ eled hilt. With his other hand he urged his armored body toward the sword, but on the periphery he caught a flash of metal he knew was the Saxon’s battle-ax cleaving the air. Immediately, he abandoned the idea of his weapon and thrust his body forward with both hands. The armor weighed him down so much that he moved dooming inches instead of hopeful yards. He looked back at the Saxon with eyes owning deep terror.

  Strangely, as the Saxon’s ax dropped, his body fol­ lowed it. He collapsed onto his stomach, and his head bounced once off the frozen winter ground. An arrow broke the flat wool landscape of the Saxon’s back; the shaft’s blue feather fletching marked it as Celt.

  Some twenty yards away, on a hillock that put him six feet above Christopher, Doyle lowered his long­ bow. With casual grace, he reached down and unfas­tened a leather flagon from his belt, pulled out the hemp stoppering it, then chugged down half of the flagon’s contents. The clatter of hooves behind him caused Doyle to choke and expel some ale. He hus­tled down the slope while refastening his flagon.

  At once Christopher was ashamed for needing help and thankful for the presence of his blood brother. But Doyle belonged with the rest of the archers in the Vaward Battle group led by Sir Lancelot. What was he doing here?

  “One of the king’s squires alone? Why aren’t you at Arthur’s side?” Doyle asked, his eyes never leaving the slopes around them. The battle roared just over the eastern rise, and threatened to move closer.

  Christopher pushed himself to a sitting position, tried to rock his body forward to stand, but found it impossible.

  “Get up,” Doyle said curtly.

  Christopher reached out a gauntleted hand. “Help.”

  Doyle’s gaze lowered to Christopher’s. He frowned. “The archers in my group still think you’re mad to have turned down knighthood, but looking at you now, I can see why you wish to remain a squire.” Doyle took Christopher’s hand and pulled him up.

  Christopher’s armor rustled loudly and slid out of place. He adjusted the metal fauld digging into his waist, then the couters covering his elbows. “Every squire has his misfortunes.”

  “Misfortunes-”

  “-put you on your shield, I know,” Christopher finished. “Why aren’t you with the rest of the Vaward?”

  “Answer my question first,” Doyle said.

  “We were surrounded by a Saxon cavalry and was separated from Arthur. Someone dismounted me, and this man”-Christopher pointed to the dead Saxon-“pursued me here.”

  “He chased you?”

  “He would not engage anyone else.”

  “Maybe he knew you,” Doyle said. Then, much darker, “You did spend a year with them.”

  “Not them. I served a Celt who led Saxons. Besides, I don’t think Garrett’s army still exists. At least not intact. Most of them probably went home across the narrow sea.”

  “Maybe some stayed. Maybe he was one of them,” Doyle argued. “Maybe he holds some anger for you. Who knows?”

  Christopher moved to the dead Saxon, bent down, rolled the body onto its side, then stared into the enemy soldier’s face. He shook his head. ‘Tm sure I’ve never seen this man before.”

  “Look,” Doyle said, pointing to a small leather change pouch which had detached itself from the dead Saxon’s belt. Doyle hunkered down, picked up the pouch, opened it, then dumped its contents into his hands: a half dozen shillings. “This is a lot of money for a Saxon to be carrying around. Especially when he has no use for it.” Doyle untied the man’s leather gambeson and checked the shirt below. Then the silvery neck ring around the man’s throat caught his eyes. “He
’s wearing a tore.”

  “So he’s carrying our money and wearing our jew­ elry. He stole it. He likes it,” Christopher suggested.

  “Maybe,” Doyle said, then stood. “Or maybe he’s not who we think. Perhaps he really is a Celt.”

  Christopher was about to snicker at Doyle, but the five mounted Saxons, who rose over the patchy brown hogback one hundred yards to the north, made him change his mind.

  PART ONE

  AT SWORD’S POINT

  1

  Christopher picked up his broadsword, then darted for the dead Saxon’s battle-ax. He fetched the ax, then resumed a position next to Doyle. Was he ready? He made a split-second inspection of himself, noticed his throat was dry and tight, and his hands, though weighted down with the weapons, shook.

  Time would never diminish these discomforts; they were as much a part of the battlefield as blood.

  Doyle went reflexively into his quiver, withdrew an arrow, and nocked it deftly into his longbow. If he, too, was afraid, he concealed the emotion with the discipline of an abbot.

