Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

“Now let me tell you how they fight. They fear traversing the battlefield alone and always travel in numbers. If you are caught by yourself you may find two or three against you. It is rare to engage a single man, but it does happen. I want you to watch them. See how their strokes are not measured but the prod­ucts of rage. See how they howl to frighten their opponents. I urge you to howl back! See how fright­ ened a Saxon becomes when he realizes you are the barbarian! But above all remember this: despite their differences, they are just like us. Just as young, as scared, as innocent. Kill them, for that is what we must do now. But hold in your hearts and minds a sacred day when peace reigns throughout this land and Saxons and Celts live under the same sky and drink from the same well. Man cannot murder him­ self forever. For if the sacred day never comes another will-a day scorched by the fires of God.

  “You know your training. Use the ways. Act, do not think. Sometimes the body knows better than the mind. Know you are a part of a brotherhood as loud and mighty as a thousandscore coursers, as bright as a forked bolt from the sky, as swift as a leveret, and as wily as a fox! Each of you is a link in our honor­ able chain and together we will never be broken! Do let the glory of this battle run through your veins! Feel your heart pump for Britain! Raise your fists in the air with me and know that we are the greatest fighters the world has ever seen!”

  Christopher wished Orvin was here to see these young men punch the sky and cheer so loud the heads of as many as tenscore men craned their way. They might be innocent fools, but they would die honorably, knowing who they were, why they were present. Their souls would rise on a golden beam, and be freed into a cloud-filled eternity.

  How wrong the war was did not matter anymore to Christopher. If he died with these boys, then he would wend his way up a path of light and be back in the gentle arms of his mother, witness again the kind smile of his father, the sly wink of Baines-all alive in Heaven! He would wait for Orvin and Doyle, welcome Marigween and Brenna, and the ladies would forgive him and both be able to love him. His sins would be laved away, for he carried in his heart the right thing. He did what he must in the world to survive, but he, above all, never abandoned the truth, the great redeemer. He would be squire of the body to Christ.

  “Go now to your positions,” he told the boys as their arms lowered. “Serve your hearts, your minds, and God well. You squires, varlets, archers-you are the life of this army. Breathe your courage into those around you and fight well, dear brothers, fight well. God be with you all!”

  The group dispersed, leaving Christopher and Doyle alone on the knoll.

  Doyle fell to his knees, took Christopher’s hand, and kissed it. “You are something. I didn’t know you could speak that way. Even the king-”

  “Rise, Sir Doyle, before you utter more. Besides, you look like a jester on your knees before me. No wonder why you are not a knight!”

  “The bow is my weapon of choice,” Doyle answered, then rose.

  “Use it well this eve. And this,” Christopher tapped the flagon at Doyle’s side, “you won’t be needing.”

  “You’re right,” Doyle said. He unstrapped the flagon, removed the hemp, then guzzled the contents before Christopher. “My stomach is a better flagon!”

  Christopher frowned; he wanted Doyle to take the coming battle more seriously, but was infected by the archer’s humor. He smiled, then a bitter thought took hold. He embraced his friend.

  Doyle broke the embrace then bounded off. “See you once the fires have cleared!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “Once the fires have cleared,” Christopher repeated in a soft whisper to himself.

  7

  Seaver caught up with Ware and stopped the scout before he got to Kenric. Together they went to Kenric’s small tent, pitched one hundred yards south of the castle under the shade of several beech trees.

  Excitedly, they reported to their leader that most of the sentries defending the curtain walls of the castle were dead. The Saxons controlled the outer bailey and all watchtowers along the walls-except those behind the keep. The keep, with its own surrounding curtain wall linking six watchtowers, still posed a considerable problem.

  The battering ram had gotten stuck in the keep’s moat, and so the keep’s portcullis could not be smashed in like the one safeguarding the main gate-house. Saxon archers had set up a perimeter along the moat and had built a cover wall of mantlets. But the Celts gave them few targets to shoot at. They popped in and out of their watchtower loopholes and win­ dows, fired arrows and bolts and retreated too swiftly to be picked off. Any Saxons who reached the berm outside the walls were met by immediate showers of Greek fire dumped from huge cauldrons over the wall top. Saxon infantrymen, their heads, arms, and shoul­ders blistering in flames, went yelping toward the moat and threw themselves into the turbid pool.

