Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  Seaver and Ware were among the first Saxons to make it onto the north wall-walk. They feinted, par- ried, riposted, and flailed their way through the Celts there, leaving behind them the bodies of four young men swimming in blood pools. They entered the watchtower, where they were accosted by a cross­ bowman, whose loaded weapon delivered a cogent argument to freeze. But the bowman was alone, and while Seaver charged the Celt, Ware daggered him from behind. The Celt’s bow went off, and the bolt hit Seaver in the shoulder. The shot did not penetrate skin, only the leather of his gambeson. It was only after the crossbowman fell to the ground that Seaver even noticed the bolt protruding from his shoulder. He pulled the shaft out and backhanded the sweat from his forehead. For a second he imagined what the bolt would have felt like had he not been wearing his gambeson. A tremor of phantom pain spiraled outward from a point above his collarbone. He rubbed his shoulder and shivered.

  The Saxon scouts double-timed down the watch­ tower’s spiral staircase and emerged into the outer bailey.

  A countless number of arrows impaled the dusty ground of the courtyard and also struck many of the pigs, sheep, chickens, and geese trapped in their pens. Slaughtering day had come early for the animals.

  The thatched roofs of the two supply buildings, kitchen, stable, and armory were being eaten by flames. The horses in the stable wailed and tried to knee their way out of their stalls. The hostlers who could have freed the coursers and rounseys had already sought sanctuary in the keep.

  Two boys ran from the kitchen, bundles of loaves weighing down their arms. A longbowed arrow struck one lad in the back. A hundred-pound stone fired by a mangonel landed squarely on the other boy’s head.

  Exploding from the kitchen door, the baker Aidan hustled to the first boy and kneeled beside the youth. The fat man’s lamenting was heard on the other side of the curtain walls. A quicklimed arrow silenced him and set his clothes on fire. His huge body would bum until nightfall.

  A horse-drawn cart appeared from behind the sup­ ply buildings. The cart was driven by two young squires, while four others sat among the grain and flour sacks in the back. Arrows impaled the sacks and opened holes from which fell the precious sup­ plies. One squire tried to tum a sack around to save it, but an arrow gored him in the neck.

  With a double thud! the cart hit the keep’s low­ ered drawbridge, and, even before traversing it, the platform began to rise, winches and chains clanking.

  The cart reined to a dusty halt at the forebuilding on the right side of the keep, and the squires leapt from the flatbed and formed a dire delivery line up the stairway. They hauled their fallen comrade inside, then proceeded to unload the grain, their gazes flick­ ing to the sky for arrows.

  It was clear the inhabitants of the keep would hold out for as long as possible, and the Saxon scouts could only guess how well supplied they were.

  Seaver turned to Ware, able to ask a question he’d been too busy voice earlier. “Did you see him?”

  “Not before we started up the ladders,” Ware replied.

  Seaver shook his head and frowned. He had left Cuthbert and two others the duty of burning down the village stable. The others had returned, but there was still no sign of Cuthbert.

  “A simple job and even that he has trouble with.”

  Seaver shook his head in disgust once more, and then puffed, “Let’s go.”

  The garrison men who occupied the wall-walks of the keep tracked Seaver and Ware and alerted the archers. From the crossed-slit loopholes of the keep came a flurry of arrows. The two short men dodged for cover behind a small hut near a shallow pond in the eastern comer of the bailey. The hut reeked of the leatherdressers’ trade, but that certainly did not stop the scouts from utilizing its protection.

  “We two are no match for the others inside the keep,” Ware said.

  “Within the forebuilding there are murder holes in the floor and ceiling, so that is not the way in,” Seaver said.

  “How can you even ponder going in there our­ selves?” Ware asked incredulously. “Half their garri­ son lies waiting. They are still formidable foes. We have to swim another moat, and I still stink from the first one. This bailey is empty. Kenric would want us to strike in great numbers from this position. We should report back to him.”

