Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  When Orvin came upon the castle, he deliberately did not look at it; he stared only at the path ahead. He sensed the blue-faced sentries watching him from their posts high in the battlements of the gatehouse. The portcullis was already raised, and Orvin passed under the spiked grating. He came into the outer bai­ ley, and again did not look around. He knew where the kitchen was and proceeded toward the building, paying the bundled-up herald no heed.

  “Sir Orvin, would you like-” the herald cut him­ self off, insulted by the old man’s brusque behavior.

  With his breath steaming and his heart pounding, Orvin fought the desire to run the last few yards to the kitchen. It might kill me, he thought. He made it to the door, unlatched it, then rushed inside. He raked his long, white hair out of his eyes, closed the door behind him, then breathed in the warmth and smells of the place. The meat, vegetables, and bread all mixed into an odor that, for a moment, made Orvin light-headed. Food was indeed a gift from God, and the old epicurean desired to feast every day as if it were Christmas. Suddenly it was worth the nightmarish journey, worth the bitterness the castle brought, to be in the kitchen. He moved to his old friend the baker. The man was at his station in the back of the kitchen, preparing another dozen loaves to be slid into the oven.

  As Orvin neared the baker, the rotund man turned and his eyes lit. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Sir Orvin, you’ve finally given in!” His voice was thick, resounding like thunder as he wiped his hands on his apron. “One of my loaves could bribe the devil into Christianity!”

  Orvin grimaced as the fat man took him roughly in his arms and hugged the wind out of him.

  In front of them, one of the cooks mumbled some­ thing about the baker’s statement being blasphe­ mous, but Orvin could not discern most of the words. He was still recovering from the baker’s deadly affection.

  “A dozen for me, Aidan.”

  “Let’s not rush into business. Stay a while and warm up. How many moons has it been since you’ve stolen a loaf from me?”

  “The loaves, Aidan. And I’ll be on my way.” Orvin had battled the weather and memories, and he would not stay longer than he had to.

  The playful light in the baker’s eyes faded, and the man’s voice grew serious as he put an arm around Orvin’s shoulders. “This is still your home. You belong here. Not out there. I’ve talked to Lord Woodward about you, and he says he would be honored to put you up in the keep, in your old chamber. He says he would be honored more than you know.”

  But Orvin knew that to come back and live in the castle as though nothing had happened-or to forget about what had happened-was wrong. If he came back, he would be accepting all of the death and get­ ting on with his life. That’s what you were supposed to do. But it was too hard. He could not fight the voice inside him that said, You died when your son died. Your famil y is gone. What are you doing still alive?

  “Tell Lord Woodward that I appreciate his offer, but cannot accept. I enjoy the stable, and the hostlers are quite friendly and helpful.”

  Aidan shook his head, his three chins wagging. “Changing your mind, I know, is about as easy as pulling a sword from a stone.”

  “Ah, yes,” Orvin said. “Only the king could do it.”

  Aidan turned to one of the two sweat-faced boys sliding warm loaves out of the brick oven with their long-handled peels. “Thirteen loaves for Sir Orvin,wrapped and ready for travel.” The boy nodded. Aidan looked back to Orvin. “Now tell me one thing while you wait. Have you seen anything in the sky about me? What does the welkin say about my future?”

  Orvin rubbed his tired eyes, pursed his lips, then stared through the baker, as if trying to recall the information. It was all an act. The skies had never revealed anything to him about Aidan, but Orvin marveled at the baker’s faith in him. While most doubted Orvin’s necromantic abilities, Aidan had always believed. And Orvin had to keep that faith alive. After he reasoned he had stared long enough, Orvin returned his gaze to Aidan. “You will bake many more loaves.”

  “Come, Orvin, don’t jest! I want to know.”

  Orvin wanted to tell Aidan something, but he didn’t want it to be an outright lie. “Hard times will come and go, but you and your family will survive them. When all appears hopeless, do not give up. And always, always, have faith in the king.”

  “That’s all?” Aidan asked.

  Aidan’s helper handed Orvin a linen bundle that contained the loaves. Orvin dug in his change pouch and produced two deniers, which he handed to Aidan.

