by Peter Telep
“Feeling safer now?” Brenna asked.
Wynne was seated and nudged her way closer over the timbers, one of them groaning loudly in objection. She stopped, and Brenna heard the sounds of Wynne’s breathing cease.
“Do you think someone-”
“No,” Brenna said. “Now we have to eat and then sleep; otherwise, we won’t be strong enough for the morrow. And we cannot do either of those things if you’re to worry all night.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just- “
“I know. Neither of us has ever done this before. But that doesn’t matter. We have to grow up some time, and it might as well be now.”
Brenna sat up, pulled her riding bag closer, unbuckled the flap, and threw it open. She withdrew a flagon of cider, twisted out the cork, then took a long pull on it. The warm liquid slid down her throat and reached the dark, empty cave that was her stom ach, flooding it delightfully. She pulled the flagon from her lips and proffered it to Wynne, who accepted it heartily. Brenna reached back into the rid ing bag and wrapped her hand around a bundle of pork ribs, salted and wrapped in linen. She hoped Wynne wouldn’t finish the ale, for the meat would summon up her thirst all over again. As she unwrapped the meat, she heard one of the barn doors begin to slide open.
Wynne gasped.
5
Standing on the wall-walk of the northeastern tower of the castle, Seaver gazed down upon the murmuring forest. He was crestfallen, guilt having pierced his armor and gone on to his heart. In the air of victory, he had been too busy to feel any grief, any loss. But days had passed, and the consequences of battle had settled in, like a tankard of hemlock juice, a horrid poison.
He shouldn’t feel miserable. He shouldn’t. Why, he was Lord Kenric’s second-in-command now! He was a man of tall responsibilities, looked up to for direction, perhaps even admired. Why should he care about some young scout, some young, clumsy buffoon?
But Cuthbert had tried. The boy had tried very hard to please, to be accepted. But at both, he had tried too hard.
Was his death my fault? M aybe I did not train him well enough. …
When the boy’s body was brought in on the back of a flatbed, Seaver could hardly believe what had happened. How could Cuthbert let himself be killed so easily? It seemed he had never defended himself.
Perhaps it was my fault!
Seaver remembered feeling embarrassed for the boy. It was a dishonor to be slaughtered in such a way: without, apparently, putting up a fight. At the time, Seaver had focused on his censure of the boy’s actions; Cuthbert’s inability to stay alive. Now the time had come for grief, for guilt, and these feelings would haunt him for many moons, he knew.
What was the music on the breeze? Seaver did not know. It was a whistling sound through the parapets that he read as a dirge. Or maybe it did sweep up from the great hall, the newly indentured musicians exhaling into their odd instruments and banging on their drums. Why had he come here at all? With preparations already made to defend the castle against the encroachment of the Celt armies, there was little left to do but wait for their attack. He should have retired to his chamber, or perhaps learned to play that game that enchanted Kenric so much, the game called chess. Yes, he should learn to play, and per chance recruit Ware, teach that callow scout to play as well.
What am I thinking about? What’s wrong with me?
Seaver was tired, but he could not sleep. He was hungry, but he could not eat. He was thirsty, but he could not drink. He had to do something, but he did not know what.
Leather soles padded over stone, and though the noise was barely discernible, Seaver’s honed senses picked it out among the din of insects and night creatures. He whirled around.
“Halt!” a Saxon sentry on the other side of the tower shouted, brandishing his pike.
“It is only I, Darrick.”
“Very well,” the sentry said, then was swallowed back into the shadows.
Darrick stood before Seaver. The man was partially eclipsed in darkness, the veins on his brawny arms bulging and covered with a fine layer of dirt. His hands bore the distinctive calluses of a mangonel operator, and he reached up with a stubby finger to scratch a bit of dust out of one cold, dark eye.
“What is it?” Seaver asked, irked by the intrusion.