  There was a greater force protecting the tower than Seaver had originally estimated, and if the Saxons could not penetrate the keep, then they only ruled half of the castle.

  But Kenric had a plan. And Seaver and Ware worked with Manton and the rest of Kenric’s battle lords to initiate it. A score of men were positioned on both the east and north curtain walls and fought their way toward the northeast corner of the castle behind the keep. While the Saxon archers provided plenty of diversionary fire from the south side of the tower, the invaders on the wall behind it were met by only a handful of bowmen manning the battle­ ments on the roof, and only an estimated half score more behind the loopholes. Iron treble hooks attached to long, wrist-thick ropes were thrown onto the keep’s upper parapets, and their barbs bought purchase in the cracks where stone block met stone block. Of the twenty ropes thrown, twelve were suc­ cessful. The Saxons swung from the wall and crashed into the side of the keep, then muscled their way up the ropes. They had to reach the upper windows of the keep, for those were the only ones wide enough to fit a man through.

  As they climbed, they were not subject to arrow fire from the loophole bowmen; those Celts could not shoot their arrows straight up or straight down, and the Saxons were careful to swing their ropes away from the narrow slits in the stone. But the men man­ ning the two battlements that cornered the roof of the keep were able to drop missiles on the ascending Saxons. Those Celts were, however, under the steady fire of a group of twoscore Saxon archers twenty yards outside the main curtain wall. Occasionally, the Celts managed to release a stone, but with every offensive move, they suffered more casualties. Soon, the men behind the battlements fled.

  The first two Saxons who made it to the upper win­ dows were doused with pitch by a pair of chamber­ maids. As one of the invaders fell back, hot tar devouring the skin on his face and neck, he snatched the kirtle of one of the chambermaids and pulled her through the window. Gagged by terror, the maid fell with the Saxon. The only noise emitted from them was the sound of their bodies hitting the dirt and gravel of the inner bailey, a nearly imperceptible ka-thump under the cacophony of the siege. The next wave of Saxons breached the windows and encountered no resistance.

  Once two dozen of his men were inside, Seaver, his heart racing, took the rope, climbed up, and joined the attack. He came into one of the eight sleeping chambers on the fourth floor. His men had already ransacked the rooms, which made him angry. The castle was going to be theirs-why destroy it? But the heat of the battle melted reason into aggression, and destruction was the only way for his men to cool down. Before descending to the third floor, Seaver had to do something. Something he had promised himself. He ran up the spiral staircase of the western battlement and burst onto the roof of the keep. He beheld the entire siege, painted copper and silver by the fires and waxing gibbous moon. What a magnificent display of power it was! In the distance, he saw Kenric’s tent, and then the man himself stand­ ing next to it. Seaver waved to his lord. It took a moment for Kenric to notice him, but when he did, he returned a fist in the air. If glory were rain, then Seaver was soaked. He spent another moment watch­ ing the ever-firing archers and the cavalry plowing into the
bailey. Then he turned and descended the staircase to the third floor.

  The killing would be systematic now. Most of the keep’s defenses were on the ground floor, built under the assumption that an attack would be mounted there. A threat from above was only a minor consid­ eration to the architects of the castle of Shores, and for the castle’s inhabitants, that strategic deficiency would prove fatal.

  Seaver ordered Woodward’s solar and the great hall to be spared, explaining that Kenric would take them both for his own. Then it dawned on the thick­ headed infantrymen that they had just decimated their own chambers above. Destroy men, not the treasures within these walls, Seaver urged them. The fires outside could not be helped, but the keep-it was a gem to be saved and polished.

  Barely a score of Celt garrison men attacked them on the third floor, and the Celts were routinely piked or knifed or axed within a quarter hour.

  The second floor garrison quarters and wellhead were divided in half by a wall that had only one cen­tral doorway. A thick oak door, double-bolted from the other side, stood between them and the rest of the garrison.

  Seaver ordered torches to be taken from the walls and put to the base of the door. It would take some time, but they would bum the wooden barrier down.

