Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  Four of Arthur’s cavalrymen surrounded the Saxon as he reined his steed to a stop. The messenger was a brave man. Christopher eyed the over two hundred men in the Rearward Battle, and beyond, let his gaze pan the over five hundred souls in the Vaward Battle and three hundred more in the Main. So thoroughly encompassed was the Saxon messenger by his enemy that he could not be more vulnerable, and more alone. “King Arthur,” the messenger said in the Celt tongue, “I bring a message to you from Lord Wyman, who serves Lord Kenric, leader of the Saxon tribes here on this land.”

  Christopher and Arthur both shared the same look of absolute astonishment. Christopher sensed that Arthur wanted an answer, but all he could do was shrug. The man knew their language-and that refuted Merlin’s prophecy. It also might mean that the barbarians did not know of Christopher’s pres­ ence in the army. All of it was, however, mere specula­tion. They needed to get answers from the messenger himself.

  “You speak our tongue. How?” Arthur demanded.

  The messenger palmed his ruddy, fair hair out of his eyes, then answered: “I was taught by a man named Wilbur. And he was taught by a man you might know. A Celt you-and we-called Garrett.”

  Arthur could have looked at Christopher, signaling to the Saxon the fact that the name meant a lot to them, especially to Christopher, but instead he wisely remained inert.

  Christopher studied the messenger to see if the man recognized him, if the Saxon knew all too well what he was doing. But like Arthur’s, the man’s face was unreadable steel.

  “You mention two lords, Wyman and Kenric, and I must admit you catch me off guard with your wish to deliver a message. Am I about to kill a horde of Saxons or Celts? It seems your methods are ours.”

  “We are not the same barbarians who first landed on these shores. We have learned your ways, have adopted your methods of fighting, and divided our armies as you do. Lord Garrett was not the first Celt to join us, and I know he will not be the last. There is a tempest coming, King Arthur, and there are many who will be wise enough to flee it. Those who do not will surely drown in their own blood.”

  Arthur’s face stiffened with the threat. “What man is it that sends so boastful a messenger into the den of his enemy? How can you-an invader on my land-sit there so callously and not be afraid? I tell you indeed, there is a tempest coming-a storm of thunder and lightning such as your horde has never seen!”

  Christopher disliked the times when Arthur’s temper flared, but at the moment he found the muscles in his own jaw tightening. He wanted, like Arthur, to return to the Saxons a dead messenger-the first of many who would be killed. The Saxon had managed in only a few breaths of air to gut Christopher’s idealistic solution to the war. Christopher knew he was right, that bloodshed was not the answer, but when the enemy came and spat in your face, then you had no other choice but to raise your sword. Yes, the Saxons were men. Men as proud and determined and mean-spirited as themselves.

  The messenger retorted, “I make no threats, King Arthur. I only report to you the certain future. Your army is surrounded. You accuse me of being boast­ ful, but what man looks into the eyes of death and refuses to see? I think you know the answer.”

  Arthur could not stifle the ire in his voice, nor keep from baring his teeth. “Give me your message and deliver it quickly-for your life depends on its expe­ diency!”

  “Lord Kenric makes a generous offer, one no Saxon has ever made nor will make again. Lay down your arms. Realize defeat. Every man will be spared. No blood will stain these green hills.”

  Christopher didn’t know why, but some urgent desire found its way to his lips. He barged in, shout­ ing, “He lies! My lord, after we surrender they will line us up for the slaughter!”

  He knew the offer was a lie. He couldn’t explain itHe just knew. Like the feelings he had had about selecting weapons, about sensing thing

  to come­ like the Saxons surrounding them. He hoped he wasn’t becoming some old prophet like Orvin, or some mystical, mysterious man like Merlin, but he could never ignore the feelings. He would be damned if he did.

  “Believe what you will,” the messenger said evenly. “But account for this fact: we have not attacked you-as any Saxon army would have already. We give you the chance to save your lives. If we wanted war as surely as you say, then how do you explain my presence?”