  But Seaver wanted to assail the keep. If he and Ware were able to open up the castle’s most defensive tower, then surely Kenric’s words would come true: they would live forever-he would live forever in this world and the after. He could taste the glory of that, and reason was distant, trivial, a mere obstacle. “No,” he told Ware. “They will marvel at us when we stand victorious up there”-he pointed to the keep’s para­ pets-“and wave to them.”

  “When you wave to them,” Ware said, and then bolted from the cover of the hut and scurried toward the watchtower.

  Seaver was about to go after him, but held himself back. Could he do it alone? Was reason that far away? He sat on his haunches and considered his next move. He knew one thing he would do when the siege was over. He would have Ware executed for desertion. Then again, maybe Ware was right. Maybe they should report back to Kenric and not try to do it all alone. But then they’d lose most of the glory. But they also might die. Why was he doubting himself now? Ware was probably on his way to Kenric’s side. The scout would cry: “Seaver has gone mad and wants to storm the keep on his own!” Seaver had to stop Ware before he did that. The scout leader darted from behind the wooden wall and covered the dis­tance between the hut and the watchtower in a mat­ter of seconds.

  5

  As Orvin wiped the soot and sweat from Marigween’s pallid forehead with a wet cloth, behind him the roof of the stable finally collapsed in a cloud of smoke and sparks. The old man wanted to move Marigween to the relative safety of the forest on the other side of the dirt road, but she was in no condi­tion to be going anywhere. She lay on her back, groaning horribly. Her fight with the Saxon had induced labor, and there was no one else around to help Orvin deliver the child. The fact that the cut on Marigween’s face had temporarily stopped bleeding offered only minor relief. Orvin would still have to stitch it, scarring her tender cheek. But it was her baby he worried most about now.

  The old sky watcher cleared his thoughts, bit back the various aches and pains he’d acquired from the recent combat, and began to make preparations. He had never seen a child born before. No midwife had ever let him in the room. Suddenly he was angry at them. If he could have seen, he would know what to do now! But sheer anger would not help him. First, he guessed, he had to get something clean under Marigween. His gaze assayed the surroundings: a pile of black, ember-filled rubble that was once a stable, a nearby well-with saddle blankets draped over its edge. They had been washed by the hostlers and left there to dry. He stroked Marigween’s good cheek, stood and strode to the well. He shouldered the blan­ kets, which were still slightly damp, and figured that while he was there, he should draw a few buckets of water. He found the wooden pails behind the stone wall, filled both, then carried them back to Marigween. “I want to slide these blankets under you,” he told her, his bass voice lifting to a broken tenor. He had to sound more sure of himself. He had to dispel her worries. But he was as fraught with fear as she, perhaps more.

  Marigween lifted her buttocks and Orvin slid the blankets under her. “I am ashamed,” she said between moans. “You will have to undress me.” And then she let out a wail that wrested Orvin.

  “Easy, I’m here. I’m here.” Orvin lifted and pulled back her woolen kirtle to reveal her pale white linen shift. “I have seen many unclothed women, young lady. I was a roaming cavalier in my youth. Most find the body ugly, but I do not. I neither despise nor love it. It simply is and I accept it. So your shame is wasted on me. Besides, I kneel her with my shirt off revealing to all the most wrinkled, soft, gruesome belly most will ever set eyes on. It appears I, too, will have a child of my own soon!”

  Marigween tried to smile, but her lips fell back into the stiff, inverted gri
n that was her grimace.

  Orvin peeled back Marigween’s shift to expose her swollen belly and privates. For a moment, a flash of heat hooded the old man’s head. The world narrowed to a tiny black speck then returned. He needed to avoid looking at her down there, for the sight might cause him to collapse. But how would he monitor the baby’s progress? He had to bare her privates, and forced another look. Another flash hit him, a shovel over the head. He grimaced and took another look. And then another. And another.