  8

  “My liege! They are coming! Just over the next rise!”

  The scout grew from the shadows of the jagged hillock and came into the radiance of over a hundred war torches.

  “To the earth!” Arthur ordered.

  Christopher joined his king in dismounting, and simultaneously every man in the Main Battle knelt, drew the sign of the cross on the ground, bent and kissed the earth, then took a piece of soil in his mouth. All stood and picked up their arms. The cav­ alry remounted.

  Arthur was a much more religious man than Lord Hasdale, and this ritual made Christopher feel a bit more at ease in the seconds before the attack. Everything was in order: the men were ready, the ground they may die on blessed, and the sky a dark, metallic blue for war.

  “We fight four battles at once,” Arthur said, staring pensively at the hillock above the archers. ‘‘I’m sorry.”

  Christopher could only guess why Arthur had apol­ ogized, but he sensed the king was sorry for not lis­tening to him earlier. He respected Arthur, knew his pain, and was smart enough to realize that Arthur, though king, was still only a man. Christopher fumbled for a reply. To say nothing might be telling Arthur, “Yes, you should be sorry.” To tell Arthur he need not apologize would only be falsely modest and the king would read through that. Perhaps if he admit­ ted how he felt, Arthur would appreciate his honesty.

  “My lord. I love and respect you. You could not know of this future, and I only glimpsed a shadow of it. You did what you thought was right, and I will for­ ever defend your decision. I cannot help but advise you when I sense danger, and I must continue to do that. I hate being right at this moment. I hate it.”

  “Merlin said I might plunge into the rash ways of my father. And here I am. If I had spoken less and lis­ tened more … I have learned something already. God, I pray I live long enough to use it.”

  “You will, my liege. You will.”

  “When I made you squire of the body, I told the crowd: Here is the most loyal squire I’ll ever find. And in recent moons I doubted my words. All your talk of peace made me suspect treachery. But you have been faithful.”

  “Thank you, my lord. And know that yes, I will die for you. But let’s speak not like mourners at our pyres, but like fighters.”

  “Indeed,” Arthur said, his voice a notch closer to sounding brave.

  A glassy yellow glow appeared in the sky above the hillock, and then Christopher heard the hollow roar of the Saxon cavalry. It sounded like an approaching storm. Saxon torches rose into sight, a freckling of small white orbs among the shifting silhouettes of the horsemen. The sound accompanied by the vision was out of the blackest of Christopher’s sleeps, and he could not have consciously imagined a more impres­sive, more horrid sight.

  Then Christopher envisioned what the Saxons saw as they charged:

  Two wedge-shaped groups of Celt archers, each of fifty men, barred the Saxons’ path. On either wing and curving slightly forward, thus making the whole line concave, were another hundred, sharp-eyed bow­ men. Their job would be to let loose a steady hail of arrows until their ranks were broken by the cavalry. Once separated, they would advance beyond the horsemen and fire randomly into the column of invading infantry that surely lay behind.

  Any Saxon horseman who made it beyond the archers would encounter the fivescore men that made up Arthur’s cavalry, including the king himself. If that horseman was lucky enough to advance farther, he would run straight into the infantry: nearly a hun­ dred professional men-at-arms and another hundred in the peasant levy, all brandishing picks or bills or spears or halberds, or any of the other lethal pole arms used to stab and hook knights from their mounts.

  If the Saxon made it past the infantry, he would find himself trapped approximately two hundred yards away from the peasant levy of the rear guard.

  Judging from the fact that the Saxons had chosen to put their cavalry in front, Christopher assumed that their archers were in the rear. That strategy was smart and counterstruck their own. Arrows would continually shower their ranks until their cavalry made it to the Saxon bowmen. And that, Christopher knew, would be Arthur’s plan.

  “Banners advance! In the name of Jesus, Mary, and St. George!” Arthur barked.

  The cavalry divided in half, one group flanking around the archers to the left, Christopher and Arthur’s group to the right.

  The archers, under the command of the boisterous Sir Michael, set down on one knee, drew back their bows, waited for their signal horn, then unleashed their first whistling shower of arrows.

