Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  “Certainly the battle is won now!” the squire boasted.

  Probing from side to side, Christopher saw that he and Doyle had joined a barrier of men as vast as the one that lay ahead. The squire’s boast was deserved. At least four thousand Celts hemmed in the central slopes where Arthur’s army had mounted its defense. Never before had so many fighting men come together in one place. It was a dazzling spectacle of absolute force that Christopher and Doyle found hard to witness. It all but frightened them.

  The two great walls of men-at-arms slammed into the remnants of the Saxon army and flattened it into oblivion. Some of the Saxons chose to take their own lives, while others surrendered. But the Celts were merciless. No prisoners were taken.

  Finally, word got to Christopher of Arthur’s sur­vival and whereabouts, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief. Thank St. George! He’s alive!

  They discovered the king sitting on the back of a supply cart, blood leaking from cuts on his hands, neck, and face. His hair and beard where matted and oily with sweat, and his eyes wore the burdens of bat­tle. He sipped cautiously on a tankard of wine, as if imbibing too much would increase his pain. He set the mug down on the flatbed beside him as Hallam, the former monk from Queen’s Camel Abbey who served as doctor to the Main Battle, dabbed at a fine cut across his forehead with a rag.

  Christopher and Doyle dismounted. Christopher’s footsteps on the soft, spongy grass were tentative, and his nerves jittered over Arthur’s unknown reaction to him. Would he scold his senior squire for not returning? They dropped to one knee before their king, and Christopher took Arthur’s hand, found a clear spot among the cuts, then kissed it. “My liege, the sight of you overcomes me.”

  “What happened?” Arthur asked weakly. “I could not get back to you because-”

  “No,” Arthur interjected. “Did we win the eve? Is the battle ours?”

  Christopher’s attention was tugged away by the sight of Uryens and Lancelot strong-arming a man, assumedly Saxon Lord Wyman. The invader was grayer, and sported more armor than any of the other Saxons in the valley. “See for yourself, lord.” Christopher indicated that Arthur tum around.

  Uryens and Lancelot shuffled the last living Saxon on the Mendip Hills past the cart and presented him to Arthur.

  “We suspect he is the leader,” Lancelot said. “He is the miry demon who promised to beat us. All of his followers are dead.”

  Wyman arched his back, brought himself as close as he could to Arthur despite the men holding him, and spat. The Saxon’s saliva hit the king’s breast­ plate, then oozed down his chest.

  Christopher and Doyle exchanged incredulous looks, and wondered how the king would parry the blatant display of contempt.

  Before Arthur could say or do anything, Uryens balled his left hand into a fist and pummeled Wyman’s temple. “You will die shortly, ogre.”

  Wyman called Uryens something Christopher would not repeat, but was aghast to hear. He could relate to Wyman’s predicament, for he, too. had found himself in the hands of the enemy. But he had not been as bold as this Saxon. No, Wyman already knew he would die, and his last breaths would damn his slayers. He would not submit to death. It was the warrior’s way.

  “Let him go,” Arthur said, his voice weary but still able to carry the cadence of an order.

  “He is the last one, my lord,” Lancelot said. “Why not complete the job?”

  Arthur shook his head no. “Send him to warn his brothers on the isles of Wight and Thanet that no Saxon army shall conquer this land.”

  Lancelot and Uryens beamed with the idea.

  “Two of my men will escort him there personally,” Uryens said.

  “Take him.” Arthur coughed, then rubbed grit from his eyes.

  As the two battle lords turned with their prisoner, Lancelot found a moment to shoot Doyle a scornful look, a look that asked, “What are you doing here when you belong with the rest of the archers?”

  It was the path of their lives on the battlefield, Christopher mused. Both he and Doyle were never where they were supposed to be, yet both had been through two battles and come back alive. Maybe they would not change this chaotic, but ultimately life-grant­ ing method. Perhaps Doyle’s rogue-of-the-battlefield club wasn’t so bad after all. But it was against orders, and they would forever suffer disciplinary action.

  “This is a great day,” Arthur sighed. Christopher sensed that the king wanted to stand and extol every­ one, but was just too exhausted to do so. Arthur’s condition stole the feeling of victory from all around him.