Darrick opened his mouth, revealing a pair of gaps in his lower teeth that made him look as if he’d been defanged. Seaver knew the man’s temperament, and determined that yes, the fangs had once been there. “I come here representing at least twoscore men who disagree with Kenric’s decision making you second in-command. We will no longer hold our tongues.” His tone was low, the words breathy, the threat clear. Seaver took a step back from the man, his hand going instinctively to the hilt of his dagger, at home belted around his thigh. “I’m overjoyed you’ve told me this. First, I shall bleed the names out of you, then round up the traitors and bathe them in Greek fire-you along with them!”
Darrick flipped a grin of defiance, then raised an index finger. “Pay no heed to your threats or your dagger, but to what I say. I wasn’t sent here to kill you. We supported Manton, and feel that Renfred deserves his command. For more than a score of moons did Renfred serve under Manton, and what reward does he get? He gets to see a dwarf assume his rightful role as second-in-command.”
“I am not a dwarf!” Seaver screamed. “My body is of normal proportion as you can plainly see. I am simply shorter than most men. But that hasn’t stopped me-has it?” The question was rhetorical, and Seaver added quickly, “Why do you take this up with me? Why not go to Kenric?”
“We already have,” Darrick said. “He seems cer tain you are the best man for the job. Ha! A runt such as yourself.” Darrick continued to chuckle, a sound that would send dogs running.
“I suppose it’s quite easy for Renfred to relax in his chamber while you’re up here doing his bidding for him and the rest of his supporters. I wonder why he does not confront me himself with his lust for my command. Or is he the runt?”
Darrick glowered and took a step toward Seaver, restoring the distance between the two. Then he took another step. Seaver could feel the man’s hot breath on his cheeks when he spoke. “Renfred is a greater man than both of us. He respects Kenric’s wishes and will not argue with him. But in this, I tell you, Kenric is wrong. We’ll go above Kenric if nec essary.”
“And what will make that necessary?” Seaver asked.
“Your refusal to willingly step down,” Darrick said. “All you have to do is resign and recommend Renfred for your command.”
“And if I don’t?” Seaver asked, already knowing the answer to the question, but wanting to hear it come out of Darrick’s mouth to be certain.
“If you don’t, I promise you, you will die.”
Another figure appeared behind Darrick. The figure stepped forward, and the moonlight picked him out as Ware. “We’ve caught a Celt, my lord,” he said. “An archer who charged the gatehouse. Kenric wants you to question him.”
“I’ll be down immediately,” Seaver replied.
Ware nodded, spun on his heel, then whisked away.
Seaver regarded Darrick, shaking his head with disdain. Then he turned his head in the direction of the sentry. “Guard. Come.”
The young man marched over, his leather and armor rattling along the way. “Yes, sir?”
“Take this man into custody. We are all going to the dungeon.”
Darrick shot Seaver a black look, but said nothing. The guard led Darrick at pike point along the wall walk, with Seaver trailing close behind.
Darrick craned his head, then smirked over his shoulder at Seaver. “My imprisonment is your answer to them. And they will kill you.”
“Guard? Shut his mouth,” Seaver ordered tersely.
The man relished the liberty Seaver gave him. With his free hand balled into a fist, he hammered it into Darrick’s mouth. One quick punch, and the fat man gonel operator’s lips were split.
“Are you going to sp
eak again?” the guard asked Darrick.
“You dog! You’ve drawn my blood!” Darrick’s steps became staggered. He turned toward the guard and raised a hand.
The guard delivered another punch into Darrick’s mouth. This time there was a crunch. Darrick nearly choked, then spat a wad of bloody phlegm mixed with a long-rooted tooth into his palm.
“You’d best be silent,” Seaver warned Darrick, “for you cannot afford to lose any more teeth … “
They shuffled under the archway that led to the tower’s staircase, then mounted the stairs and began their circular ascent.
6
Christopher lay in the damp brush opposite the northeast curtain wall of the castle. Three hours prior he had watched the Saxons pull Doyle from his mount, strip him of his armor and weapons, then cudgel him mercilessly. The gatehouse sentries had taken turns with their clubs while Christopher had looked upon the scene feeling helpless and horrified.
