Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

Their tension unwinding, Seaver and his men scat­tered into the wood, each finding ideal observation points. They settled down to meals of salted beef, cold but once-boiled carrots, and weak cider.

  They would move again before dawn.

  4

  A blazing pyre gifted the Mendip Hills with warmth and saffron light. Scores of Saxon bodies were heaped onto the flames in a grim spectacle by their Celt slayers. Ashes and embers wheeled toward a vault of black clouds. The fire hissed and spat and crackled, spewing forth a terrible stench that drove those near it to tie rags over their teary­ eyed faces.

  Outside King Arthur’s tent, Christopher and Leslie coughed and watched the cremations con­tinue, thankfully far enough away that the odor, while making them choke a bit, did not overcome them. They overheard Doyle being questioned by Arthur inside the shelter. Repeatedly, the king asked Doyle why he had left his position, and repeatedly Doyle gave no excuse. As the king raised his voice in agitation, so did Doyle-much to Christopher’s and Leslie’s shock. Finally, Doyle elbowed his way out of the tent, unfastened and took a long pull on his flagon, then marched away toward the Vaward camp in the south. Christopher called after his friend, but the archer strode away.

  Leslie scratched behind one of his too-big ears. “The fire. It’s almost … beautiful … in an ugly way.” Leslie was a smart boy, despite the great error he had made of mistaking Mallory for the duke of

  Somerset at last summer’s tournament.

  His gaze not leaving the flames, Christopher replied, “It’s all right to talk about him. Even though he embarrasses me, Doyle is still my friend.”

  “I do not wish to pry,” Leslie said. “There are too many other things to talk about. Like this fire. Do you see it as I do?” “Fires are enchanting,” Christopher opined, “but when they rise from the corpses of warriors, well, that makes them ugly.”

  Leslie tipped his head in agreement.

  “You know, we could share the land with the Saxons.”

  “Pardon?”

  Christopher turned to Leslie, needing to face the squire. “They’ve used up their own land. They’re dying. They simply want to live.”

  “But this is our land and they want to take it,” Leslie said.

  “True. But isn’t there enough for everyone?” “Maybe not. Besides, it’s not as if they asked if they

  could come here. They invaded!”

  “What if we gave them some land? Establish a Saxon enclave. Show them how to farm our way. I wager it would work. Maybe the war would come to an end.”

  “Indeed it would,” a familiar voice chipped in.

  Christopher craned his head and saw Arthur, out of armor, walking toward them. Christopher could not feel more awkward. His last words hung in the air like a challenge-and the last person he wanted to combat was Arthur. He did not believe in the killing, but he knew very well who his ruler was and the respect he owed him.

  The king chewed on a partridge leg and spoke between bites. “Yes, the war would be over by the morrow and the Saxons would rule this land.”

  Christopher swallowed his opinions and his ideas in one large, hard, bitter gulp. He lowered his head, as he was wont to do in the king’s presence.

  “I have some strappings to mend,” Leslie said, then turned to Arthur. “By your leave?”

  Arthur nodded, and as Leslie beat a hasty retreat from the philosophical battlefield, Christopher held his crumbling ground. “Seen enough death, have you, Christopher?” the king asked.

  “I beg your-”

  “Enough seeking my forgiveness. You have been doing that all day. Be more like your friend Doyle and stand up to me!” Arthur took another bite of meat, then spoke with his mouth full. “And look at me when you talk!”

  Christopher lifted his gaze to the king. “In answer to your question, lord, yes.”

  “Do you believe that any man in this army likes to kill?”

  “Some, I believe, enjoy it.”

  “No!” Arthur shouted, then dropped his partridge leg the ground. “They like victory. And they like peace. They know what they have to do to obtain those goals. Do you?”

  “My liege, I will never disobey your orders. My loy­

  ·alty is true, be assured of that. But I wonder, how many more Saxons will land on our shores? How much longer will the war-the killing-go on? I can’t help but see them as men. Dying men.”

  “I know why,” Arthur said.