  “It is,” Christopher agreed somberly.

  Then Arthur looked at Doyle; it was a look Christopher could not discern. “You,” Arthur said, shaking a pointed index finger, “you fought bravely I suspect?”

  Doyle, expecting to be chastised, was surprised by Arthur’s question.

  Christopher could have stepped in and told the king that yes, Doyle had fought bravely, but he did not. Doyle had murdered.

  He flicked a glance at his friend, saw that Doyle nodded and ever-so-slight reply to the king.

  “And you, Christopher,” Arthur said, shifting his attention, “I mourn for you.”

  “May Iask why, lord?”

  “Because you believe in peace, and had to go out in darkness and abandon your belief.”

  “Not all Saxons are killers. If one leader would feel as Ido … “

  “He is a man I would reason with, be it cautiously. But I would speak with him.”

  “Garrett was such a man,” Christopher said. “He was a Celt,” Arthur qualified.

  “Peace will come.” Christopher was sure of it.

  “I have no doubt of that.” Arthur hefted himself off the supply cart and stood, then flexed his muscles as the bones in his arms and legs cracked. He raked his long hair back over his ears and inhaled deeply. “For now, though, I think the Saxons will not bother us. We can go home.” Arthur smacked his lips with a new idea. “And I think I will spend some time with Lord Woodward, Christopher. That would keep you in Shores for a while. You would like that.”

  Christopher grinned. He missed the village of his youth, though it was a rebuilt one now. But the place still had that smell; it carried for miles, that scent of gorse and humus cut with the stench of leather. It would never change.

  “Then we eat,” Arthur added, “gather the fallen arms, strip and bum the dead. That done, we start the long journey to those emerald fields and towering ramparts.” Arthur’s words painted the tableau so clearly in Christopher’s head that he felt he could step out of his body and into the mind picture. He could run across the field amidst the tender zephyrs and lunge Into the open arms of … who? Brenna? Marigween? At home he would have to make a decision between the young ladies. But his love was excruciat­ ingly tom between the raven maid and the orphaned princess. If he continued courting them both, it would break all hearts.

  His problem with Innis had blossomed into a black rose, with Doyle trapped in its petals. And he knew how the guilt would haunt him:

  Arthur’s wraith would come in black sleep and tell Christopher how sinful it was to harbor Doyle’s secret, how his own hands were bloodied by his aiding such a person, a person who had done such unspeakable acts. What fool would leap onto a runaway rounsey as it hooved toward a cliff?

  Yes, he missed the village and castle of Shores, but going home meant facing the demons and decisions. It had been easy to hide in the hills, to forget about everything and fight. What awaited him was pain, per­ haps more than he had borne the brunt of thus far.

  But at Shores there was good food, better com­ pany, and the security of familiar surroundings; they would be his tabard and shield him from the night chill that was his future.

  He took a moment to explore the young sky, asked it the same question he had many times before:

  What will be?

  As always, the powder blue dome hung reticent.

  PART THREE

  CRACK IN THE CRYSTAL BALL

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  The cave to which Orvin took Marigween was three days’ ride east from the village of Shores. A sin­ gle tortuous cliffside road descending one wall of a wide gorge led to the musty quarters.

  Orvin sat opposite Merlin around a circular stone hearth at the mouth of the cave. The night was clear, the stars points of radiant silver, the moon nearly full. Had it not been for Merlin’s presence, Orvin would have found the moment blissful.

  “So, you’ve become a coward,” the druid accused Orvin, looking up from the fire.

  “In my village, a man who saves a woman and child is regarded a hero,” Orvin shot back.

  Merlin finger-combed his long, white beard and smiled, dull yellow teeth revealed to the molars. Then he chuckled.

  Piqued, Orvin’s jaw muscles tightened. Then he heard a faint cry from within the cave. Another cry. The baby. Then sweet Marigween’s tender voice shushing the child.

  “I seem to recall a day many, many moons ago. The day we first met. And the first words out of your mouth to me formed a wild boast.” Merlin’s smile mocked all that Orvin stood for, all he cared about.