  The baker pushed the money back to Orvin. “I’m no shopkeeper.”

  “Your count will come up short. It’ll come out of your earnings. Here.” Orvin forced the money into Aidan’s hand.

  Aidan smiled. “Don’t wait so long to see me again.”

  Orvin nodded, then started toward the exit, thread­ ing his way through the worktables and a pair of pages running with faggots for the fires. As he unbolted the door, someone on the other side pushed it in with great force. Orvin plunged toward the cold stone. First his rump hit, then his back, then the back of his head. Each impact reverberated through his fragile bones. His bundle rolled across the floor and opened, scattering the warm loaves.

  Orvin lifted his head slightly, and though his vision was blurry, he saw a young woman with long red locks. She turned quickly to bolt the door behind her but stopped as she saw what she had done. Her mouth fell open. “Oh, no. Oh, I’m sorry!” She stepped toward the fallen Orvin as a gust of wind blew the door completely open.

  “Shut that door!” one of the cooks shouted.

  Tom between the decision to help Orvin and shut the door, the woman stopped, turned to the door, then back to him. Finally, she opted to close the door. That done, she rushed to his side.

  Her graceful fingers stroked the back of his head as she helped him sit up. His cloak had bunched up and shielded his head from being cut by the stone, but he would have a nice bump, he knew. Her touch eased the pain. Orvin looked into her eyes and recognized the woman: she was Marigween, daughter of the late Lord Devin, an orphan who lived at the castle and was betrothed to Lord Woodward by his victory in arms. But she had denied Woodward the marriage. Orvin had heard how Woodward continuously sought Marigween while she dodged his advances. She guarded her love-and Orvin knew for whom.

  “Oh, if I had to pick someone to knock over, it would not have been you, Sir Orvin,” she said.

  “Picking someone to knock over is always a hard decision,” Orvin noted, rousing a smile from her. Being close to Marigween, Orvin could see why Christopher was taken by the woman. Her beauty was unmatched, even by Christopher’s current love, Brenna. Marigween made Orvin feel sad about his old age. She reminded him of his own wife, Donella. To kiss Marigween now would be something-something Lord Woodward would behead him for, most assuredly. His lust for Marigween would remain in its prison.

  “Here,” she said, “let me help you up.” She took his hand and pulled him to his feet. Vertebrae cracked in Orvin’s back, and his entire rump was filled with an intense stinging sensation. But Orvin found it easy to ignore the discomforts.

  Aidan came over to see what the commotion was about, and he noticed Orvin’s loaves splayed over the floor. He cocked his head toward his helpers. “Boys,come over here and clean up this mess. Then prepare Sir Orvin some new loaves.” The baker stepped between Orvin and Marigween, then proceeded to rub Orvin’s shoulders. “I’ve seen people fall before, but that … you really went down.”

  Orvin shrugged, upset that Aidan had come between himself and the sweet, clean-smelling Marigween.

  “What can I do to make this up to you?” Marigween asked.

  Orvin shouldered his way out of Aidan’s grip and cir­ cled around so that he could once again be close to her. Aidan must have known what Orvin was up to, for behind Marigween’s back he shook his head and shamed Orvin with his fingers, then started for his bench.

  ‘‘I’m in one piece. You owe me nothing.” Orvin wanted to open his mouth and smile, but kn
ew she’d find his crooked, yellowing teeth displeasing. It was uncomfortable to grin with his mouth closed, but he made the effort.

  She yielded her own lovely grin. “I insist. What is it I could get for you, or something I could do for you within my means that would make you happy?”

  There was one thing that Orvin wanted, but only now admitted to himself. Company. People other than the dusty hostlers who’d run out of stories moons ago and become boring. If she would just talk with him occasionally, he knew it would warm his days. She, like Christopher, made him feel young again. But how to tell her without it coming out wrong?

  “There has to be something,” she urged.

  Orvin swallowed. “I do have the need for company now and again. Now don’t get me wrong, please, my lady,I-”

  She put a slender finger to his lips. “I know where you live, and whenever you wish I will come by.”

