Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  “My lord, I doubt King Arthur would release me from his service. Not to boast, but I believe he values my services. And until he settles into a fortress of his own, I will travel with him.”

  “Messenger! From the south! Ho! A messenger!” one of the banner bearers spearheading Arthur’s army shouted.

  Woodward diverted his attention to a Ione, gallop-ing horsemen tearing up the field as he bounced toward the army. Christopher craned his head and observed the same, sensing that something was not right.

  The rider was a messenger from one of the scout­ ing parties leading the army. Frequently the messen­ gers would appear with reports on sudden changes in the landscape ahead, but most often they blew the all clear horn and returned with haste to their brothers­ in-arms ahead.

  “Trouble?” Christopher asked, his tone betraying his concern.

  Woodward snapped his reins. “Let’s find out.” Christopher and Woodward galloped ahead to join

  Arthur and Lancelot.

  There was a feeling inside of Christopher, in the pit of his stomach, not unlike the one he had felt when the news had arrived moons ago that Arthur’s army was surrounded on the Mendip Hills. He tried to comfort himself. It was probably nothing. Perhaps a river had overflowed its banks and the army would have to divert around it. Yes, that was it. A simple change in course that might delay their arrival in Shores until nightfall.

  Why am I always fixating on doom? Why must it always be bad news? Why am I forever looking at the dark side of things? Come now, Christopher, it’s nothing! The messenger’s report will be so routine that it will be boring!

  Christopher and Woodward reached Arthur’s side. Christopher studied the messenger; he could not be more than twenty, his beard thin, his face the color of freshly cut oak. When he spoke, his words poured out quickly, emphatically. “Your Majesty, I bring grievous news!”

  Christopher’s stomach dropped farther, widened to an infinite void, and his mind whirled and spun and leapt to a million premature conclusions. What could have happened? Were the scouts attacked? The prob­ lem, whatever it was, lay ahead, and that could only mean …

  “The village of Shores has been pillaged and burned,” the messenger continued. “The castle walls were breached by Saxons, and they now occupy it. We fled before we could get an estimate of their numbers.”

  Arthur shot a worried look to Lancelot, who gritted his teeth, spat on the ground, then raged aloud. The king craned his neck farther to glimpse Christopher.

  Not able to contain his pain, Christopher averted his gaze and rubbed away the fresh tears forming in his eyes. He was embarrassed, but the terribly unex­pected news was simply too great a weight to bear after all he had been through. Memories of the day he and Baines had ridden into Shores and found it burn­ ing and under attack struck as bolts of lightning in his mind. Vivid pictures of carnage, of the deaths of his mother and father flashed between the darkness, evoking those very same feelings of complete pain, of complete loss. And the feeling of being totally alone in the world returned. Would it be Marigween’s charred body he would find now? How could the future be so unfair?

  “Christopher,” Arthur said, “you weep for your home. But you will not weep long. If there is any group of soldiers who can answer a challenge like this, it is these men.”

  Christopher lifted his head. He swallowed, sniffled, then bit his lower lip. “Yes, my lord. We will drive them out.”

  Arthur returned his gaze to the messenger. “Where are the rest of the scouts?”

  The messenger’s face became more despondent. “Fallen prey to one of their border patrols. I suspect I am the only one still alive.”

  “My liege, if I may,” Woodward interrupted. Arthur nodded.

  “It appears we’ve been hoodwinked. In my opin­ ion, the goal of that Saxon Lord Kenric was to occupy my castle. The armies he amassed on the hills were simply a diversion to draw us away.”

  “Blast these foul brigands!” Lancelot shouted. ‘‘I’m going to skewer many a head in the days to come!’’

  “That is only conjecture,” Arthur told Woodward, “but if it is true, then where were these castle-robbing Saxons hiding? Our scouts searched the territories from here to Brent Knoll and found nothing.”

  “I do not know,” Woodward answered. “But there are the Quantock Hills.”

  “To camp an army in that wasteland would be mad,” Arthur said. Then he tugged on his beard, as he was wont to do while thinking. After a moment, he added, “But, indeed, the Saxons are mad. We may have been checked … but we have not been mated yet!”