  The king knew of his past service to the Saxons under Garrett. Arthur could find out anything he wanted to know about anyone. It was safe to assume that Arthur knew it all. Better to say noth­ ing now than sink deeper into the implication that he had once been a traitor. No one would ever understand that he had been loyal only to Garrett, a Celt. They would see him as a squire to Saxons-a traitor.

  “You even learned their tongue,” Arthur added. “Merlin tells me I will need you to converse with them.”

  Though he had never met the king’s necromancer, had never seen the man’s magic firsthand, Christopher immediately believed in the wizard’s prophecy. It felt like the truth. “That horseman you killed earlier? I spoke to him.”

  “And what did he tell you? That his people come in peace?”

  At the moment, Christopher hated being honest. “He wanted me to fight him.”

  Arthur shook his head, then neared Christopher and slid his arm around the squire’s shoulders. “You cannot change what will be, Christopher. Even with the help of a druid. There are some things that God has chosen.” Arthur took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “This war will end soon. But there will be a lot more bloodshed. There is no other way,”

  There has to be, Christopher thought. It is not what will be, but what can be.

  Arthur shivered. “Let’s go inside. You haven’t eaten.” The king led him back toward the tent. “Oh, yes,” Arthur added, “your friend Doyle may be a rogue, but he has keen eyes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Saxon that pursued you was a Celt. He was one of the wagon drivers in the rear guard. His broth­ ers are being questioned now by Lancelot.”

  Christopher was nonplussed. “Why would-” “Someone paid him to kill you. Any honorable man

  would have made a challenge. But this … it leaves me at a loss.”

  “I think I know who it was,” Christopher said. “There are many men who will attempt to under-

  mine us, Christopher. Men like our old enemy Mallory, who will want to see all of us dead. Remember, you are not of noble blood-yet you are my squire. Your actions proved you worthy. But there are many who disagree. Now tell me. Who is this criminal?”

  “I cannot accuse anyone until I am sure.”

  “You honor the code too well. If you are wise, you will not attack the enemy. Lay a trap for him.” Arthur patted Christopher on the back several times, as if instilling the words into him through the action.

  Christopher had to talk to Doyle. Immediately. “By your leave?”

  “Where are you going? There is meat for you inside.”

  “Please, lord,” Christopher begged, “by your leave?”

  Arthur sighed, pointed an index finger at Christopher, and then his eyes filled with a warning.

  Christopher took the sigh as a resigned yes, heeded the warning indicated by the index finger and the eyes, then gave the king _no chance to speak. He sprinted toward the dusty gray tents that housed the Vaward Battle group on the southernmost slope.

  Had he looked over his shoulder, he would have seen Arthur’s stem expression soften into a smile over the abruptness of youth, then fade into a look of deep concern.

  5

  From the window alcove of her chamber, Brenna searched the sky over Uryens’s castle for the moon, but she could not find it. The wind caught the raven maid’s shift and blew it gently against her as she squinted, stood on her toes, but once again saw only the indifferent clouds that darkened and ruled the heavens over Gore.

  “Who are you looking for?
”

  Mavis was sprawled across Brenna’s trestle bed, using a bunch of her long, golden hair like a paint­ brush to idly stroke her cheek.

  Not turning from the window, Brenna replied, “Just looking for the moon.”

  Mavis stood up, brushed off her bright green liv­ ery, and smoothed the wrinkles from her apron. “You are coming this eve, aren’t you?”

  “He likes to look at the moon,” Brenna said. “He always did when I was with him. I’ll bet he’s looking for it now-just like me.”

  “Christopher is probably eating cold pork inside a drafty tent. He’s not out looking for the moon,” Mavis reasoned.

  For a moment, Brenna thought she caught sight of the white orb as it tried to break through the sky’s steely curtain. She stiffened and fixed her gaze on the flash she thought she had seen. She waited. Looked. Nothing.

  “You haven’t changed yet. Come on! We still need to go down to my chamber and pick something out for me.” Brenna heard Mavis’s footsteps behind her, then felt her friend’s hand touch her elbow. “If you please.”

