Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  As he spurred his courser on to speeds that tested the animal’s abilities, Christopher’s intellect took over. Maybe he could reason with the Saxon. Ask him to leave the hillocks peacefully.

  Why can’t I just accept that this Saxon has to die?

  There he was, thinking again, and the thoughts put doubt in his mind. Yes, it was true: hesitation would kill him. And so there could be no thinking. He would slay the man quickly so that there would be no time for the image to etch itself in his memory. To kill and forget. It was the only way.

  His buttocks bounced on the saddle, and Christopher knew if he kept up his pace he would be very sore come morning. If he saw morning. He rode thirty yards more and thankfully arrived at the Saxon’s side. He threw down his shield, then popped up his visor. Now he could fight.

  The Saxon attacked with a surprise spare sword, and Christopher deflected the blow with his own. The clanking of metal alarmed his courser, and the animal sidestepped away from the Saxon. Christopher wheeled his mount around, pressed his boots against the horse’s ribs for support, then came into another swipe from the barbarian. It was sup­ posed to be kill and forget, but Christopher found himself wanting-needing-to talk to the Saxon.

  “I admire your army,” he shouted in the invader’s language. “This is the best effort I’ve ever seen by your people.”

  Christopher followed his words with a potent hori­zontal cut that nicked the Saxon’s shoulder, but his blade did not penetrate the invader’s link-mail hauberk. The blow did, however, unbalance the Saxon. Yet from the look on the barbarian’ s face, it appeared Christopher’s words unbalanced him even more.

  “You’re Arthur’s squire. You’re Christopher. We have in our ranks a man who once served with you: Owen. He told me you were kidnapped long ago by a small band of rogue Celts. He and a few others tried to rescue you, but they were unsuccessful.”

  Garrett’s men, though probably spread among the many Saxon armies, were still on the land and still fighting. They had not gone home across the narrow sea. Christopher lowered his sword. And then the Saxon tentatively lowered his own.

  “It is strange,” the Saxon added, “to be speaking to my enemy.”

  “We are the future. This is what must come.” “I have no desire to kill you,” the Saxon said. “Nor I you,” Christopher assured him.

  “Then what do we do?”

  “Ride back to our masters and report each other dead. May your Gods be with you!”

  “And yours with you!”

  The Saxon heeled his mount into a gallop toward three pairs of clashing men. Christopher sheathed his sword, turned his courser around, then started off.

  A mystical string of burning lights, as if the stars had organized themselves into ranks, crested the left rise less than a hundred yards from Christopher. As he strained for a better look, the image became lurid, pitching into the running, howling, sworn-to-draw­ blood Saxon infantry. At least tenscore men now bore down on him. Christopher looked for Arthur, but saw only the silhouettes of a countless number of mounted men. He veered his courser right in retreat, then saw that in the distance he would come upon the peasant levy of the Vaward Battle. Alone, he could not stay where he was, and he did not know if Arthur lay ahead. He continued on his present course toward the Vaward, swearing over an impasse that once again took him away from the king’s side.

  Christopher threaded through the farmers, sweep­ ers, grooms, sawyers, bakers, and the other men whose occupations numbered as many as fifty in the peasant levy of the Vaward Battle. Disorganized and disgruntled, the levy resembled the last-resort com­ pany it was. The men were anned but not trained, and presently cringed and cried as they held up shields against the sporadic arrow fire that arced under the stars.

  He needed to warn .the men-at-anns ahead that the Saxon infantry in the north had divided and the eastern company was marching to attack the Vaward from its most pregnable point, its rear. Craning his head and tossing wary glances over his shoulder, Christopher rode on. He heard a ping! on the top of his helmet, and his head jerked backward involuntarily. He guessed he had just been shot by an arrow, but the shaft’s velocity had weakened from its launch point and the metal of his salet was-thank Saint George and Brenna’s father-thick enough to divert the iron tip.

  As he left the peasant levy and neared the rear of the Vaward’s infantry, Christopher saw something that made him pull hard on his reins.