  By this time, the rest of Arthur’s battle lords had joined the king,· forming a circle of mounted men. Christopher watched as Arthur rattled off orders to his knights. He instructed them to break the news gently to the soldiers and peasant levy, and he assured them they weren’t going to attack until fresh provisions were procured from the neighboring vil­lage of Falls, providing it had not been attacked. If so, then they would tum to the abbey at Queen’s Camel. The monks would not be able to provide enough supplies for both armies, but any help would be better than none. Siege machines would have to be secured, and those they might be able to borrow from Lord Nolan at the castle of Rain. If not, they would have to transport them from Uryens’s castle in Gore. It would take nearly a moon to move the trebuchets, mangonels, and ballistas that far.

  All the while Arthur spoke to his battle lords, Christopher could not help noticing the calm in the king’s voice. Arthur was a changed man. Christopher remembered how the king had reacted to the news of being surrounded by the Saxons; he had been a Jost soul, about to fall down and surrender. But now, in a time when Christopher himself felt ready to concede defeat, the king blazed with determination and a self­ assuredness that was infectious. Christopher felt his spirits slowly rise as Arthur spoke, and the doubt began to ebb.

  Christopher detected the clatter of hooves over his shoulder and cocked his head to steal a look.

  The scaled armor of the galloping rider identified him as an archer. The man charged out of the Vaward Battle group toward the south, whipping his steed’s flank with the palm of his hand.

  It seemed the rumors of Shores’s fall had tom very quickly through the ranks of the army, and now someone opted to take on the enemy single-handedly, perhaps over a loved one. Christopher squinted to get a better look at the rider’s face, the late day sun dic­ ing the image with blinding white light. For a second he caught sight of the man. “Doyle,” he whispered aloud.

  Arthur broke free from his battle plan, his eyes wide over the sight of the mad rider. “Someone stop that archer!”

  “I will!” Christopher shouted, then reined his courser out of the group and heeled the strong horse in pursuit of Doyle.

  4

  Brenna and Wynne borrowed two rounseys from a hostler who fell easily under their charm. Though Brenna had imagined herself astride a mighty courser, the rounsey would do. It was not the time to be picky.

  With their hastily packed riding bags weighted down with provisions, and their hearts beating a cadence of excitement in their chests, they rode out of the castle of Gore’s outer bailey and into the cool shadows of the gatehouse. They were questioned by the sentries in the fore towers, but easily managed to pass with a story about a delivery of fresh linens to the inn as a favor to Lady Griselda, the reeve’s wife. The sentries smiled flirtatiously and let them go.

  Brenna was not comfortable with lying, but it was a necessary evil if she was to see Christopher.

  Once out in the open country below the castle, Wynne drew in a deep breath and said excitedly, “I cannot believe we’re doing this!”

  “Well, we are!” Brenna answered. “I wish I could see the look on Evelina’s face when she finds the note on her bed.” Brenna’s grin was wide and magical.

  “What did you tell her?” “Oh, nothing but the truth.” “You didn’t … “

  “Oh, yes,” Brenna said loftily. “Wynne and I have gone on a journey
to Shores. We are not sure when we will be back, but when we do know, we might send word by carrier pigeon. But then again, we might not!”

  “You didn’t say that,” Wynne argued.

  “I should have,” Brenna said with a chuckle.

  “What about your parents?” Wynne asked. “I …didn’t even say good-bye to mine. Iknew Icouldn’t.” That reminder evoked a shiver of pain in Brenna.

  She tried to blanket the feeling, make herself and her friend feel better. “Don’t worry about them. We’ll be back home so quickly they’ll have scarcely missed us.”

  Brenna pictured the face of her father upon receiv­ing the news from Evelina. He would become red as a beet, and the sweat on his head would start to boil off into vapor.

  I can’t think about this! I have to ride!

  They cantered on for a silent moment, and soon they were each eyeing the landscape with a newfound wonder, a newfound freedom, forgetting about the problems behind them. Then Brenna suggested they kick into a gallop.