  “Had I a dagger in my hand, I would do a hero’s justice right now,” Orvin said calmly, repressing the crazed demon inside him.

  “I, like you, am just too old to kill,” Merlin observed. “I fear we shall both live forever.”

  “Then may God bless us and keep us apart.”

  Merlin tugged thoughtfully on his beard, bit his lower lip, then furrowed his brow. “Hmmm. Why is it you hate me so? I, over the years, have developed a tolerance for you. Why can you not do the same?”

  “Do you wish me to cite incidents where you have embarrassed me, jeopardized my life, and tried to undermine all I stand for?”

  “You claim to be a teacher now, or at least you act like one,” Merlin said, “but you have yet to learn the lessons I tried to teach you in your youth.”

  Orvin smirked at the memories of Merlin’s lessons-the potions, the roots, the berries, the “magic” of the wood. What good were they to a young knight in the service of Uther Pendragon? Merlin had tried to tum him into a wizard, but Orvin had always known that the future would reveal itself in its own way, and he did not need a mortar and pestle to summon it up. The sky held the mystery. The simple, blue sky. When he looked at it, he could feel what would be.

  Orvin pushed a hand through his hair, then extended both palms closer to the fire, warming them. “Your lessons were and still are useless to me.”

  Merlin shook his head, his expression of pity cast in a golden hue from the dancing fire. “The narrow­ minded man lives a bleak, empty life. He travels a sin­ gle desolate road and sees no farther than the wood on either side. And he is consumed by loneliness.

  “How can you speak of loneliness?”

  “I venture out now and again,” Merlin replied.

  “To misguide the man who is our king! A lovely service you do for mankind-druid.” That word was SQUIRE’S B LOOD1 5 3

  something bitter on Orvin’s tongue. The druids-all of them-were nothing more than mad soothsayers.

  Uther Pendragon had placed all his faith in Merlin. Other Pendragon had died a miserable death, his kingdom divided. And now Other’s son was making the same mistakes. Orvin winced as the future unfolded; it repeated the black past. Merlin had claimed he could help mankind move forward with his “magic.” But to Orvin’s eyes, mankind remained a stagnant moat. Merlin argued that it had been Other’s shortcomings that had led to his demise, his lust, his impetuous behavior. But Orvin felt differently. He knew who was to blame. If Merlin stopped tampering with the minds of men, perhaps the land would some­ day be united. Arthur’s dream was a noble one, but it was flawed by the mere presence of Merlin.

  “Are we to begin, once again, a debate of method­ ology?” Merlin asked.

  A burning log in the hearth weakened, rolled off its perch on another log, then hit the earth bottom of the fire. A spiraling flurry of sparks rushed upward. Orvin’s gaze followed the minute points of light as they diminished into the night sky. He brought his palms together and rubbed them, and then finally regarded Merlin. “In my youth, you wanted me to be a wizard as well as a knight. A fighting man of magic. I rejected that notion. I am a man of this realm.” Orvin gestured broadly with his hands to the cave, the cliff, the gorge behind him. “This, the real world, is a harsh, unforgiving place, a place where faith should lie within one’s self, not in a spell.”

  “I agree,” Merlin replied. “You are a pragmatic man. But you fool yourself. Old age has brought with it a faith that lies in the heavens, not the heart. I deal with things of this world. My power is harnessed from the land.”

  “What does any of this matter now,” Orvin asked bitterly, “when our land is being taken from us?” Slowly, he rose to his feet, leaned over, then rubbed his sore knees.

  “What does your sky tell of the Saxon invasion of Shores?” Merlin asked.

  Orvin ignored the questions and moved past the fire into the deeper shadows of the cave.

  A single candle burned in a simple iron holder in the back of the quarters. The candle sat atop a trunk at the foot of a particularly wide trestle bed. Save for the bed, the trunk, and a few clay pots, two sacks of flour and a burlap bag full of apples, the cave was empty. Where was the elaborate room where Merlin mixed his “famed” potions, his love serums, and his truth brews? Was there another cave? Perhaps … but it didn’t matter.

  Marigween sat up on Merlin’s bed, her back resting on a pillow propped against the uneven stone wall. She wore a black cloak Merlin had given her, and cradled the swaddled baby in her arms. She lifted her head at the sound of Orvin’s sandaled feet scuffing along the cave floor.