  “What you want,” Arthur said, “is this land for yourselves. Perhaps it’s true that you tire of blood­ shed. We can agree on that. But you will take the land, and that is something we will not let you do.”

  “Our plight is well-known. Nearly half of our pop­ulation has fallen ill, and another quarter has already died. Our land has become foul. We have no other choice but to seek refuge. And we are not alone, Arthur. The Picts come from the north, the Scots from the west, the Angles and Jutes with us from the east and south, and the Danes, well, they prepare to surround this entire land. You will be fighting for the rest of your life. All because you will not let others simply live.”

  And that had always been the argument that made Christopher feel guilty. The Saxons were a people who were dying. As brothers in the family of mankind, the Celts should, by all the God-given laws ruling the realm, offer succor to them, and any other ailing peoples. But what Celt would be willing to share his land? And if the Saxons were given an enclave, they might eventually become dissatisfied with it and want to expand their territory. And then there would be, in effect, a civil war between the once-peaceful Celts and Saxons. Better to keep a sea between peoples, a boundary of water. But the Saxons had proven their seamanship and their desire to expand by landing on the shores of Britain. After seeing so much blood, Christopher reasoned that sharing the land with them might work, despite Arthur’s fears over further expansion and civil wars. But something in the messenger’s tone, and the feeling Christopher got, made him realize that these Saxons were not just looking for a new land. They were also looking to rid that land of any opposition.

  “You are not gentle men,” Arthur gritted out. “You are not kind men. You did not come and ask for our counsel and our aid. You came with swords, and with daggers, and with an ardor for violence. And you tell me you have no choice but to take our land. Then I say to you, we have no choice but to stop you.”

  “I say once more, oh great King Arthur, whom I do admire, consider our offer. Send a messenger north before day’s end with your answer.” The Saxon gath­ ered his reins, about to leave.

  “Your admiration insults me, and if I could I would drain it back out of my ears. Stop, and hear now my answer. Bid Lord Wyman or Lord Kenric or whoever it is you serve my anger, and voice to them with fear that Arthur and his noble army shall not stop until every Saxon who draws Celt air into his barbarous lungs is run through. And bid also to them the knowledge I have of your people; that for every Celt you murder, his soul shall come in the night and plague your dreams with madness. For even in death, we will be victorious. Begone. And savor my mercy for your soul.”

  The messenger should have been politic and closed his mouth, but he added, “My admiration is true.”

  “BEGONE! BEGONE! BE … GONE!” Arthur sighed through a guttural hiss; his face boiled with fury. Christopher watched the messenger breach the cir­ cle of cavalrymen guarding him and quirt his mount into a gallop toward the northern rise.

  Arthur summoned an immediate meeting of his battle lords, and within the passing of a quarter hour, he stood in the middle of Sirs Lancelot, Gawain, Camey, Gauter, Ector, Bryan, Richard, Bors, Cardew, Allan, Kay, and Michael. The sun would be on the horizon by the time the nearest Saxons reached them. They had a few precious hours to plan a defense.

  Christopher, Leslie, and Teague stood beside their mounts, twenty yards away. Christopher could not hear the king’s words clearly, but he could see the desperation in his sovereign’s eyes, the heat of frus­tration blushing his cheeks. If he were closer, he knew he would also see the vein that always throbbed in Arthur’s temple when the king was provoked.

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nbsp; “I suspect we will be falling back to the rear guard,” Leslie moaned.

  “You and Beague-” “Teague,” the young boy said.

  “I apologize,” Christopher said. “You and Teague are junior squires,” he reminded.

  “How am I supposed to gain knighthood when I cannot even engage in the battle?”

  Christopher mustered the slightest of wistful grins. He knew exactly how Leslie felt. He remembered being relegated to the rear guard when Hasdale’s army mounted the attack on Garrett. And he also remembered how the other junior squires had worked out a plan under the leadership of Kier. They never told Christopher until the last second that when the attack began, they were going to join it­ against their lord’s wishes.

  What foolish boys we were. Had I known what I was going to see, I don’t think I would have joined them. But I had been frustrated and excited, as they are now.