  With the wind rushing through their hair, and the hooves of the rounseys thumping rhythmically on the soft, sun-withered grass, they arrowed toward the town of Glastonbury.

  Joy was a flame inside Brenna’s body that caused beads of sweat to dapple her forehead and upper lip. Her perspiration was also attributable to the summer sun and hard ride, but Brenna considered it solely due to anticipation. She could feel the certainty of her reunion with Christopher. And the joy of know­ ing burned hotter inside.

  She took the lead while Wynne followed. This was,after all, her adventure. She had suggested all of it and had dragged Wynne along. Well, not dragged. Wynne had chosen to come of her own free will, and Brenna was more than thankful for the company. But the burden of being responsible for Wynne was there. It was a minor weight, one she could easily shoulder, but if anything should happen to Wynne, Brenna did not know if she could forgive herself.

  She purged all the doubt and misgivings from her mind and rode on, concentrating on the slowly changing countryside.

  Ahead, a line of four ox-driven carts reached the crest of a small slope. As Brenna and Wynne drew closer, Brenna saw that the lead cart was driven by a pot-bellied farmer, the others by three boys who were undoubtedly his sons, all pale-skinned with flaxen hair. They had a delivery of vegetables and fruit for the castle. Brenna slowed her horse to a canter and Wynne did likewise. In a few moments, they were upon the caravan. The strong aroma of the basketed harvest awakened a pang in her stomach. She and Wynne nodded to the farmer, then moved on to the three sons. The oldest was their age, each after him a year or so younger. Brenna felt their gazes on her, and she turned away shyly.

  “Ho!” the oldest boy yelled as his cart moved behind them.

  Brenna turned around and the boy threw a bright red apple. Brenna thrust out her hand and, at the very last second, caught the apple, a slight sting rip­pling through the skin on her palm.

  The boy smiled.

  Brenna turned away and felt her cheeks flush.

  Wynne coaxed her horse next to Brenna’s. “I believe he likes you, Brenna,” she said teasingly.

  “Here,” Brenna said, handing her the apple. “But it’s yours.”

  “I don’t know why, but by eating this apple, I feel as if I’m making a pledge to that boy. And we both know that is not possible.”

  “You are an odd one,” Wynne announced.

  “If we’re to reach Glastonbury by nightfall, we’d better make haste.” With that, Brenna drove the heels of her sandals into her rounsey’s side.

  She had never been to the town of Glastonbury, but her mother had told her about it. When they had left the castle of Shores and had moved to Uryens’s castle at Gore, they had considered stopping at Glastonbury to rest, but Brenna’s father had not allowed it. He had been too afraid of a Saxon attack and had pushed the family like a mad dog to Gore.

  Under the dying remnants of an orange-and-mauve sky, Brenna gazed upon the town from their perch on a hillock. She thought the hillock might be Windmill Hill, a sacred place of prayer used by the monks of the abbey below, but she could not be sure.

  Thatched-roof houses were the common structures, save for the church and the abbey house which were, of course, made of stone. Flickering candlelight painted rectangular dots of color on a scene that could not be more peaceful. They heard a dog howl in the distance, shattering the restful quiet. But silent order fell once again.

  Brenna sniffed. The grass was already damp with dew in spots, and the thick scent was not pleasant to her nostrils. “Come on,” she urged Wynne. “Enough admiring the view.”

  Wynne hesitated. “Between us we’ve only six deniers. I doubt we can afford to stay at the inn-if there is one.” “That abbey must have a barn. We’ll find it and sleep in the loft,” Brenna said, the notion having brewed in her mind from the moment they had crested the hillock.

  “What if we’re caught?” Wynne asked.

  “Then our necks will be warming the gallows tree ropes,” Brenna said with mock seriousness.

  Wynne’s jaw fell slack.

  Brenna tsked . “Come now, I jest. If we are caught, we will use our smiles and our wits and talk our­ selves out of punishment or fine or anything else.”