  “He is kind to let us stay here,” Marigween said softly. “Do you truly hate him as much as you say?”

  “More than I’ve admitted,” Orvin grumbled. He moved to her, then ran a wizened finger along the stitched cut that had ruined one of her perfect cheeks. The work was good; Orvin had become adept at mending wounds over the years. And it seemed the better a doctor he became, the more wounds there were to close. He turned away, circled around the bed to the trunk, pushed the candle to one corner, and sat. Then he added, “Some men simply do not get along.”

  “Some men could learn to get along.”

  “He and his people pretend to know more than all of us. But they are just men.”

  “Like you. Just a man.”

  “Am I so terrible, to have saved your life and brought you here?”

  Marigween sighed. “I know how much this bothers you. I am just trying to help.”

  “He’s a fool. And if someone doesn’t watch him, he’ll be the ruin of us all. Again.”

  “How do you know?”

  Orvin exhaled loudly, then absently smoothed the long hairs on his upper lip. He wished to speak of Merlin, the feud, no longer. He did not reply. Instead, he stared down at the candle and watched as a rivulet of melted wax crept down the stick onto the holder.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t-”

  “How is your son?” Orvin blurted out.

  “He’s sleeping now.” Her tone changed. “Orvin, can I tell you something?” Fear laced her voice. “I never … learned how to … “

  “Instinct,” Orvin replied, leveling his gaze with hers, “will show you the way. As a knight on the battlefield you must simply act and not think. If you feel the child needs something, do it. Do not consider it for a second. Act.”

  He watched as Marigween stared lovingly down at the little face hooded in the scraps of linen he and Merlin had collected from the druid’s supplies.

  “He doesn’t have a name yet,” Marigween said with a trace of sadness. “I don’t … I don’t want to name him without Christopher.”

  Orvin only watched her. There was nothing to add to her words. He wondered if Christopher had sur­vived on the Mendip Hills. Even if Arthur’s army was victorious, their triumph would by an empty one upon their return. As for Christ
opher, he was in for an unforgetable welcome home.

  Here is your home: under siege. And here is … your son!

  Orvin thanked the Lord he was not Christopher. To be so young and confronted by such shock, such sudden responsibility, and on top of that, to have your home wrenched away twice in your lifetime. Dear St. George-it was too much. Orvin would have to be the boy’s solace. But he, too, would find it hard to keep his spirits up in such gloomy times.

  A new thought forged inside, one he unfortunately voiced to Marigween before realizing the conse­quences. “How will you and Christopher explain the child to everyone, especially Lord Woodward?”

  Marigween kept her gaze on her child. “I don’t know,” she said faintly.

  The church condemned children out of wedlock, and condemned those responsible for such children. Condemnation took the form of a burning at the stake. How would Christopher, Marigween, and their child avoid such a fate?

  The child would have to remain hidden. No one must know of its existence.

  “Perhaps,” Orvin said, “it is better not to explain the child to anyone.”

  “What do you mean?” “I think you know.”

  “What kind of future will my son have? What will he think of me when he discovers I kept him hidden? He will think I hated him, that I was ashamed of him.” Marigween shivered as tears, glistening in the candlelight, slid down her cheeks.

  “What other alternatives are there?” Orvin asked, his mind groping for new paths of escape for the ill­

  begotten family.

  “We could say I found the baby. Christopher and I could be married, and then take the child as our own.”

  “Are you going to tell Christopher the truth?”

  “Of course,” Marigween replied quickly. “Do you think I would tell him I found this child, that it is not his?”

  “He is a very young man, with a great many bur­ dens, alone in the world and without a family. If he does return, what is he going to find? Chaos and ruin. And out of that … a son. My God … “

  Marigween’s expression grew dark, and her aroused temper was evident in the tone of her next: “The truth will not cause him as much pain as a lie. And now he will have a family.” Marigween nodded to herself. “Yes. I will tell him the truth. No matter what you think is right. I know what I will do. I think I’ve suf­ fered much already. This child is part of Christopher­ and he must share the burden … and the joy.”