  Then she suddenly glowed with an idea. “I could fetch you your supplies. You wouldn’t have to ven­ture out in the cold.”

  “That’s too nice of you,” Orvin said. “I fear I shall owe you something in return.”

  “You will,” she said, then she came much closer to him; so close, in fact, that Orvin blushed, an old knight feeling like a young squire under her spell. “I want you to tell me about Christopher. I want to know more about him. I know you trained him.”

  “It seems we each have something of value to offer to the other.” Orvin took her hand in his own, cover­ ing it with the other. “Lady Marigween, I look for­ ward to bartering with you.”

  3

  Seaver led Cuthbert and Ware stealthily through the thin forest that lay below the castle of Shores. The dwarf-sized Saxon scout leader and his comrades were virtually unaffected by the cold. They wore hoods of link-mail, over which were hoods of wool, with only the eyes cut out so that they would not be identified.

  As Seaver rounded tree trunks, his gaze flicking left and right, he let his mind go to the sights and sounds, filtering out his own thoughts and discom­ forts and dreams. The wind howled a dire tune. Overhead, branches like thin gray bones rattled and scraped into each other. Fallen and decaying leaves swirled and fluttered past him. A twig snapped loudly. He cocked his head, saw that Cuthbert had taken a wrong step. All three men dropped to their haunches. Seaver grabbed Cuthbert by his neck, shook him violently, then let him go. For a moment, Seaver considered knifing the man-but that was anger influencing his thinking and not common sense. Yes, he had trained Cuthbert for many moons, and yes, he ought to know better, ought to be more careful, but no man deserved to die over snapping a twig. Yet Seaver’s leader, Kenric, would probably have killed Cuthbert. You didn’t blink wrong around Kenric.

  Voices. Two of them. Celts. Sentries on patrol. One, fifty yards to the south. The other, twenty to the east. They were armed with shortbows-very effective in the wood. Seaver wished they carried crossbows, for in the moments it would take a sentry to windlass his weapon, Seaver and his men would be gone like startled leverets. But an angry Celt with a shortbow could do great damage to his party, firing faster and much more accurately than any crossbowman.

  Seaver kept his men inert, his senses keen on every movement of the sentries. Once the two Celts had moved to the flanks behind them, Seaver waved Cuthbert and Ware on toward the jagged limestone ramparts which lay beyond the forest.

  Now, as he moved, he let his thoughts prevail once more. He considered the plan Kenric had devised, played it over again. He wondered how the other Saxon armies were doing on the Mendip Hills. It was truly a great moment for their people. For the first time since landing on these shores the separate Saxon armies were united and organized. Inspired by Garrett’s dream to rule the castle of Shores, Kenric had reorganized Garrett’s old army, making it the central core of three other armies that also occupied the Mendips. While the others lured the Celt armies into the hills, the castles of Shores and Rain were to be sieged, overthrown, and occupied. With two strongholds, the Saxons could finish the remaining Celts in South Cadbury, striking and retreating to the fortresses at their leisure. Seaver, a little man scorned most of his life, was now one of the most important players in a game that meant life or death for his peo­ple. If the scorners could see him now …

  As they cleared the wood, he and his men surveyed the steep hill before them; it was freckled with elbows of limestone that jutted out as far as a yard in some places. In summer, the stones would have worked to their advantage in ascending the rampart, but now they were glossed with ice.

  The sky was overcast, washing from the metallic gray of twilight into the deeper coal of night. Earlier, Seaver thought they might have to pause before climbing; it would be foolhardy to move about the cas­tle in daylight. But as it was, shadows drew steadily, and he decided that by the time they clambered to the top, the vespers horn within the castle would sound, and night would cloak them.

  The boots Seaver had taken from a dead Celt boy gave the scout good traction as he mounted the ram­ part. Cuthbert and Ware followed in his steps, trust­ ing the ledges and ditches he chose on his way up the cliff.