  Teague and Arn, another junior squire, were mounted and thrashing four Saxons who assailed them from the ground. A pair of abandoned war torches spewed shimmering light from the grass, and reflections of the flames lit the squires’ armor.

  If they are here, what has become of the rear guard?

  Christopher threw back his visor. “Arrant knaves! Why have you left your positions?” Christopher expected no answer from the boys; he knew they were slightly distracted.

  He assayed the situation and decided to ward off the two invaders who fought with Teague. The one swinging the battle-ax was giving the squire the most trouble. Christopher rode behind the man and reacted without thinking. His blade came down askew, hit the Saxon’s head, passed through hair and skin, fissured bone, then penetrated brain. His tight grip on the blade kept it in his hand as the forward momentum of his horse tore the sword free of the infantryman’s head. He braked, tugging the courser’s head right to arc toward Teague.

  As the other Saxon guided his halberd, about to hook Teague off his mount, Christopher hacked a jagged chunk of flesh from the back of the man’s hand. Caterwauling like a mouser whose paw had been run over by a supply cart, the Saxon dropped his pole· arm and turned in time to witness the mil­ lisecond image of the tip of Christopher’s broadsword as it rammed its way past his lips, broke his teeth, and pierced the soft, wet skin at the back of his throat. Christopher closed his eyes, thrust harder, then pulled back. He nearly dropped the broadsword as his courser neighed, stepped back and then for­ ward. Christopher wiped his incarnadined blade on the bottom of his mount’s saddle cloth, then resheathed it. He would not look at his victim.

  Teague, though only a junior squire, proved smart enough to take advantage of his freedom. He circled, held his spatha high, then aimed for the Saxon plying a spear on Am’s right.

  Christopher didn’t wait to find out if Teague’s effort would be successful, for he wanted to help Am with the Saxon on the boy’s left, one of the tallest invaders Christopher had ever seen. The long, hooked bill with which the Saxon feinted and jabbed was Christopher’s first target. As he stormed behind the Saxon, the man turned. Christopher dropped his reins as the giant thrust his bill. With his left hand, Christopher locked onto and wrested the Saxon’s pole while simultaneously spurring his courser into a gallop. He tucked the bill under his arm and dragged the Saxon for a moment before the man lost his grip. A jolt of the sudden weight loss told him that it was time to hit his second target.

  But as the Saxon ran from him, and Am circled around to block the invader’s path, a squeal of agony came from Teague’s direction. Christopher’s gaze left the tall Saxon, swept over the smoking landscape, and found, just beyond the perimeter of torchlight, the silhouette of Teague slumped backward on his courser. The squire’s boots were still locked in their stirrups, and his chest was impaled by a spear that stuck straight up into the night like a banner pole. The Saxon who had gutted Teague lay on the ground near Teague’s courser, the squire’s spatha wedged between the Saxon’s ribs. At least Teague had killed his killer. But on second thought, that meant nothing. A burst of numbing cold ripped through Christopher. His hand went slack, releasing the Saxon’s bill.

  Am panicked. He urged his courser in Teague’s direction, and, as he did so, the tall Saxon ran at him, leapt up, and knocked the squire sideways off his mount. Am’s head hit the ground, but the rest of his body did not impact. He was still caught in his jin­ gling stirrups and hung precariously upside down on his courser. Pained from the blow, the horse hooved itself into a canter as the
tall Saxon rolled on the grass, came up, and chased it.

  Doggedly, Christopher goaded his courser toward the scene. The Saxon unsheathed Am’s spatha, which hung from the squire’s saddle, then slipped it under the boy’s gorget. A thrust. Am’s blade scraped against his collarbone as it killed him. The Saxon withdrew the spatha and spun to face Christopher.

  A closer proximity revealed the barbarian to be gargantuan, only half resembling the man he was. His face glistened menacingly with sweat, and his eyes owned a vigor Christopher had seen in few men.

  Employing a sudden idea, he slid his boots out of his stirrups, dropped his reins, then clutched the sad­ dle’s pommel. He would have to time it right. When his courser was almost on top of the Saxon, Christopher pushed his knees back up onto the sad­ dle. From this kneeling position, he leapt sideways onto the invader.

