Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  The soft shuffle of leather soles on rock caught Orvin’s attention, and he cocked his head in the direction of the sound. Merlin slipped deeper into the cave, steadying himself with a gnarled, wooden cane, the end of which was worn smooth from use. He came from the shadows into the dim, flickering light. His gaze found Marigween and her baby.

  “What do you want?” Orvin asked, an edge in his voice.

  “I wish to be alone with Marigween and her son.” “For what purpose?”

  “Simply to talk.”

  Orvin rose from the trunk. “Another reason why I despise you, Merlin. Your secrets. Everything must be in private. All whispers and spells and magic.”

  Orvin started toward the moonlight that lit the mouth of the cave.

  He heard a conversation begin behind him, but instead of straining to hear it, he picked up his pace and arrived before the flaming hearth outside. He sat, brooding as he stared at the gold and orange and red blades leaning in the night breeze.

  2

  They swam in the clear, pure lake.

  Christopher’s head popped out of the water and the sun glinted off his hair. He seemed a living gem to Brenna as she planted her feet on the sandy bot­ tom and rose above the water, exposing her breasts to the air. She felt her skin roughen with gooseflesh.

  Christopher’s gaze did not lower to her breasts; instead, he looked into Brenna’s eyes with an expression she knew could only be love. If there was lust, that was fine, but the love was most important, most powerful. And it was there. She could see it, feel it, taste it, touch it, even somehow smell it. There was an aura around him that enticed her every sense. He moved closer to her, bobbing his way through the water until he was only inches away. But he did not touch her. He stood facing her, looking at her, smiling, eyes shining, shoul­ders broad, muscles taut and dripping with water. She ached to have those hands on her, to caress her, to touch her in ways she had never been touched before. He could do anything to her. He could have her. She would willingly surrender to him. He was a god before her.

  “I love you,” he said, his voice as sweet and tender and musical as a lute.

  And I you,” she answered, feeling a nerve wrestle in her neck and make her swallow.

  And then, oh then, his hand lifted from the water and his thumb and index finger touched her cheek. She felt herself shiver and tried to suppress it, not wanting him to know how nervous he made her.

  “You’re shaking,” he said.

  “I’m a little cold,” she said, knowing he knew better. “Let me warm you.”

  He slid one arm around her neck, the other around her waist, and they embraced. Her breasts pressed into his chest. She felt the scratchy sensation of his pubic hair on her belly. She wanted to kiss his neck. And she did so, melting into the skin that felt very much like-

  -a pillow.

  Brenna flickered her eyes open, then squinted at the morning sunlight flowing into her chamber and splash­ ing across the floor. She released the pillow from her arms and threw it across the room. “When are you coming back?” Her words echoed hollowly. She col­ lapsed onto the mattress and stared at the rafters, forc­ ing herself to replay the dream in her mind, to see his face again. But it was much harder now, and his hand­ some features would only congeal into a nondescript lump of flesh, a faceless figure devoid of love.

  Come back to me, Christopher. Please come back.

  In the outer bailey, a herald’s horn blew, and the pounding of hooves drew closer. Brenna heard the chat­ter of men, and after a few moments there came a shout: “To arms! To arms! Sentries! Raise the drawbridges!”

  Brenna sat up, got out of the bed, then crossed the room to the window. From the two towers on her side of the castle she could see bowman after bowman storming from the doorways, hustling along the wall- walk and taking up positions along the parapets. The drawbridge leading from the outlying land to the gate­ house began to rise, as well as the other drawbridge connecting the gatehouse to the outer bailey. She saw the pair of giant spindles begin to tum, spooling link after link of clanking chain. Timbers complained, and finally a cha-chud! reverberated throughout the castle as the outer drawbridge locked into position. Then another cha-chud! as the inner one stoppered the bai­ ley. Brenna’s gaze panned the landscape beyond the castle, but she did not see an attacking army.

  “What’s happening?” Brenna shouted to anyone below who would listen.

  A sentry on the ground called in response, “Get back inside, maid!”

