Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  In his mind’s eye, Orvin watched two of Hasdale’s horsemen ride into the castle’s outer bailey. A young, injured boy sat behind one of the cavalry men. “It was very sad, that day. We had been attacked by the Saxons.”

  “If you don’t want to go on … “

  “I will,” Orvin said. “But I wonder, why is it you need to know so much about him?” Orvin tested her. How much would she tell him? How deeply did she feel?

  “I won’t hide my feelings from you,” she confessed. “And I don’t think I have. It’s easy to say I love him because I do.”

  Orvin smiled over her innocence. “I knew you remained uncourted for him, but love? How can you love someone you barely know?”

  Marigween rose, turned around before Orvin, and lifted her kirtle.

  “What are you doing?” Orvin asked, terrified that

  someone might see her. After her comment about sit­ ting on his lap, he did not know what to expect.

  Holding the hem of her kirtle up to her breasts, she smoothed the fine linen fabric of her shift over her belly.

  Though she was only a few moons along, the circu­ lar motion Marigween made with her hand indicated to Orvin the shocking news: she knew Christopher a lot better than he had thought. A whole lot better.

  “Oh dear St. George,” Orvin muttered.

  “Only my chambermaids know,” Marigween said, “and they have sworn to secrecy.”

  “And you are telling me this child is Christopher’s?”

  She nodded.

  Orvin bolted to his feet. It hurt to stand so quickly, but his stiff spine was days away from his mind. “Then all of this, what is this for? For you to come and make a confession to me? I’m not an abbot! Sweet Marigween, don’t you realize what you’ve done? You’ve committed a great sin!”

  Marigween dropped her kirtle-and her smile. “I know that. And it makes me feel terrible. But I’m going to have a child. I cannot change that.”

  The stupidity of youth left Orvin baffled. “What does Christopher think about your … condition?”

  “He doesn’t know,” Marigween said.

  “So he may return to find he has a child. What a cruel thing to do to a young man. And you, if word of this gets out, I think Lord Woodward will personally order your burning.”

  “I thought you would be happy with this news. I wanted to come to you for so long; it was fate we ran into each other in the kitchen. And seeing you made me realize that I should tell you.”

  “My knowing doesn’t matter,” Orvin said, his hands trembling. “You and Christopher have made a grave mistake in the name of lust!”

  “No. It was love,” Marigween snapped. “And you make it sound as if it were all my fault.”

  “Do you know of Christopher’s other love, Brenna?” Orvin hated hurting Christopher, but the boy had already fallen down the well of sin. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned Brenna, but he had to prove to Marigween that she had mislayed her senses, involving herself so completely with a boy as fickle and quixotic as Christopher.

  “He never spoke of her-but I knew. And I did not care.”

  “So you lured him away,” Orvin accused.

  “He came willingly,” she shot back. Marigween’s eyes ringed with tears, and she broke into a sob as she returned to her seat.

  Her crying breached Orvin’s wall of logic: it made

  him feel miserable for the way he had spoken to her. He could not place blame, or accuse one or the other of being a fool. Both had made the mistake. The problem was before them, and Orvin sensed that she did not know what to do. She must have come to him for guidance, and what had he just offered her? Reproof. Orvin realized the tables had been turned and he was the fool.

  The old fool gently placed his hand on Marigween’s shoulder, but she recoiled from his touch. “I … I am sorry.” He reached out farther, and again placed his hand on her; this time she did not flinch. “I fear for you now. What are you going to do?”

  Marigween raised her head and looked at him. Her eyes were red, the lids swollen, her lids swollen, her lips rolled in tightly. She shook her head as a fit of sobbing seized her once more. Orvin took her in his arms. Marigween pressed her head against his shoul­der and continued to cry.

  He was right. She did not know what to do. And at the moment, he felt the same.