  “Sir Orvin, it hurts so much!” Marigween cried. Tenderly, Orvin once again wiped her forehead,and then dried the perspiration that puddled in the pit of her neck. “I know,” he said softly. “I know it hurts. But you must not think about it. I’m going to tell you a story about Christopher, and I want you to forget about the pain and the smell of those fires and every­ thing else, and let my voice take you away from here.”

  “I’ll try,” she panted.

  “He had just come to us and I had stitched up a wound on his leg. My son insisted he stay in the keep, which, of course, had sent the chambermaids buzzing with gossip. Why would the lord of the castle attach himself to a mere saddler’s son? To this day I do not know why my son was so taken by Christopher. I only know there is something special about him, a feeling one gets when one is around him. He does not have to say anything, just be in your presence.”

  “I have felt that,” Marigween said.

  “Now there had been a mare in labor,” Orvin con­tinued, “and no hostler had been able to ease the ani- mal’s pain. Everyone had feared that she and her unborn foal would die. But as I am trying to comfort you now, so did Christopher limp down to her stall and stroke her head. He has no particular affection for horses, but Christopher saw the agony of the mare, and it had been he who had somehow gentled her condition. Even beasts recognize something about him, something that must make them feel as warm and calm as we do when he’s here.”

  “If only he were here now!” Marigween’s plea was closely followed by a long, crescendoing bellow.

  “Close your eyes and think of the way he calmed that mare.”

  Marigween obeyed.

  Orvin slid his fingers gently through her hair. “And feel his hand now on your head.”

  Marigween’s vocal torrents subsided, and her breathing steadied. Then her torso stiffened.

  Orvin looked down. The baby’s head appeared, faceup, covered with blood and a thin, milky white fluid; its eyes were tightly shut.

  “I feel the baby!” Marigween cried.

  “Stay calm calm and push, push the child out.” Orvin set himself back and watched as the shoulders of the baby emerged. He wanted to help the child out, tug its shoulders, but thought better of it. He might injure the tiny, frail body.

  Between new pants, Marigween groaned deeply from her diaphragm, and the more she groaned, the farther along the baby came. Once the waist was free, Orvin guessed it was only a matter of seconds before the rest would slip out. He flicked his glance up to Marigween: her face was soaked in sweat, her eyes bloodshot and tearing. Then he looked down, and realized the baby was free, lying there on its back, its cord snaking back up into Marigween’s womb. Then the afterbirth arrived and Orvin had to turn his head away.

  “It’s here, isn’t it?” Marigween barely managed to ask.

  Orvin forced himself to look at the child. It wasn’t moving. Why? Was it dead? He didn’t think so, it looked pink and alive. Then he remembered. He needed to spank the child’s bottom to make it draw breath.

  He shuddered as a question played through his mind:

  What if I don’t spank the child? What if it dies here?

  Christopher’s life would be so much simpler with­ out the child. The baby would irrevocably link the young saint to Marigween, when Orvin knew the boy loved Brenna.

  All I have to do is nothing. Just sit here.

  No! That would be murder! You know how to make the child breathe, and that knowledge makes you guilty if you fail to act!

  But what if I weren’t here? You are!

  Then it is true. I cannot change what will be. It is Christopher’s life, and though I want to, I cannot­ must not-interfere. I am here. I must act accord­ ingly.

  He lifted the baby by its legs and spanked it once, twice, three times. A tiny cry came from the child, and then another, much louder.

  He turned the baby and cradled it in his arms. Never had he seen life so fresh and close, so raw in its beauty. The tiny form made him reel with feelings he didn’t know he had. Only a moment ago he had thought of letting it die. Now he could not imagine that notion ever crossing his mind. With blossoming pride, he held up the baby for Marigween to see.

  Covered with sweat and out of breath, she smiled, and then relinquished her pent emotions in a burst of laughter.

  Orvin set the crying child down on Marigween’s chest, blessed himself, and thanked God for giving him the stamina to be with her. There was still more to do, the cord to cut, but his mind was already rac­ing ahead of that matter. There was a place he would take Marigween and the baby now, a place he prayed the Saxons would not find.