  Both went down in a wind-stealing frump!

  The Saxon tried to wrestle Christopher off with one hand while he fumbled for the spatha he had dropped on impact with the other.

  Christopher unsheathed the anlace he kept bound under the metal greave that protected his right shin. Every sinew in his body flexed as he dug his left elbow into the Saxon’s chest and thrust the dagger with his right hand. His blade cut through the Saxon’s gambeson and pierced his belly.

  The Saxon flinched, cursed, then summoned a demon from the underworld to kill his oppressor.

  Christopher stabbed him again. This time he struck closer to the invader’s heart. The Saxon swore once more, but was silenced midway by his own blood. Christopher wrenched the dagger free, screamed, punched it home again, then pulled it out. The dead man emptied himself into his breeches.

  Christopher stood, breathless, death on his hands. He sheathed his dagger without cleaning it, then spot­ ted his courser. He made a clicking sound with his tongue, and the courser responded, trotting to him. He stroked its head and the horse whinnied with pleasure.

  “We go now,” he whispered to the beast.

  He spent a last grim moment eyeing the carnage before him. Once thinking, breathing, feeling, mag­ nificently complicated creatures, Teague, Am, and the four Saxons were now fleshy bags of blood, water, and bone. And as he had observed his first time on the battleground, these young men were like broken swords, ready to be tossed away and forgotten. Christopher’s cheeks sank in nausea. He averted his gaze and mounted with haste. He snapped his reins and started toward the nearest hogback, away

  from the dark valley.

  From his perch atop the hogback, Christopher over­ looked a new valley. He could see the Vaward Battle’s archers combating at point-blank range an equal-sized force of infantrymen. These Saxons were part of the eastern force, and gave the archers a hard enough time as it was. Christopher didn’t know if he’d have the heart to tell Lancelot that another force of infantry from the north was headed their way, plowing through the rear of his division.

  What Teague and Am had been doing in the Vaward Battle still remained a mystery. Had the rear guard been swept eastward by the Saxons in the south? Or had Teague and Am joined Doyle’s pri­vate, rogue-of-the-battlefield club? And what of Leslie? He and Teague were supposed to remain together. Was he with Am’s partner? And most importantly: was King Arthur all right?

  Christopher would make his report and then fight his way toward the east side of the Main Battle, where he had left Arthur. He descended the slope, his movements guarded, his breath running wild. The only comforting notion: Doyle was among the fight­ ers; maybe Christopher would see his friend and be assured that Doyle was all right.

  If one covered one’s ears, the battle from Christopher’s distance might be mistaken for an all­ night festival-a shifting crowd under the smoky haze of fivescore torches. But the conspicuous sound of metal on metal and the hysterical shrieks of dying men, of men suddenly bereaved of their brothers, unshrouded the truth and purged ambiguity from the scene.

  The valley bathed in blood.

  Christopher pried off his salet and hooked it on his saddle, then removed his padded coif, placed the link-mail under cap inside the helmet. He doffed his gauntlets and slipped them into the small riding bag behind him. He was sweaty, vaguely dirty, physically and mentally exhausted from killing. He shouldn’t have fooled himself into believing he could come on the campaign and not kill. It only made matters worse now. If coerced, he would have to deal out more death. He repeated that to himself as his mount’s legs found level ground. He beat a path around the perimeter of the battle to search for Lancelot.

  A frenzied Saxon infantryman materialized from a cloud of torch smoke, brandishing a pike. Another Saxon swinging a battle-ax succeeded him. Christopher ducked and spurred his way out of a conflict with these men.

  He found Lancelot dismounted, his face rosy with anger, his body spinning like a mill blade gone berserk as he cut down four Saxons in a single stroke. Lancelot was mad with courage, gripped in the arms of a beast named strength, and his feats were marred only by his epithets. Each time he butchered he cursed the enemy, hating him with sword and mouth, killing him with syllables and steel: “Damn you! Damn you to the pits of bloody, stinking, foul, dung-caked, urine-washed Hell, you pieces of hairy, lice-infested filth!”