  “I cannot believe how much it hurts already. My mother tells me that Christopher and I will be married,and how much she and my father approve of him. But I don’t even know if he’ll return to ask me.”

  “You went after him from the start. You found out he was a squire. You knew how it was going to be. Maybe you should have remained with-”

  “Don’t even say his name.” Brenna turned from the window. “I think of it as something foul. A curse.” Slowly, Brenna stepped down from the alcove.

  “Then again,” Mavis said, “you would have the same problem with him as you do with Christopher.” “I told him that I knew what to expect, that I knew how to wait, and that this time I really would. And I told him I knew how to love.”

  “Loving is easy,” Mavis said. “But I know you. You will not wait for him.”

  “I will.”

  Mavis shook her head, then smiled knowingly. “You will not.”

  “Will too.”

  “Do not lie to yourself,” Mavis said.

  Brenna sighed. Was Mavis right? She had been very sure the first time Christopher had gone. She had told herself that if he didn’t come back, she would kill herself. But then he had come along. All it had taken was one varlet and she had been immedi­ ately under his spell. The spell Christopher had cast over her had been too easily broken. Her love should have been made of iron-not cobwebs. What was it made of now? She could not lie to herself and say it was iron, but certainly it was stronger than cobwebs. Some kind of wood? She sighed again. Did she really know how to wait? Could she keep her eyes off the garrison men, fend off their advances, and lead a life of chastity until Christopher’s eventual return? How proud a moment that would be! Her future husband in the service of the king! She could be the wife of the king’s squire.

  But what if she waited for another dozen, even a score of moons, and he did not return? She would have remained chaste and unmarried for nothing. What if he did return and had lost his feelings for her? What if he was maimed on the battlefield? Then she would be a nursemaid as well as a chambermaid. As before, the dark side of the future seemed closer and more real than the bright side.

  I have to give him a chance. I have to give us a chance. I must!

  Mavis dug around inside Brenna’s livery trunk at the foot of her bed, pausing several times to brush her long locks out of her way. “If you’re not going to find something for yourself, then 1 will.”

  “I am not going.”

  Mavis turned her gaze up from the trunk. “Wynne will be expecting us at the table. And she has invited those three sentries. Do you know what you are going to make that third man feel like?”

  “I care not what he feels like.” The very act of din­ ing with another man seemed a betrayal to Brenna. If she went, she might as well cut her love strings to Christopher.

  “It is a meal-not a marriage, Brenna. I cannot think of anything more rude than you failing to take your place at our table. You are coming.” Mavis resumed her rummaging through Brenna’s clothes.

  Brenna wandered back to the alcove and shivered as the wind slid its icy fingers around her neck. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  She did not try to justify the dinner to herself. She wanted to feel the guilt of going, to experience it fully and remember it always. Brenna knew that when she stopped feeling guilty, she stopped loving him. The pain was good; it meant she cared. Now if she could only tum wood into iron .

  6

  “Spare me, dear Lancelot. I tell you we do not know who paid him!”

  King Arthur’s champion had one of his gauntleted hands wrapped around the stout wagon driver’s stub­ bly throat. Beads of sweat cascaded off the balding, frightened man’s pate.

  “You lie!” Lancelot spat, “you lecherous, plotting, blubbery piece of molding pork!”

  Christopher watched with chilling awe as Lancelot pulled the man off his knees and, adding his other hand to the driver’s throat, lifted him in the air. The man howled; for a moment Christopher thought it was the wind outside, then he realized he heard both. Foamy saliva rimmed the wagon driver’s lips as he mouthed the word “please” again and again.

  The wagon driver’s brother, an equally fat man with equally thinning hair, fell to his knees before Lancelot and wrapped his arms around the knight’s armored leg. “I have already lost one brother this day. Spare me my other.” The driver noticed Christopher, and slowly his face waxed over with dark recognition. “It was you, squire. Christopher of Shores. You killed my brother!” The driver bounded from Lancelot’s heels and, with his hands set like a vulture’s claws, dived onto Christopher.