  “What if we cannot do that?” Wynne challenged.

  “It is either that or we sleep out her, vulnerable to anyone or anything that might crawl along.” Brenna knew her last was adequate persuasion.

  “All right then,” Wynne said with lukewarm agree- ment. “Let’s ride down.”

  “After you.” Brenna gestured with her hand. “No, I think you should lead.”

  Brenna complied, smiling over her friend’s indeli­ ble uneasiness.

  They descended the slope for the dark, still avenues of the town.

  Brenna did not know what her bravery was born of, but she did enjoy flaunting it in front of her friend. She felt very powerful, able to take on the realm in a single breath. She had finally, for the first time in her life, acted upon one of her desires. For too many moons she had longed for things that had never come, put her hopes and dreams into things that had never sat­ isfied. All of her life she had relied on other people for her happiness. She knew being with Christopher would make her content; now she had acted upon that wish and would fulfill it. The sheer fact that she had acted at all made her feel wonderful. And brave. Ah, yes, her bravery was conceived of her ability to seize control of her life. To finally stand up for something she believed in. She was ready to fight for what she wanted-and if anyone stood in the way of her goal, she would cut them down and push them aside. She hadn’t taken the anlace, sheathed and strapped to her side, for nothing.

  Upon reaching the first road, they dismounted and towed their horses by the reins. Brenna had never seen a path such as this; it was similar to the wall­ walks of a castle, but different. Stones were set into the road, turning its surface into a fairly even sheet of solid rock. The shoes of their rounseys click-clacked off the stones, and Brenna prayed that no one would come out of their house to investigate. But as it was, the noise was apparently common, and they were not accosted. They rounded a corner and found them­ selves on a street that paralleled the great stone abbey. Yes, there it was: a wide two-story building standing behind the abbey. Indeed, the abbey barn.

  Brenna’s rounsey neighed softly. She reasoned the animal caught the smell of the fresh hay, carried on the night breeze from the barn. “Quiet. You’ll be fed soon enough,” she told the beast in a stage whisper.

  “I don’t like this,” Wynne said.

  Brenna glanced over her shoulder and saw her friend spying every window, doorway, crack, and crevice of the buildings around them, apprehension twisted around her like an angry vine. “What are you saying?” Brenna asked. “It’s perfect. Our horses will be fed, our minds and bodies will be rested. And we’ll be gone before the hostlers even open the doors to the barn.”

  Wynne began a rebuttal, but stifled it.

  “You see? Y
ou cannot argue,” Brenna said.

  The full moon broke free from its grapple with a cloud and cast a pale, silvery hue over the two sliding doors of the abbey barn. Brenna exploited the sudden light and found a leather tie that bound the doors together at their thin, iron handles. She untied the leather strap and slowly slid the right-hand door open. The wooden rollers were well waxed and the timbers moved effortlessly and silently.

  As many as a dozen occupied stalls lined the rear of the barn, a surprising number. Brenna guessed that the monks and their abbot must do a lot of trav­eling, for even the abbey at Gore, a much larger town, had a barn that housed only four steeds. The horses in the stalls began to shift nervously. Brenna reacted, pulling her rounsey inside, then waving Wynne to do the same. Brenna slid the door closed and the horses began to quiet.

  A single shaft of moonlight beamed in from a lone loft window on the right side of the barn. Navigating in the gloom, they tethered their rounseys to the sup­ port poles of a wall, fetched and mounded piles of hay before the steeds, then unfastened their riding bags. They looked for a ladder to get up to the loft and, to their good fortune, discovered a sturdy stair­ case constructed against a sidewall of the building. The abbot of Glastonbury, like most abbots, spared no expense-even in his barn.

  Brenna sat down, falling back onto a pile of hay below a wall of stacks. She stretched her arms out­ ward and felt the stiffness in her shoulders give way. The hay scratched her neck and the backs of her ears, but that didn’t matter. It was great a relief to take the weight off of her body.

  “I am a weary traveler,” she announced to Wynne. “I am a weary traveler’s even more weary companion,” Wynne said with a giggle.