  The two friends stood and faced the horsemen gal­ loping toward them. The Saxons probably thought they looked pathetic, an easy kill, Christopher thought.

  Doyle sighted the lead Saxon and let his arrow fly.

  But he had adjusted the arc wrong and the arrow fell short of its target.

  Even more pathetic.

  “How did you miss?” Christopher asked. “Shut up!”

  Christopher visualized a battle plan in his head. He decided which Saxon he would take first, then calcu­ lated where the others would wind up once he made his move.

  Doyle nocked another arrow and pulled back ninety pounds of draw. “Now,” he whispered to him-self. The arrow pierced the air, made a gentle arc, then came down where Doyle wanted it: in the lead Saxon’s neck. The man fell right, and the reins of his charging rounsey slipped from his grip. Startled and unguided, the animal bucked and cut right, crashed into the Saxon horseman next to it. As the Saxon with the arrow in his neck careened onto the hard earth, he was followed by the other Saxon horseman, who slammed to the slope still astride his mount. The third Saxon, who was behind the first two, was not able to steer his rounsey clear of the fallen men and downed horse. Both rider and animal wailed as they made impact with their comrades.

  Doyle winked at Christopher. The odds were even. The last two Saxons reined around the pileup and forged toward them.

  Christopher reversed the weapons in his hands, put the broadsword in his left and the battle-ax in his right. He prepared to throw the ax, taking aim at one of the Saxons. “I have the right one!” he announced to Doyle.

  From the comer of his eye, Christopher could see Doyle doing something, but he wasn’t sure what. “Are you ready?”

  Doyle’s reply was a low grumble.

  He fired a glance at Doyle. The archer was on his knees before the dead Saxon, trying to pull the arrow from the corpse’s back. Doyle’s empty quiver bobbed at his side.

  Christopher felt the panic shudder up to his lips. “They’re not going to wait for you.”

  Doyle looked up, his face creased with exertion. He groaned as he heaved, then fell back onto the short grass with the freed arrow in his grip.

  Christopher returned his gaze to the Saxon on the right, drew in a deep breath, then let the battle-ax fly. The enemy soldier attempted to rein his rounsey away. The blade end of the ax found a new home in the horse’s neck. Christopher grimaced as the roun­sey shrieked, then fell, throwing the Saxon. He heard the fwit! of Doyle’s longbow, saw the remaining Saxon horseman clutch an arrow stuck in his leathered breast, then fall back off his ride.

  The Saxon whose horse Christopher had struck got to his feet and unsheathed the spatha strapped to his belt. The man’s beard stuck out in three distinct directions, inverted spikes that gave him a fierce, crazed look. His belly protruded from below his too­ small gambeson, and his arms seemed to contain more fat than muscle. In either case, they were large. “Fight me, boy!” the man yelled in Saxon. He waved Christopher on with his sword.

  “Throw your weapon down, otherwise my friend will put an arrow in your belly.” Somewhere behind him, Christopher heard Doyle struggle to withdraw another arrow from another grounded horseman. “Don’t make a liar of me, Doyle,” he said over his shoulder.

  “What are you talking about?” Doyle asked.

  Instead of trying to translate for his friend, Christopher directed his attention to the Saxon. He noticed the man’s surprise over hearing the Saxon language come out of a Celt. “You speak words I understand. How?”

  “I once served a man who led Saxons. His name was Garrett.”

  “You must be Kenneth, his second-in-command,” the Saxon guessed. “But why do you fight with Celts?”

  Doyle arrived at Christopher’s side with a bloody arrow nocked in his longbow. “Let’s finish up and move on.” Doyle drew back his bowstring.

  Christopher reached out, seized the arrow. “No.” Resignedly,Doyleloweredhislongbowas

  Christopher released his grip. “Why let him go? So he can join another army and fight us again?”

  “Run!” Christopher shouted to the Saxon. “What are you saying?” Doyle asked.

  The Saxon’s actions answered Doyle’s question. The soldier turned and bolted toward the summit of the nearest mound. Doyle raised his bow and fired his arrow. The iron barb found the soft flesh of the Saxon’s thigh beneath his breeches. The man wailed as honed metal penetrated his leg.

  Christopher glared at Doyle.