  Not knowing how to react to the display, Christopher found himself smiling dumbly. Lancelot, the great, chivalrous knight spoke like an ill-bred innkeeper. Christopher levered himself off his saddle and swung down to the grass.

  Lancelot cocked his head and directed his blade in Christopher’s direction. The knight’s expression soft­ ened with recognition. “Christopher! Why are you not at Arthur’s side?”

  The sight of him alone always brought the same question-which Christopher now decided to avoid. “I come to report that half the infantry we fought in the north moves through your peasant levy.”

  “Foolish boy! I already know that. You left the king’s side to tell me that!”

  “No! I was forced here by the foot soldiers.” “Get back to the king at once!”

  “I will!” Christopher marched toward his horse, slipped his left boot in the stirrup and climbed up. Before leaving, he shouted to Lancelot, “Have you seen Doyle?”

  “Get back to the king!” Lancelot repeated, then leapt from the path of a galloping Saxon cavalryman drawing circles in the air with a long, spiked mace.

  He turned away as Lancelot bent his knees in preparation for another swooping run by the Saxon.

  Christopher steered his mount toward the western fringes of the battle, whence he would break through the melee and streak toward Arthur. The landscape grew more ghastly as the war beat on. Bodies waiting to be looted lay bloodied, twisted, and mangled everywhere. The smell of dust and fresh blood clotted his nose. Several times Christopher’s courser kicked its way through the human debris, and the ugly noise made by hooves on exposed muscle and bone made Christopher’s nausea return.

  Where the air had once been clear, the visibility at least one hundred yards, it was now grainy and draped with acrid smoke. Forgotten torches had started fires all over the slopes. He rode through a fog, only hotter and thinner, and the clouds of gray­ ness whipped past him. He traversed a small gully, then climbed and reached the crest of another hillock. The air smelled fresher, and he could see down into another, narrower valley. As many as threescore of Lancelot’s archers took defensive stances on the hillside, firing down into the Saxon­ infested lower ground. There was no method to their madness, as much farther beyond, another group of archers fired from the opposite bank at the same Saxons, but too many of their arrows fell long, and one landed just a yard away from Christopher and his mount. If the archers continued their strategy, they would kill themselves long before the Saxons ever reached them.

  “Christopher!”

  Leslie cantered up from the gully. The junior squire arrived at his side and Christopher immedi­ ately noted the filth of war on the boy: the right sleeve of his link-mail hauberk was stained with blood; the squire’s nose had bled, and his upp
er lip was crusted in crimson; his eyes were glassy and red, irritated by the smoke; and his hair was besmirched with dirt, for he’d fallen at least once from his mount. These things, though they made Leslie look haggard, also made him look older. Already, he was a veteran of combat, be it for only a few short hours.

  “I won’t even ask you what you’re doing here,” Christopher said, “for confusion is the order of this eve.” “You never said it would be like this!” Leslie exclaimed. “Yes I did!”

  “Have you seen Teague?”

  With eyes still keen on the knots of fighting men below, Christopher deliberated Leslie’s question. Was it time to put sorrow in Leslie’s heart? Then, dismissing his intellect, he answered, “He’s dead. On the morrow he rides on a beam to heaven.”

  Leslie bit his lower lip, and the air that came through his nose was the short, hard exhalations of a sob.

  From the comer of his eye, Christopher viewed the approach of another horseman. He turned his courser around and snicked free his broadsword. He heard Leslie do likewise with his spatha. As the figure moved from dark silhouette into color, Christopher relaxed in his saddle.

  It was Doyle, with a body lying facedown slung over the rump of his confiscated Saxon rounsey.

  “He brings Innis,” Leslie said darkly.

  “Innis?” Christopher asked, having almost forgot­ ten about his feud with the varlet.

  “I saved you the prize!” Doyle shouted, his voice too loud, his ability to judge sound apparently gone.

  As he drew closer, Christopher saw by the way Doyle bobbed in his saddle that the archer was drunk. “What happened?”

  “He’s dead,” Doyle said with a smile.