  Suddenly, Brenna heard her door push in and someone bounded into her room. She turned to see Mavis and Wynne, her best friends in the world. They looked scared and both, like Brenna, were barefoot and still in their linen nightgowns.

  “Brenna! Have you heard?” Wynne cried, her lithe form visibly rattling. “We’re under attack!”

  “What are we supposed to do?” Mavis asked, mov­ ing away from Wynne. She strode into the room past Brenna to the window and studied the scene of the sol­ diers readying themselves on the wall-walks, the peas­ ants dashing madly through the inner and outer baileys. “Look beyond our castle,” Brenna told Mavis. “I do not see an army out there.”

  “Perhaps they come from the other side,” Wynne suggested.

  “Let’s find out,” Brenna said. She turned from the window and headed for the door.

  They left Brenna’s quarters and moved across the hall toward the chamber on the opposite side of the keep. From the levels below them, they could hear the cacophony of the keep’s inhabitants preparing for the possible attack: shouts; rattles; the ringing of a shield being dropped; the cry of a baby; the pounding of many leather soles on the stone floors. It was a mad atmo­ sphere, one none of the girls had ever experienced.

  Instead of a door, the chamber opposite Brenna’s was partitioned by a thick wool curtain dyed black. Brenna swiped the curtain aside and stepped into the small, drab room. They found an empty bed, a nightstand sup­ porting a single candle in holder, and a medium-sized trunk below and unshuttered window. On the floor next to the trunk was a pile of soiled kirtles and shifts.

  “Please don’t kill me! If you don’t, I’ll serve you well.” It was an older woman’s voice, slightly muf­ fled, the tone high and fraught with tremors.

  Brenna looked around, but she could not find the person who belonged to the voice. The room seemed empty. Mavis and Wynne shrugged.

  “Please, I beg you … spare me.”

  Brenna moved to the bed, dropped to her knees, leaned down, then picked up the woolen blanket that covered the bed and extended down to the floor. She peered into the dark recess.

  And there, recognizable by the blue kirtle she loved to wear, was Evelina, the senior chambermaid of the castle. She was a sight, cowering under her mattress like a child.

  “Evelina!” Brenna gasped. “Come out.”

  Behind her, Brenna heard Mavis and Wynne gig­ gling.

  “Is that you, Brenna?” The old woman’s face was away from Brenna, and her lumpy body barely fit under the bed.

  Brenna stood and threw herself onto Evelina’s bed, elbowed her way to the opposite edge, then stared down as the old lady dragged herself out into the open air, panting, her eyes closed, her forehead damp with sweat. She rolled onto her buttocks and clutched her heart, unable to speak, only to breathe.

  “Are you all right?” Brenna asked, not able to ward off the smile that so deftly attacked her lips.

  “I … couldn’t … I couldn’t breathe very well under there.”

  Mavis crossed the room and stood on the trunk to shoot a glance out the window. “There is no army on this side either.” Beyond her were the slopes that tapered off into the patchwork of fields below the castle, slopes that were, indeed, devoid of infantry.

  “Let’s get her up,” Brenna said. She rolled off the bed and circled around Evelina. Mavis and Wynne joined in, and they hoisted Evelina to a standing posi­tion, not without groaning themselves. She felt as heavy as a courser.

  “Th
ere now,” Brenna said, out of breath, “you’re up. And there’s no need to hide.”

  Evelina’s gaze lowered to her sandals. “I apologize to you, girls. I instructed you in what to do in case of an attack, and now that the time has come, look at my behavior. My cowardice. I’m ashamed.”

  Mavis took one of Evelina’s hands in her own. “We’re just as frightened as you. Don’t be ashamed.”

  “Yes,” Wynne chipped in. “We might have done the same thing!”

  “Well, we may still have time to behave like women,” Brenna said. “Perhaps the army that will attack is still a few days away. We can begin to prepare now.”

  After several hours of waiting, nerves began to calm, perspiration ceased and dried up, and voices grew steady. The attack, it seemed, wasn’t coming

  Rumors spread like fires on thatched roofs, and word trickled back to Brenna that the castles of Shores and Rain had fallen under attack and were now posses­sions of the Saxons. Rumor also had it that King Arthur’s army was on its way to Shores along with Lord Woodward’s army. No one knew if the king was aware of the two lost castles. Upon hearing all the news, Brenna made a decision. She would tell her friends about it, and hoped they would agree; but even if they didn’t, her mind was set.