  Doyle returned a smirk. “Now at least he’ll be our prisoner.”

  “I told you no!” Christopher felt a heat flush his cheeks.

  “You might be squire of the body, but you don’t have any say about what I, an archer, do.”

  “I asked you not to do it as a friend,” Christopher said.

  “You had no trouble killing Mallory at the tourna­ment. And now you have no stomach for war? I worry about you, Christopher.”

  “You don’t know what I think,” Christopher shot back.

  “Then tell me.”

  Beyond the injured Saxon, a blue banner, depicting the Virgin Mary in white, rose above the highest slope. The king’s mounted party of five appeared under the banner and descended the slope toward Doyle and Christopher. A hornsman, banner bearer, and Leslie and Teague, the junior squires, all accompanied the bronze-armored Arthur. After a moment, he came to a halt in front of the young men.

  Arthur twisted off his dragon-shaped helm, handed it to Leslie, then dismounted. On the ground, he drew Excalibur from its steel sheath at his side, turned, then marched toward the fallen Saxon. The invader stood and hobbled away from Arthur. The king ran up behind the Saxon, grabbed the injured man by his shoulder, and yanked him around. As Christopher flinched, Arthur gutted the man’s heart with a swift, life-taking lunge. The king withdrew the crimson blade and handed it to Teague, who waited behind him with a rag. Arthur doffed the gauntlets from his hands and tucked them under an arm. He walked up to Christopher and stood a long moment, eyeing him stoically. Then he smacked Christopher across the face.

  Though his cheek stung, Christopher was thankful Arthur had removed his gloves. He kept his gaze focused on the poleyns shielding the king’s knees.

  “My senior squire, squire of the body of all of England, leaves me alone on the battlefield.” The king shook his head in disappointment.

  “I beg your forgiveness, lord.”

  Christopher knew there would be a lot of explain­ ing. He hoped he could make Arthur understand that. He worried more about what Doyle would say. Why had his friend left the Vaward Battle group and become a rogue on the field?

  Arthur turned his gaze on Doyle. “And what are you doing here, archer? Don’t you belong in the Vaward?”

  Christopher glanced over his shoulder. Doyle’s gaze was lowered in shame, his lips fastened tightly. Christopher returned his attention to Arthur, saw the king nod to himself, as if
he had already considered their fate and now agreed with his own decision. It was the most fearsome nod Christopher had ever seen.

  2

  Orvin was not keen on visiting the castle of Shores. As he walked down the winding dirt road that would take him from the village to the fortress, he felt a many-fingered chill ripple across his shoul­ders. He pulled his woolen cloak higher about his neck and mumbled, “You don’t like me, do you?”

  Winter did not answer.

  As he continued down the hard path, swearing as the wind picked up, he began a debate in his mind: was the warm, tasty comfort of a dozen loaves from the kitchen of the castle worth the memories he would have to endure while walking the stones of the bailey his son had once ruled? The castle of Shores had once been his family’s castle. His father had taken the Roman ruins, built a home, and had been its first lord. Orvin had become its second lord, and then his dear and only son Hasdale had become its third-and last. Every time he visited the castle after his son’s death, the act brought him suffering. Christopher had been right about him. He hid in the stable, a recluse, running from a past he hated. How much can a man bear? He had endured the loss of his baby grandson, then his son, and finally his daughter­ in-law. Sweet Fiona had not been able to bury the pain of losing her child and husband, and had taken her own life. Orvin had thought of traveling her path,but had discovered how weak he really was. But Christopher’s return from the battle against Garrett’s army assuaged his torment. He could see his son in the boy, could find an ember of happiness in an oth­ erwise bleak, dark world. It was the boy who gave him the desire to go on. Christopher’s training was as beneficial to the old knight as it was to the squire.

  The path was deserted, for the cold kept the inhab­ itants of the village huddled around their fires. Seeing how alone he was, a dark image took possession of Orvin’s mind. He lay on the ground with a broken back. The wind laughed as the cold knifed him. He called out again and again, but not a soul was around to help. He saw the skin of his face fade to ash. The water in his eyes froze. Suddenly his eyeballs shat­tered with a sound that rocked him back to reality. He blinked, then repressed the ugly thought. I risk my physical and mental health for a dozen loaves of bread. I must be going mad . …