  “We are as able-bodied as any in the army,” Teague puffed, looking as innocent and vulnerable as a puppy. “Honor and glory are forgotten when one is staring at the entrails of a man. Do you know what they look like, the pale white tubes that inhabit a man’s belly?” Despite the fact that Christopher knew he would never get through to the boys, he felt it his duty at least to try.

  Both boys shook their heads, then Leslie said, “I have heard of the horrors from you and others, Christopher. I am not afraid.”

  “And I, too, am ready,” Teague said.

  Christopher’s conscience was at peace; he had tried. But he could try some more. “Are you ready to watch him die?” he asked Teague, while tipping his head at Leslie.

  “I do not wish to. But if it happens, I will have no choice.”

  “But will you be ready?” Teague paled. “I don’t know.”

  “Why punish yourselves?” Christopher asked them. “I suspect you will have many more opportuni­ ties to fight, to see death, and perhaps to die your­ selves. One missed chance is not a curse, but a gift. It’s God’s mercy that you are in the rear guard.”

  “It is a curse,” Leslie sighed.

  “The curse is the fact that you may very well cross swords with the Saxons.” Christopher’s tone grew more disconsolate as he revealed the truth to the boys. “If I know Arthur, the rear guard will be our division in the south. This will be a four-sided battle, and for that we need four armies.”

  The youths’ eyes shone with the idea that they would be the southern heroes of the war. They would ride in like balls of bristling silver energy and roll over the Saxon butchers. Or, as Christopher saw it, flail for a few fleeting moments before they were hacked to the ground.

  The meeting of the battle lords was over, and the squires watched as each knight mounted his courser and started off toward his position. Arthur waved them over, and Christopher escorted his mount with the others toward the king. As expected, Arthur dis­ missed Leslie and Teague, ordering them to the Rearward Battle. The boys feigned their disappoint­ ment and obeyed, ebullience and anticipation lighten­ ing their steps.

  As Arthur was about to open his mouth and say something to Christopher, his attention was drawn in another direction, to the clatter of approaching hooves.

  A scout from the north reported in: “My lord. The Saxons who were marching toward us have stopped.”

  “Has their messenger returned to them?”

  “Yes, my lord. And it was only a moment after, and then horns blew. The cavalry halted. Then the rest.”

  Arthur nodded. “Keep watching. Let me know when they advance again.”

  “Yes, lord.” The scout booted his mount and was gone in a flurry of hooves.

  “You were going to speak, my lord?” Christopher asked.

  “There is no way of knowing if the scouts I sent to draw our other armies will succeed. If they do not, we are evenly numbered, but our position is grave. I’ve divided us to match their numbers, but the rear guard will have to be used in the south. You must speak to the boys.”

  “My lord. Leslie and League, I mean Teague, feel they can meet the challenge. As for the others, I will try to inspire them.”

  Arthur spun around, looked up to the gossamer clouds that spanned the sky. His lips pursed and his eyes flooded with tears. “Surrounded. Having to use boys to fight a man’s war. Merlin, why did I leave you behind?” Arthur fell to his knees and Christopher rushed to brace his lord. The king covered his watery eyes with a palm. “Oh, dear, sweet, merciful God. Instill some bravery in my battle lords. Why do they doubt me? Why does fear strike down my men like a plague?”

  Christopher stood holding one of Arthur’s arms. It was a tremendous burden his liege shouldered, and finally it had brought Arthur to his knees. The line of archers ten abreast that stood closest to Arthur and Christopher bowed their heads, hating to see their king on his knees and not wanting to embarrass Arthur with stares. They were a loyal bunch, once full of respect for Arthur; but as Christopher eyed them, he wondered if they gazed at the earth not because they didn’t want to embarrass Arthur, but because they were ashamed of him.

  “My lord,” Christopher said, lowering to his haunches to be next to the king. “You spoke with mighty words to that Saxon messenger. Words that inspired even me, the peacedreamer. The Saxons are fighters, and we will have to fight them. I may hate it, but listening to you made me realize that. Talk to this army. Make them all realize the importance and the honor of this battle.”