  10

  The Quantock Hills lay in a fury southwest of their brothers, the Mendip Hills. They scowled at the Bristol channel to the north and were paid homage by the timid rivers Yeo and Parrett to the south and east, respectively. The Quantock Hills were not gracious to company, Seaver knew, but that had not stopped Kenric from choosing them as a camp. The Quantocks could not be more remote and foreboding, but they easily cloaked the twentyscore men of Kenric’s army within one of their wooded valleys. There were no Celt armies scouring these slopes for Saxon invaders; the nearest breathing Englishman was nearly ten days’ ride to the south, and five to the east.

  Seaver, Cuthbert, and Ware rode up the rude slopes, the wind an icy Celtic curse grappling their shoulders. The ground was hard, and Seaver knew his rounsey’s legs were tiring under the shock, but he would not have to drive the horse much farther.

  A thin mantle of snow, melted away to reveal brown patches of dirt here and there, painted a bleak, listless picture around them. The forest had gone to the world of specters, the leafless, snow-covered limbs of the oaks and beech trees resembling bones instead of wood. Save for the wind and the clumping of their horses, the slope was silent. No chirps from sparrows or cries from crows or meadow pipits met their expectant ears. The birds were tucked inside their nests, smart enough to recognize a dark-spirited day when they saw one.

  As they neared the crest of the slope, four watch­ men wrapped in heavy woolskins, their longbows nocked with arrows and drawn back, appeared from the wood and alarmed them.

  Seaver ripped off his hood, and recognizing one of the the men, called out to him. “Farman! We return!” “Seaver!” Farman called back, then turned to his comrade. “Sound the horn of their return.”

  They continued on past the watchman to the crest of the slope, then paused to look down on the valley that had become their home. The forest below was dense, and in a few of the clearings they made out a spatter­ ing of tent tops, though the actual number of shelters far exceeded that visible. Many cookfires were surely lit, but the strong wind swept clear the betraying smoke trails. Seaver’s people were there, deep below the ivory boughs of a protective, winter mother. They descended the slope as the watchman’s horn announced them.

  Once in the valley, they dismounted and were treated to large portions of sweet leveret, boiled pota­toes, and tankards of spiced, hot wine. The provi­sions had been pillaged, of course, from one of the many ports that dappled the coastline of the Bristol channel. With their bellies full and their hearts warmed-over from being home, the scouts retired to their tents for a late afternoon nap.

  Some hours later, Seaver was awakened by Manton, Kenric’s second-in-command. The reserved man tugged absently on his thin gray beard as he told Seaver it was time to make his report to Kenric. Seaver donned his padded tunic and topped it with a heavy woolskin cloak, thankful he was able to be warmed by the garment. Woolskin was far too light-colored for him to have worn during his journey to Shores, and they had no dye to remedy the problem. As he left his tent, Seaver made a mental note, adding dye to the list of things he wanted from the castle and its accompanying village.

  Kenric’s tent was lavish by Saxon standards. Four pole torches impaled the ground at each of the shelter’s exterior four comers, creating more than enough light to make Seaver’s approach under the purpling sky of twilight. The heavy leather that made up the tent was double-layered, an expensive extravagance that afforded Kenric a draftless sleep. Seaver admired the tent a moment before entering, ran a finger along the outer flap, then ducked inside.

  His leader sat behind a small Celt table once used for playing that odd, and most curious game th
ey called chess. The tall, broad-shouldered man picked dirt from under his nails with an anlace, and he did not look up as he motioned silently for Seaver to take the empty stool opposite him. Seaver complied and sat waiting as Kenric finished cleaning his pinky nail. Seaver let his gaze play over the interior of the tent: the many skins that warmed its floors; the plundered traveling trunk that lay open boasting an assortment of small arms within its walls; the many pieces of looted armor that Kenric liked to wear into battle; and, most particularly, the young nymph who lay nude, tied, and gagged on the triple layer of wool blankets that was Kenric’s bed. The Celt girl looked at Seaver with eyes dull from pain. It appeared she had long ago given up and was resigned to her fate. Seaver knew Kenric would not kill her; Kenric would slay his best fighter before murdering a beautiful woman. If his master had a weakness, Seaver knew what it was. The affliction was common.