  6

  Arthur’s dilemma consumed him. The speech that Christopher listened to him deliver was not only halfhearted, it was woven with anxiety and with utter contempt for his own, and the army’s abilities. His noble modesty had rotted into depression. Arthur repeatedly referred to the men as “you who will give your lives today,” and that only scared them, only deepened their wounds of uncertainty.

  Because Arthur’s voice did not carry to the back of the army, those who could hear turned and repeated the king’s words to their neighbors. But after a while, they stopped. Arthur’s face was devoid of the luster, the vitality it once had. His past dicta were always full of animated gestures, of shouts of emphasis, of fists pummeling the air. But now, Arthur stood, as bored and bereft of enthusiasm as any man drafted into the peasant levy. Even Lancelot’s face mirrored his bur­ geoning concern for the king. It appeared Arthur was already defeated, Excalibur never unsheathed.

  As the king stepped down from his supply cart dais, Christopher turned to his liege. “I wish to talk to the squirearchy now.”

  “There isn’t much time,” Arthur said sadly. “I will hurry!” Christopher was emphatic.

  By the time the sky above the western slopes was stippled a pale orange, and the bright green of the slopes appeared something more akin to brown, Christopher had assembled the six junior and two senior squires serving the battle lords, and invited Doyle and any archers and varlets that cared to listen to a knoll southeast of the Rearward Battle.

  In all, nearly twoscore young men circled Christopher. Doyle was there, lending his confident winks and encouraging shouts. It was the first time that Christopher employed his title. He would address them as squire of the body, as a leader who answered to Arthur. There was a sense of formality to the gathering that was not Christopher’s doing, but was created by the others. They referred to him as “Sir Christopher”-the “squire of the body” being a bit clumsy, the “sir” recognizing his rank above regular senior squires. Indeed, it was a knight’s title, and per­ haps for the day Christopher would have to be a knight.

  For most of the squires, varlets, and a few of the archers, this was their first battle; and as it drew closer, Christopher knew the unseen future waned into cold, tight knots in their stomachs. The blood fled their faces, leaving their complexions linen white. But they did their best to hide these afflictions from Christopher, and instead conveyed to him only their hope, and their bravery-though that was born of their innocence. They all were, for the most part, like Leslie and Teague: they wanted to fight, but were afraid of what they would find. Would the grass really be strewn with entrails? It was an evil, possibly true thought he knew none of them could suppress.

  Christopher would never forget his first battle-as these boys never would. He wanted to go up to each and every one of them and say, “You will fight valiantly. You will find courage yo
u didn’t know you had.” He wanted to do that for himself. As he looked at them, he tried to see which ones would die and which would survive. He had never played soothsayer before and already hated the role. Teague, it appeared, didn’t have a chance. Leslie fared much better. Doyle, if he kept his hands off his flagon and his position in line, would be fine. He hoped. Each of the others scored low or high but all of it meant noth­ ing. What mattered was that he stood in the center of a circle of boys whose plated and scaled armor made them look much older than their years; a group of sons lonely among the greater burdens of the world; a tiny, insignificant speckle of humanity that, at the moment, needed Christopher more than anything else in the realm. He was the center of their lives. He was their reality. And he could not let them down. St. George help him, he could not let them down.

  “Brothers … and you are my brothers this day,” he said. “The king has not taken our predicament well, as I’m sure you heard in his voice.”

  The boys murmured their agreement. Christopher chanced a look at Doyle; the archer nodded: you’re doing fine. And yes, Arthur’s words were bleak.

  “But we are all afraid now. From what hill will the first invaders rise over? When the battle begins, it will seem they are everywhere-and they will be. Listen to me now when I say I served in a Saxon army under a Celt leader. You may already know that. But think me not a traitor, but as the best advi­sor you will ever have, for I know their ways. They are trying to adopt to our style of fighting, but there are many things that are and will forever be bar­ barous about them.