  With the attack either delayed or not coming at all, Brenna, Mavis, and Wynne resumed their daily tasks. Working individually, they made the beds of the five noblemen Lord Uryens had left in charge of the garri­ son, accomplishing this with the aid of a long stick to reach across the vast breadth of the four-poster beds. Cushions were shaken out, chamber pots emptied, and sconces were refilled with fresh candles. They swept each of the five quarters and laid fresh rushes on the stone floors. That done, they took the dirty laundry outside to a pair of wooden troughs near one of the inner bailey’s curtain walls. They dumped the livery into a mixture of water, wood ashes, and caus­ tic soda. All three girls fetched wooden paddles from under the troughs and began to pound the clothes.

  “Certainly an exciting morning,” Mavis noted as she worked.

  “I hope we are not attacked,” Wynne said fervently. “I’m going to Shores,” Brenna said.

  Both Mavis and Wynne stopped their work and regarded Brenna, their mouths open.

  Brenna continued working her paddle. From the cor­ ner of her eye she saw her friends. “I know,” she added, “I just know Christopher is alive. And he’s with Arthur. And they are going to Shores. I must see him.”

  “But now,” Mavis asked, “after you have become so accomplished in waiting, having already shunned three perfectly good young men simply dying to court you?” Brenna shook her head negatively, then worked her paddle a little faster. “I cannot see his face anymore in my mind. In dreams I see him, but when I awake he is gone. The longer I stay here, the farther away he gets. I realized that this morning. I must go to him.

  Now. And I need your help.”

  “This is madness,” Mavis said. “You’ll be riding into land now held by the Saxons.”

  “I don’t have to be alone,” Brenna suggested.

  “You want us to go with you?” Wynne asked incredulously.

  “If you wish. I would love your company.”

  “I won’t,” Mavis said, “and I won’t change my mind.” “At least help me acquire a horse, some riding bags,

  and provisions for the journey,” Brenna pleaded.

  Mavis threw her paddle into the trough and stepped away, putting her back to Brenna.

  Brenna released her paddle and regarded Mavis, who shook her head. Brenna didn’t have to see her friend’s face to know it was a mask of disbelief.

  “You need to speak to the abbot,” Mavis said. “Satan has taken over your mind.”

  Wynne shifted quickly to Brenna’s side and rested a hand on Brenna’s shoulder. “You don’t really want to go there, do you?”

  Brenna turned her gaze from Mavis to Wynne. “Yes.” Her answer was piercing, definite. Wynne backed away from her as if she were a girl with some illness. Brenna sighed, lowered her gaze to the ground, and pursed her lips.

  “You’re going to do this, even if we don’t help you. Is that it?” Wynne asked.

  Brenna nodded. It was true.

  Mavis spun around, and yes, disbelief stained her face. “A young woman traveling alone-into Saxon territory no less!”

  “If I cannot find someone to accompany me, then yes,” Brenna said. She had never been as sure about anything else in her entire life. It was a quest now, one she would clutch tightly to her breast.

  The beating of a farrier’s hammer on his anvil somewhere in the outer bailey distracted Mavis a moment, but then she answered, “After vespers, we will take you to see the abbot.”

  “I will be gone before then,” Brenna reported flatly.

  Wynne, looking about to cry, said, “Brenna, I’ll … I’ll go with you.”

  “No you will not!” Mavis shouted; it was an order, as Mavis had suddenly appointed herself in charge of Wynne’s life.

  “It’s my decision to make!” Wynne parried.

  “You don’t have to,” Brenna told Wynne, “just help me collect what I need.”

  “I’m going to the abbot now,” Mavis said, then marched off.

  When Mavis was out of earshot, Wynne assured Brenna, “She won’t go to him. She just doesn’t want you to leave. I, too, don’t want you to go.” Wynne embraced Brenna. “But if you do, I will be at your side-despite whatever happens.”