  Thick, stubby fingers tore past the collar of his gambeson and sought the soft skin of his throat. There was movement all around him: the shuffling of feet; the clanking of armor; a low, heavy thud! as something heavy hit the ground; a shout: “Guard!”; and the heaving growl of the driver on top of him as the drooling scavenger tried to tear out his larynx. If the driver’s fingers didn’t kill him, his breath would.

  Christopher balled his hand and punched. He made contact with the driver’s head, then heard the man moan in protest. Then the fleshy vise on his neck was stripped away as the looming forms of Lancelot and a guard wrenched the driver off of him. Christopher sat up, pulled the collar of his gambeson away from his throat, then breathed deeply. He rubbed his Adam’s apple and swallowed painfully. For a brief instant his mind swept him back to the night Kenneth had tried to murder him, choking him with one hand while tensing to dagger him with the other. Now, as then, there was intervention that saved his life.

  He was becoming convinced that if he died, it would be by choking.

  Lancelot pummeled the attacking driver’s face until the man was red and swollen. The knight dropped the man like refuse next to his brother.

  The brother spoke: “How can you blame him?” He pointed a finger at Christopher. “He … he did it.” The man’s voice was fissured with sorrow and his breath staggered. He began to sob in his hands.

  Lancelot hunkered down in front of Christopher and offered his hand. “I never knew you could look so blue.” “People have a habit of wanting to choke me,which is to say I have been this blue before.”

  Lancelot smiled a missing-toothed smile, the only flaw among gleaming, flaxen hairs and chiseled facial features. He pulled Christopher to his feet, then regarded the wagon drivers while directing the words to the squire. “I’m afraid I’ll kill them before we dis­ cover anything more.”

  “If you’ll permit me, Sir Lancelot. I believe I know who paid their brother. But there is only one person who can help me discover the truth: my friend Doyle.”

  Lancelot’s expression grew uneasy. “Why him?”

  Christopher lowered his voice to conspiratorial depths. “The king told me to lay a trap for my enemy-and Doyle is the only one besides myself who knows who the enemy is. I want to keep it that way. It is fair for all concerned. I
need Doyle’s help.”

  “He may not be of much help to you now.” Lancelot started out of the tent. “But I’ll take you to him.”

  Doyle was stripped down to a pair of thin breeches. His back lay bare to the frigid breath of night. His hands were bound with leather laces and strapped onto the saddle of the brown courser before which he stood. In the light of a pair of ground-mounted pole torches, a long line of archers and varlets took turns lashing Doyle’s back with a cat-o’-nine-tails. Doyle’s skin was already a recklessly drawn grid of bloody lines as Lancelot and Christopher arrived.

  Two older men, their surcoats marking them as sergeants, stood on either side of Doyle, whispering sweet death threats in the young archer’s ears. As Lancelot charged the scene, Christopher studied the line of boys and men waiting to inflict punishment on his friend.

  And there he was. Exactly where Christopher expected to find him.

  The boy with the pudding basin haircut. The in-love-with-himself arrow-shooter.

  There could not be much more distance between Christopher and Innis. In the beginning, Christopher, though jealous, had tried, had honestly . tried, to accept and like the varlet. He had returned from his first battle and had accepted the fact that Brenna was his-but it had been Innis who could not stand his presence, swiping him left and right with spiked innuendos. And then he had put his hand to Brenna, which had been his undoing.

  Inside Christopher, two armored notions fought with heavy broadswords. He wanted to run up to Innis and twist his head off, but then he thought it might be better to act calm, bide time, exercise the patience of a skilled hunter laying his trap.

  The desire to behead Innis struck a heavy, offen­sive blow against logic, and Christopher ran up to Innis as the varlet was about to receive the cat-o’­ nine-tails. With teeth clenched and a face of fire, Christopher tore the whip from Innis’s grip.

  Innis, recognizing who had taken the whip from him, twisted his expression into a vaunting, sardonic grin. “I guess there’s no need, really, for my powerful strokes on your friend, squire. I see my brothers-in-arms have already done enough work for their country.”