  “I should be anxious to hear what you have to tell me. I should be excited, thrilled, or worried. Why is it I feel completely at peace now, Seaver?”

  The little man hated when his master asked cryptic questions, for he could never supply the right answers-but was expected to. “You already know what I’m going to tell you.”

  “No. The spirits came to me in my sleep last night. One of them was my father.” Kenric stood; he was a head taller than most of his men, but to a short man like Seaver, he seemed gargantuan. He raked fingers through his short, curly, ink black hair, cut for him by his personal groom, then clapped his hands together. “My father told me we would grasp victory, that the Celt’s time was over here. I could almost feel him stroke my hair.” Again, Kenric ran his hand through his hair, then added, “I have never felt more calm in my entire life.”

  Seaver nodded. His own specters came to him as often, but they brought warnings and frightful images of death. Kenric was twice blessed; once with kind specters, and second with ones he knew. Seaver wished he had known his own father, but not even an apparition of the man had been revealed to him. Then again, maybe it was better that the man had died before Seaver was born. He might have discov­ ered that his father was a lout who could never live up to Seaver’s expectations. The imaginary image he had created of the man was best. Father was tall. He was strong. Kenric paled in comparison to him.

  “I’m ready to hear your report,” Kenric said. Wrenched from his introspection, Seaver took a deep breath and began, though he would not have to say much. “You were right, lord.”

  There was no reaction from Kenric; he kept his joy in check. His eyes narrowed with further thought. “Numbers.”

  “One hundred and twenty men on the perimeter. I believe another one hundred within the keep.”

  “Elevenscore. What about the peasant levy?”

  “The villages they call Shores and Falls are occu­ pied by women and children and the few who were too old to fight. We saw no others. Even their great marketplace in Falls was barren. It was as if we had already attacked.”

  Kenric moved around the table, then hunkered before Seaver, their gazes aligned. “Do you under­ stand what this means?”

  “The castle of Shores will be ours. And if Durwin’s scouts find the castle of Rain as vulnerable, it too will be ours.”

  “No,” Kenric said, lowering his voice to a faint whis­per, “it means you and I will live forever in both worlds.”

  The excitement had finally roped around Kenric’s soul. His soft tones carried with them the grandeur of the future, the promise that they would become immortal. It made Seaver feel very big, as if he could reach up, grab a cloud, and nibble on it like a sweet pasty. As he walked the land, his footprints would fill with rain and become lakes, and the mountains would be his pillows at night.

  Kenric gestured to the nymph behind them. “Take her as a gift of thanks. And as an apology. Now I believe what Kenneth told me so long ago. You are the best scout our people will ever have.”

  His spirit set aloft by the wind of Kenric’s words, Seaver regarded the Celt woman. Though comely by his standards, she did not excite him. Her height, though average, somehow stripped away her beauty and left him bored, uninterested. But he would not insult Kenric, nor dampen his own joy. He would take her, give her as a gift to Ware for a job well­ done. Cuthbert, on the other hand, was an oaf. It would be many more missions before that young scout received a gift from him.

  Seaver bowed in respect before his master. “Thank you, lord.”

  11

  Forfour moonsChristopherrode at Arthur’s side as they played a cat-and-mouse game with the Saxons on the Mendip Hills. Arthur’s plan was to drive the invaders over the Mendips to the Bristol channel, where on its shores he would finish them. Christopher was concerned that the farther they pursued the five hundred fleeing Saxons, the more separated they became from the other armies. Nolan and Woodward were far to the west near Brent Knoll, Uryens and Leondegrance at least three days’ ride to the east. He voiced his fear, but it fell on deaf ears. Arthur lectured Christopher on his experience,on the fact that they outnumbered the Saxons two to one, that if they didn’t make an ultimate show of force, the problem would never end. And, of course, Arthur’s solution was the only way.

  Doyle kept Innis in check. The varlet did not make a single attempt against Christopher. It seemed Innis’s temper had cooled, and Christopher urged Doyle to let the problem fade away, but Doyle took great pleasure in his verbal torture of the varlet, and after a while it seemed that Innis and Doyle had become the true enemies, Christopher drifting to the periphery. But Christopher never lost sight of the fact that Innis had promised to kill him. He had learned moons ago to become a light sleeper, and every crack of flame, gust of wind, footstep of watchman alerted him in the wee hours.