He had trembled with the desire to aid his friend, but to do so would have meant being captured along with Doyle.
There was nothing I could’ve done. I have to keep telling myself that.
While waiting for night to cloak his retreat, Christopher questioned Doyle’s actions. Why had his friend charged the castle alone? It was beyond reckless, beyond foolish. It was senseless and altogether unexplainable. What did he hope to gain? What could he have possibly been thinking?
Or maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly at all. His senses could have been numb. Christopher had rarely seen that flagon leave Doyle’s side, and Doyle was quick to refill it when the brew ran out. Numb with ale, Doyle had probably decided to charge the castle. But the reason still remained a puzzle. A sui cide run? Was Doyle so distraught over his prob lems that he had finally given up all hope? Christopher had not detected this from their conversations, though they had in past days carefully avoided speaking of Innis and Leslie. Maybe Doyle’s guilt had smothered his hope. He could have decided that he didn’t deserve to live after killing Innis and Leslie. Maybe he didn’t have the strength to kill himself and wanted to leave the task up to the Saxons.
But Christopher knew the Saxons wouldn’t kill Doyle. Christopher had served in a Saxon army and he knew all too well what happened to archers who were taken prisoner … .
He looked down at the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, touched them with the fingers of his left, then shivered at the thought of having them hacked off.
A scuffling of leaves and shifting of branches brought Christopher around on his belly. He drew his dagger and held his breath. Shadows. Silhouettes of trees and limbs and brambles and bushes. It was hard to distinguish a man’s form amid the confusion of the forest. He squinted against the night and stared until it burned in the direction of the sound.
Then the figure came into view, hunkered down, sword drawn. The figure prowled forward.
His anxiety stoked, options sprang into Christopher’s mind. He could call out. But in what language? Saxon? If it was a Saxon out there, then he would be taken for a friend. But if it was a Celt, then he would be mistaken for an enemy. If he called out in Celt, he would be playing the same fifty-fifty odds, and he was not much of a gambler.
Christopher decided that calling out was not an option after all. He would have to flee, hopefully undetected by whoever it was, or get close enough to identify the figure. If the man was a Celt, they would flee together, if he was a Saxon, Christopher might have to kill him.
Better to flee undetected and not have to kill. Gingerly, he lifted himself to his hands and knees, pushed his knees forward, then got to his feet, careful to keep himself as low as possible; he stooped over like an old man.
But then Christopher saw the figure charge, a black demon with a liquid ebony blade raised high over its featureless head.
Christopher sprang right, but the figure altered its course and came at him. He was close enough to the figure now to distinguish the man’s livery: that of a Saxon perimeter guard.
“You fool! It’s me!” Christopher shouted to the man in Saxon as he darted behind a beech tree. Furtively, he peered out from behind the trunk.
The guard broke off his advance and stood poised, shifting his head, searching for Christopher. “Farman? Is that you?” ·
“You would have killed me!” Christopher said, feigning his anger.
The Saxon took several steps closer toward Christopher-too many, Christopher reasoned, so he shot off.
He should have removed the rest of his armor before tethering his horse to the boundary of the forest and threading in toward the perimeter. But as it was, he still wore his hauberk, greaves, poleyns, and heavy riding boots; they were enough to announce his every move to the Saxon and burden his every step.
Christopher ignored the weight and rustle of the armor and dodged around columns of oak and beech. Sleeping larks and pipits in patches of nearby briar were rudely awakened; they fanned out from their nests in chirping clouds, leaving a rush of air in their wake. Christopher stumbled into a bush and fell for ward onto his chest. His leg armor protected him from the thorny limbs of the bush, and his link mail-covered arms were only soiled with dirt. He felt the impact echo through his body as he scrabbled with his hands to right himself, pushed up, then resumed his run.
So strong was the notion of getting back to his horse that Christopher barely felt the thump on the back of his head. Had he turned around to look, he would have seen the Saxon guard’s dagger lying use less on the forest floor behind him, its hilt end having hit Christopher’s head.