  Christopher snapped the reins of his courser and tightened the distance between himself and Arthur. The sound of hundreds of hooves impacting the earth droned steadily, and he wondered how he would hear commands from his lord. Besides Christopher, the banner bearer and homsman were with Arthur, and Christopher could do little to assuage them. They were unarmed and staring at a pack of Saxons bear­ ing down on them. Christopher reviewed how useful their jobs would be in the darkness and din of the battle. Had he been king, he would have given each of them a spatha. But Arthur insisted on protecting his sense of order-even if the world around fell off the edge of a gorge and into chaos.

  They galloped, fifty men ten abreast, attempting to circle around the Saxon cavalry to hawk the archers.

  But the enemy cavalry reacted to this dispersion of men, and they, too, deployed their ranks into a long fence that not only extended to the archers, but continued on to the flanks.

  Then Christopher heard the unmistakable shouts of the Saxons mingle with the hammering of hooves. He wished he did not understand what they said, for their total confidence and sheer might was intimidat­ ing. And the group was smart. Tactical. They were not the arguing cavalry of Garrett’s army, but a smooth, lubricated team of mounted killers whose speed, flexibility, and split-second reactions were a gloomy surprise to every Celt who witnessed them. They were wolves. And their bellies were empty.

  Arthur sringed! Excalibur from its sheath, raising The sword in one hand while holding his reins and escutcheon in the other. The shield was painted with the same likeness of the Virgin Mary that was on Arthur’s banner, his surcoat, and Christopher’s sur­coat as well. The king slammed down the visor on his helm, and was as ready as he would be for the onslaught.

  Christopher made his own preparations; he pulled his broadsword from its sheath, then slapped down the visor on his salet. The salet was a new helmet forged for Christopher by Brenna’s father, and it tapered back behind his head, creating an oval lip of steel that protected the back of his neck. The visor had a two-fingers’ -width slit that Christopher was not happy with. The helmet cut off a lot of his peripheral vision. But the last time he’d fought on the Mendip Hills h
e’d caught a cat-o’-nine-tails with his face, and had the streaking scars to prove it. This time he would suffer with limited vision to preserve what complex­ ion he had left. As for his bulky suit of armor, he’d grown accustomed to it and felt agile. It had only taken him about a dozen moons to break in the suit. But the piece of gear he hated most was his shield. He would never get used to the heavy escutcheon, or the fact that he had to steer his horse with the same hand in which he carried the shield. Though he knew the escutcheon might save his life, he wouldn’t panic if he lost it. He would parry an attack with the sharp move­ ments of his horse and blade, and not rely on the shield. Besides, he was prone to dropping it anyway.

  The two-and-one-half score men of the right-side cavalry collided with the left flank of the encroaching Saxons.

  A shortness of breath came with the familiar klang! of blade on blade, blade on shield, blade on armor. Christopher licked his lips and drew back his sword as a heaving barbarian galloped past him and Arthur on their right. Christopher was nearest the dark-haired man, and had the advantage of the pass. The Saxon held his spatha in his left hand, apparently his stronger one, and would only be able to defend a blow from Christopher. Unless he changed sword hands-which he did as Christopher neared him.

  Christopher pictured his arm as a piece of bent steel attached to the sword. He lifted and came down on the Saxon’s hoisted blade. Klang! He felt the vibration of the impact shudder up his arm, then saw that the Saxon had lost his weapon.

  “Circle back and finish him!” Arthur ordered.

  But Christopher knew it was not prudent to leave the king unattended. “My lord-”

  “KILL HIM!”

  Christopher wheeled his horse away from Arthur and pursued the unarmed Saxon. He shot a glance back to the multiple entanglements of men and horses, and among the individual fights he spotted Arthur, who reined his steed to a stop, looking for a chal­ lenger. Two Saxons a hundred yards north shot from the night gloom and galloped toward the king, their torches flattened in the breeze. Christopher returned his attention to his own Saxon, wanting very much to get the killing over with and return to the king. He could already hear Lancelot: “You left the king-and now he is dead! How could you do such a thing!” The fact that Arthur had ordered him away meant nothing.