  It was Easter day on the Mendip Hills, a day of rest, meditation, and, in the evening, a celebration of the Resurrection of Christ. There would be no Easter matin service because of the absence of clergy, but Arthur asked the army to fill their hearts and heads with the memories of past services, and even sang part of an Easter trope he had memorized. The song brought to life a vivid picture of Christopher’s old chapel back in Shores. As he listened, he remem­bered his mother and father. They had taken him many times to the chapel, and he had always sneaked outside to marvel at the carvings of beasts on the building’s outer walls. It had been a place full of happy memories, but then was eternally blighted by his discovery of their bodies there. Though Christopher shed no tears, his soul mourned.

  Arthur modestly avoided speaking of another fact: it was also the day he had become king sixteen years ago. Lancelot chipped in that reminder, and a cheer erupted from everyone. With raised tankards, the army toasted its king.

  There was a third reason to celebrate, but Christopher would not reveal it to anyone. On Easter day, Christ had risen from the dead, Arthur had pulled Excalibur from the stone, and Christopher of Shores had been born. He felt insignificant compared to the competition, and in past years had told only a select few that Easter was his birthday. Of every man on the Mendip Hills, only one other knew.

  “Happy birthday,” Doyle said as he joined Christopher and Leslie around their afternoon cook­ fire. “I’ve been thinking of something to give you all morning. I didn’t bring much with me up here. I’ll get you a present when we return.”

  Leslie pitched Christopher a curious stare. “You never mentioned it was-”

  “I’m sorry,” Doyle said. “I forgot you don’t like-” “It’s not that I don’t like to talk about it,”

  Christopher explained. “It is as I said, not important. Christ rose from the dead this day. Arthur became king.”

  “And the great squire Christopher of Shores was born!” Leslie stood and brought the tankard he nursed up in a toast.

  Doyle rose, his gaze darting for a tankard he could lift. Christopher frowned and handed Doyle his own. As the junior squire and archer toasted him, Christopher lowered his head. It was absurd to feel ashamed on one’s birthday, but he could not escape the significance
of the other events.

  “What’s this?”

  Christopher looked up and saw Arthur, who was shirtless and beaming as he stepped over to them from the tent.

  Doyle found his seat and returned the tankard to Christopher, knowing better than to explain what they were doing to the king.

  Leslie was another story. “My liege, Christopher surprises us all. He tells us that this very day is his birthday.”

  As Arthur’s brow rose, two mounted scouts gal­ loped toward him from the south, dodging cookfires and tent poles, leaving a steady stream of scrambling, swearing soldiers in their muddy wake.

  Shading the sun from his eyes, Christopher stood and strained for a better look. It was not long before the scouts reined to a thundering halt near Arthur.

  One of the men vaulted off his black rounsey and tore off his leather hood. “My lord,” the scout began, out of breath, “I bring the worst news possible.”

  Another pair of mounted scouts descended from the north and reined in their steeds.

  “Tell me.”

  The sound of screaming men pervaded Christopher’s ears. He cocked his head to the west, saw three more mounted scouts charging through the campsites of infantrymen on a desperate ride toward the king.

  “Another Saxon army numbering as many as ten­ score men lies less than a day’s ride behind us!” the first scout cried.

  Arthur turned to the scouts who had arrived from the north, his face gripped with tension. “Do you confirm this?”

  One of the northern scouts replied, “No. But we come to report that the invaders we’ve been driving toward the channel are not fleeing but have turned back and are marching toward us!”

  Christopher could only stand in choked horror as the edifice of power Arthur had built crum bled around the man.

  Arthur pivoted to the scouts from the west as they arrived and doffed their headgear.

  “My sovereign lord. We count nearly two hundred invaders a half day’s ride away. They must’ve hidden in one of the valleys and been waiting for us. They are moving.”