  Seaver tested his grip on an ice-covered stone, felt that his glove would stick. He pushed off the stone and took another precarious step up. Four more steps followed, with Seaver finding good purchase in the comers where rock met earth. Behind him, Cuthbert used the same shiny stone to pull himself up. As the scout stepped then pushed off with his hand, the hand slipped and Cuthbert collapsed onto his chest. He slid down the side of the rampart, pulling small rocks and bits of ice with him.

  Ware snatched Cuthbert by the back of his hood and stopped his descent. A moment of silence passed between all as they listened. Had the Celts above heard the fall? The air whistled around them. They heard no indication of an alarm.

  Once Cuthbert had checked himself for injuries, had decided he was all right, then had shifted back to his feet, Seaver resumed leading the scouts up the rampart, this time exercising more caution. The rest of the climb was pleasantly and thankfully uneventful.

  From a position just below the top of the rampart, Seaver and his men took in the view of the castle’s moat, berm, and west curtain wall.

  Seaver had come to the fortress twice before, the sec­ ond time discovering the castle’s defenses had been increased. Now, sizing it up for a third time, he saw that it appeared relatively unchanged from his last visit. Four towers broke the wall into three sections, and behind the wall-walks of those sections, Seaver counted a dozen men. Each tower had four loop­ holes, and Seaver guessed there was an archer behind each who waited to shoot his arrow through the hole in the stone. Sixteen archers in the towers and a dozen men on each wall-walk. Nearly sixscore men were the castle’s perimeter defense. Seaver smiled inwardly. The last time he had been to the stronghold the number had been over tenscore. Seaver knew the missing Celts were up on the Mendip Hills being slaughtered by his cohorts. If Kenric was right, there would be no spare men for the garrison to call upon. The castle lay with open arms, practically defenseless. As Seaver thought about telling Kenric of the great news, thrills fluttered through him. But he had to control his emotions and concentrate on the task at hand. The vespers horn tolled the hour.

  They would break from the cover of the rampart now and find a position from which to observe the gatehouse, for the only way they would be able to estimate how many men operated inside the bailey and how many more were in the keep was to view the comings and goings of patrols and supply carts through the gatehouse. A simple fact was clear: the more men inside, the more food and other supplies they needed. Seaver had been able to come up with fairly accurate troop counts based on the amount of supplies going in.

  There was a better way to get the exact num ber of men. but only a fool or a madman would try to sneak in h1Itl out of the castle of Shores. Only a fool, a mad­ man, or Kenneth, a man who had once been Garrett’s second-in-command. Seaver deeply missed him. Kenneth would have been a great leader of Saxons. He had been a perfect spy; he
had been more aggressive than Garrett and smarter than Kenric. But there was no way to bring Kenneth back from the underworld, and there had been no way to prevent Garrett from killing him. Seaver sighed away the past. The temperature had dropped significantly, and Seaver’s joints felt stiff. His muscles were cramped from lying in the same position too long. He silently indicated to his men that they would sprint toward a thin stand of oaks and gorse shrubs marking the start of a dirt path that snaked away from the castle. It would be good to run. He was sure his men felt the same.

  Seaver, Cuthbert, and Ware sprang from their observation point. Their dark garb reflected no light to the eyes of the sentries in the towers and wall-walks. They made it to the cover of the oaks and dodged behind them.·

  Peering from behind a trunk, Seaver observed a figure materializing from the gloom. It was an old man who carried a bundle. The man muttered to himself as his white hair danced in the night wind.

  Seaver heard a rustling in the gorse behind him, then felt a hand on his shoulder. He cocked his head and saw that Ware had an anlace in his grip; the small blade gleamed for a moment as it caught a bit of torchlight emanating from the castle. Seaver pointed to the old man, then to his own eye, then to Ware’s blade: if he sees us, then you kill him. The scout nod­ ded.

  They watched the ancient Celt continue down the path. And then he stopped. The old man lifted his head and eyed his surroundings, as if he sensed their presence.

  Seaver clenched his fists. He released a quick glance to Ware. The scout was ready for a leap-and­ roll attack on the ancient Celt.

  But then, as abruptly as the old man had stopped, he resumed his pace and the conversation he was having with himself. He vanished at the point where the path met the shadows.