  “More words will not change our fate,” Arthur said woefully.

  “Inspiration in the hearts of our fighters will make death come gentler, and cleanse them of their fears. I will always remember something Sir Orvin told me: ‘Never be afraid of the truth-even in the face of the king.’ Those words gave me the courage to tell you that I wished to remain a squire, a true servant to you. But now, the truth is we are surrounded, we may not get aid from our brothers in the east and west, and the dream of one land, one king, may end here. We must face that. It is our challenge. We must not be afraid. The men need to hear these things.”

  Arthur swallowed, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and then motioned that he wanted to stand. Christopher helped Arthur up and adjusted the king’s armor for him. “All right,” Arthur said. “Find me a place from which to speak to them.”

  4

  The inhabitants of the castle of Shores were in a frenzy. All around Christopher’s home, the Saxon siege was a dark, vicious, colossal beast squalling with life.

  On the west curtain wall, a line of three mangonels fired heavy stone missiles at the barrier, while two ballistas launched their flaming, oversize bolts over the wall into the outer bailey. This twin barrage inspired great terror in those serfs still outside and not hidden inside the castle’s keep. The great arm of a trebuchet joined the mangonels and ballistas, fling­ ing up stones under the pressure of its counterweight. The east curtain wall fell prey to fivescore Saxons clutching their scaling ladders. The invaders fought the mire and muck of the moat and made it onto the berm, then slapped their wooden steps onto the stone. As each wave of Saxons approached, a hail of arrows fell on them from the castle’s watchtower sen­ tries, and from the determined crossbowmen tucked behind the loopholes built into the wall. But for the defenders, there were too many Saxons. They would never kill them all. The inevitable filled the hearts of many.

  The defenders manning the gatehouse on the southern main entrance to the castle could not get the main drawbridge up in time. The Saxons forced it down with the weight of their bodies as they rolled a battering ram onto the wooden pathway. The ram tha-wocked! against the portcullis of the gatehouse, its four shoulder-high wooden wheels rolling forward and back. The sentries on the wall above dumped large stones onto the ram and its operators, but the Saxons were protected by an armored roof built over the the gate-smashing device. The invaders worked diligently and finally broke through the oak grating. The sentries in the gatehouse were rewarded with bloody necklaces for their valiant fighting, and the drawbridge connecting the house to the main curtain wa
ll and the second portcullis was lowered. Sixscore Saxons charged like boars over the bridge, the batter­ ing ram spearheading the column. Chills rippled their backs, and the deep-throated hue and cry of battle burst from their lips. There was no force alive that could stop them.

  The four chutelike machicolations which rested on the parapets of the north curtain wall enabled the sentries to drop their black, tarry, burning-hot pitch, their stones, and pour their blazing liquid Greek fire on the Saxons while providing cover behind which to retreat. But the small, wooden, walltop huts were no match for the quicklimed arrows which needled their surfaces and set them ablaze. Though their losses were great, many Saxons managed to clamber up the wall and engage in brutal hand-to-hand combat with the Celts on the wall-walk. Friends, acquaintances, all brothers-in-arms of Christopher’s, fought to their last, half-stifled breaths.

  Encompassing the castle, the Saxon archers fired from behind their movable wooden mantlets; the screens provided the perfect safe haven for nocking arrows and windlassing crossbows. Iron-tipped rain from the skies of Hell fell into both inner and outer baileys of the fortress. The whistle of so many arrows was a noise never before heard by any Celt residing in Shores, but it was a sound they would never for­ get. If they survived. Doyle’s name was muttered among a few of the younger archers; if only he were present to help.

  The attack would have been complete if the Saxons had had a siege tower, with a roof covered in leather hides. They could have wheeled the immense wooden building up to the moat and fired arrows down into the baileys, easily picking off the castle’s defenders. But Kenric did not have the resources to build such a tower, barely mustering enough to construct the mis­sile-throwing machines. It didn’t matter, though, as the Saxons on every side of the castle soon pene­trated its defenses.