  Brenna held her friend, envisioning herself astride a galloping courser, riding bags bulging, the wind and sun at her back. Then she tried to see Christopher. Nothing but a blur. And the desperation to leave became even more real to her. She would not finish her chores, but begin to prepare for a swift departure.

  3

  The armies of King Arthur and Lord Woodward were on the last leg of their trek home to Shores. Filthy, hungry, wounded, and exhausted, the men could not wait for the pleasures the village and castle promised. Simple pleasures like a bath and hot meal, but dire necessities in their tattered state. They had but a few more hours to wait until those pleasures were theirs.

  Christopher shared the same pain and.needs as the rest of the men, combined with tremors of trepida­tion that rocked him as he rode.

  Staring absently at the rolling fields sparsely dotted with beech trees, he imagined his homecoming:

  Marigween would be standing in the outer bailey of the castle, a basket of fresh, sweet loaves hung under her arm, a shift flowing like ivory honey over her lithe frame. Her eyes would light on him, and a lance of adrenaline would impale his being as he dis­ mounted before her.

  For many moons his hands had touched rough things: the chapped leather reins guiding his horse; the unpolished hilts of swords, battle-axes, and lances; the uneven, pitted plates of armor; and the jagged surfaces of link-mail. Now he could reach up and caress something so tender that it would frighten him. Would he be able to touch her without shatter­ ing such perfection? Could his callused skin connect with the supple smoothness of hers?

  Yes. She would lean into his hand as he stroked her cheek, then drop her basket and embrace him.

  And suddenly a hand would slam down on Christopher’s shoulder and he would spin around and look into the eyes of …

  “Christopher?”

  He snapped out of the mental homecoming and turned to see Lord Woodward cantering behind him.

  “I’d like to have a word with you,” Woodward continued, then spurred his courser, putting himself at Christopher’s side.

  He knows! But how can he know! Doyle is the only one who knows! Did Woodward see us? If he believes M arigween and I are … then this it! He’s going to challenge me to a trial by arms. He’ll tell me that Marigween is his and that I deseroe to die!

  There was something caught in Christopher’s throat as he answered, and he knew it was his fear. “Yes, lord. How may I be of service?”

  “I wish to speak frankly with you, Christopher. And I demand your priv
acy. It’s hard for a man to admit … ” Woodward’s voice waxed melancholic.

  This is odd.

  “I assure you, lord. Your words will be kept in utter confidence.”

  Woodward stroked his horse’s neck as he spoke. “I have concluded that Marigween will never love me. It is true that the law states she must be my bride, but how are laws supposed to govern love? They cannot. Therefore, I’ve decided not to force Marigween to marry me. I’m sure her shunning of me is not news to you or the rest of the castle.”

  “I have heard Marigween express that opinion on more than one occasion,” he said.

  “I know that you and she are-” Christopher’s heart staggered.

  “-friends,” Woodward finished. “And that is why I have a favor to ask.”

  Oh, praise St. George! He doesn’t know!

  “What is it you request, lord?”

  “I know there is a young chambermaid in Gore who is the apple of your eye, Christopher. But-”

  “Lord,” Christopher interrupted, the conclusion in his mind startling him with irony, “you cannot be asking what I think you are … “

  Woodward looked at Christopher, the knight’s countenance full of resignation and sorrow. “I’m not asking you to court her, though I believe you would be as suitable a man for her as any.” Woodward reined his steed closer while reaching out and grab­ bing Christopher’s wrist. “Stay at Shores with me, and become my squire. And you could … watch out for Marigween. Become her protector. I am too busy for the job. She has no family-and someone must look after her. There are far too many men in my gar­rison with loins that ache for her.” Woodward released his wrist.

  Christopher thought about Woodward’s last remark, smiling inwardly. Yes, it would be easy to become Marigween’s protector, oh-so-easy to be around her all the time. And it would be grand to be home for good. The offer was brilliant, but if he took it, the deal would be sealed in deception, for once Woodward discovered he and Marigween had been courting all along, then … then … Christopher did not know what would happen. Better to refuse, and he had the perfect excuse.