An owl hooted, heralding Christopher’s arrival at the edge of the forest. His courser was not there. This was not his original point of entry. He gazed north, then south, and in the distance saw the wag ging tail of his grazing horse some hundred yards away.
Behind him, in the forest, he heard: “You’ll not escape, Celt! By the blood of my father I will kill you!” The Saxon guard’s voice carried with it a fervor and intensity that chilled Christopher to his bones, and inspired his feet to move. He knew his escape would be a great insult to the guard. The man would report the incident to his superiors and receive, atthe least, a gauntlet in the face, and at the most, a dagger in the heart. Most Saxons were fiercely loyal and uncompromisingly honest.
Christopher quickly untied the reins of his courser from the trunk of a wide oak. He slipped his left leg into a stirrup, then swung himself onto the horse. He wheeled the steed around just as the Saxon sprinted up, swinging his sword.
“Dismount and fight, yellow swine!” the guard screamed, then charged toward him.
Christopher’s courser reared, nearly throwing him out of the saddle. He struggled for control and gained it, bringing the animal down and tugging him right as the Saxon came in for the kill. Christopher’s mount slammed into the man and knocked him onto his back, though he held fast to the blade in his grip. Christopher spurred forward, leaving the stunned guard behind him.
As he brought his steed to full gallop, he heard a screaming cry behind him: “You’ll not die this night, Celt! But on another, I promise!”
The shrill voice faded into the din of his horse’s hooves and the drone of the wind.
Christopher did not realize how hungry he was until he drew near the camp the two armies had estab lished along the River Cam. The tall reeds that extended from the bemired shores into the surrounding fields made for ideal cover, and though Christopher could smell the meat roasting over cookfires, he saw no trace of the glowing flames as he dismounted.
“Halt!” The voice shot through the night.
“Hold!” Christopher shouted back. He couldn’t see the guards through the reeds, but he knew their cross bows were windlassed, loaded with bolts, and aimed at him. He raised an open palm. “It is I, Christopher, the king’s squire!”
A tall man bearing a crossbow slipped from behind a cluster of reeds. “Only a dolt or a Saxon would approach without announcing himself,” the bowman said.
Christopher let o
ut a deep sigh. “An error I apologize for. I’ve just come from the castle, and from a small fray with a Saxon guard. My thoughts are still jumbled.”
The bowman’s gawk was exactly what Christopher wanted to see. The man was either impressed with the fact that Christopher had returned alive from an enemy-occupied castle, or he thought Christopher was twice a fool for being there in the first place.
In either case, the bowman let him pass with a slack-jawed nod, then called after: “You’re to report to the king’s tent at once. So say my orders to tell you.”
Christopher gazed over his shoulder. “I will.”
He walked his horse down a narrow path freshly cut through the reeds that opened up into a broad portion of shoreline where a long row of tents was being pitched. The smell of the meat was dizzying now, and Christopher viewed a young boar revolving on a spit over a raging cookfire. He needed to fill his belly before he reported to Arthur’s tent, where the king would fill his ears with questions.
Moving through the team of peasant levy tent pitchers, Christopher found a groom and turned his horse over to the lean, weary-looking man. Weaving through several infantry and cavalrymen ambling to their tents or returning to the fires for more food, Christopher spotted Lord Woodward seated on a woolskin with a pair of his lieutenants. The banner knight tore away on a juicy, sweet, roasted leg of a leveret. Christopher’s mouth watered at the sight.
Woodward looked up, and his brow lifted. “Christopher.” He stood, navigated around the seated men, then placed his free hand on Christopher’s mail covered shoulder. “We feared the worst. Why did you choose to go after that mad archer?”
Staring at the remains of the leveret, sitting on a carving board atop a traveling trunk, Christopher said, “If I may share in your catch, I will tell you.”
“Of course, of course, come, sit down. This’ll be our last great feast for a while. I suspect the wood will be hunted out in several days, and who knows how long it’ll be before fresh provisions arrive.” Woodward gestured toward an empty place on a woolen blanket laid out before the fire. “Fetch your self something and sit down.”