Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  Christopher picked off a hunk of meat from the breast of the leveret, then another. He took a bite and began chewing as he crossed to the blanket and sat with a loud clanking of his leg armor. He swallowed the meat and took another bite, chewing without thinking, just doing it quickly like a hard-driven horse after a day’s ride. One of the lieutenants thrust a tankard of cider toward Christopher, and he took it without looking up and sucked down a heavy gulp of the warm liquid. He knew he ate as loudly and quickly as Sir Orvin, but he did not care. His belly screamed for more.

  “He’s famished,” the lieutenant said to his cohorts. “Now tell me, young man, before you go running off to the king, which I know is where you’re headed now, why did you risk your life for some peasant archer?”

  Christopher stopped chewing and set down his tankard. “He’s no peasant. His father is Lord Heath, Uryens’s steward. And he is one of the best archers in the Vaward Battle. He is also my friend. We became blood brothers.”

  The murmuring of the men fell off into the crack­ ling of the cookfire flames.

  ‘‘I’m sorry, Christopher,” Woodward said. “They captured him, did they not?”

  Christopher nodded. “Cudgeled him, then took him prisoner.”

  “There is not much information they can get out of him. But you’re aware of what they’ll do. He’s lost now, Christopher.”

  Christopher lowered his. head, gritted his teeth, and felt the pain of tears build in his eyes. “No. He is not lost.”

  “Look! Look who it is!“The shout came from an archer squatting before a cookfire adjacent to Woodward’s. The boy added, “Why I thought he was … “

  Christopher tilted his head up, and through a bil­ lowing cloud of cookfire smoke there emerged a familiar, endearing face. Sir Orvin. The old man’s breeches and linen shirt were wrinkled and dirty, but the tabard he sported was new, and it fanned out at his ankles as he walked. Swatting men out of his way,

  Orvin cleared a path for himselfthat led to Christopher.

  Never had Orvin arrived at a more-opportune moment. Christopher felt dark and heavy-hearted over his fallen home and fallen friend. And he had yet to discover what had happened to Marigween, and the confirmation of her death lay like some predatory creature inside, waiting to strike his vulnerable heart. At last there was Orvin’s wonderful shoulder to lean on, his wise mind from which to seek guidance. He had left Orvin behind and had gone into battle once before, only to return many moons later brimming with questions and· a heart as weighty as a mangonel stone.

  Nothing had changed. He felt the same now, all the emotions and all the questions built into a single force that lifted Christopher and drove him past Woodward and the lieutenants, out onto the shore­ line, and toward the old man.

  They met, and Christopher said nothing, only took the old man into his arms and embraced him, burying his head into Orvin’s shoulder, feeling the coarse wool of the tabard on his cheek. He began to weep, for there was so much to weep over.

  “The young patron saint cries as we all should in this bleak hour,” Orvin said solemnly.

  Remembering where he was-among his peers­ Christopher broke the embrace and fought for con­trol of his grief. Breathing deeply, wiping away his tears, he took a long, hard look at Orvin. The man looked no worse for wear. Once you were old, Christopher figured, how could you get any older? What did another wrinkle mean among many? What did another white hair mean among the gray? It was gratifying to see that Orvin had not changed. He was the only thing about Shores that had remained con­ stant.

  “What happened? How did you-”

  Orvin put a finger over Christopher’s lips. “I’ve come here with … Merlin,” he said, uttering the name of the king’s druid-advisor as if it were anath­ ema. “He feeds Arthur his meal of misinformation as we speak. And while the king is busy, you and I have much to talk about.” The old man considered their surroundings. “But not here.”

  “You know Merlin?” Christopher asked, impressed.

  “It is no pleasure of mine. Now come.” Orvin turned and started off down the riverside.

  Christopher jostled his way through milling sol­ diers, squires, and the like, back to Woodward’s cookfire. He told the knight he would finish their conversation later, that he must speak with Sir Orvin. Woodward nodded, but before Christopher could dart off, the knight reminded him of his offer to become his squire and to protect Marigween; that was if they found the orphaned princess alive once they breached the castle’s walls. Christopher replied as he had before, saying the offer was tempting, but that Arthur would probably not cut him loose. Woodward said he would see about that.

  Once he caught up to Orvin, Christopher walked north with the old man along the Cam. The river reflected the moon and splayed a copper-and-tin light across their path. They came upon a place of relative quiet that struck Christopher as familiar. He let his gaze play over the muddy soil to where small clumps of low-lying weeds grew and meshed into the wall of reeds. Among the weeds he spotted a dirty, tom, lump. He moved closer to the lump and saw it was an old woolen blanket, probably abandoned many moons ago. He leaned down and picked up the blanket with his index finger and thumb, then shook it out.

  Images of the past shimmered and woke in Christopher’s mind. He was on the same shoreline with Doyle’s brother Baines, watching the squire unwrap a stolen broadsword from a woolen blanket that protected it. And here now in Christopher’s hand was a piece of his past, the very same blanket that protected the sword. The blanket had been aban­ doned, but the sword was at this moment sheathed and fastened to Christopher’s mount.

  “What rubbish is that?” Orvin asked.

  “Baines and I came here once. He showed me the broadsword he’d stolen from your son. He hid the sword here, wrapped it in this blanket.”

  “Memories. They’re a wonderfully disquieting thing,” Orvin said. “The boy who was once here has become a man. A true servant. But he has yet to face his greatest challenge. And I know not if he’s ready.”

  Christopher dropped the blanket. “Tell me what you mean.”

  Orvin stepped slowly to the water’s edge. “Perhaps you are not ready yet. Perhaps this old wag has opened his trap one too many times. Then again, maybe it is none of my business at all. Who am I to be directing the young patron saint’s life? If I am directing it, then what am I? Nothing more than a silly druid staining the future land with blood?” He turned his eyes up to the blue-black heavens. “What am I, dear God? What is it I am supposed to do?”

  Christopher was taken aback by Orvin’s conduct. Never had he seen his mentor as troubled, as … dis­tracted. What was it that drove Orvin to tum to God for answers? For a moment, Christopher was glad he was not Orvin, for a least he had someone in the flesh to tum to for help. Orvin could only rely on God-a much greater force than any man, yes, but a much more mysterious one. Faith in God required great patience, and Christopher had only a small pouch of that to expend. He believed in God. But he did not have time to wait for miracles; he wanted to help them along.

  “What’s wrong, Orvin? What is it?” he asked.

  Orvin’s gaze left the sky and lowered to the the water. But Orvin didn’t seem to be looking at the water; he stared into depths of nothingness. “You fought bravely as a boy when your village was attacked. You saved yourself. And you came to me as the skies foretold. And there was something. Something undeniably special about you, Christopher. My son saw it right away. It took me time, but then I, too, knew you would grow up to become an extraor­ dinary man. Your life thus far has been full of chal­ lenges, all of which you have met head-on and conquered. Now, I simply cannot understand why God has impeded you so? What is it he wants from you? And what can I do to help you?”

  Christopher crossed over the mud and reached Orvin. He draped an arm around the old man’s back. “My life is not that terrible, Orvin. Yes, my parents were taken away, along with my home. But time heals the wounds as you’ve said, yes? Shores will not be in the h
ands of the Saxons for long. I’ve seen a new light in Arthur’s eyes, a new calm. It excites me.” Christopher swallowed as thoughts of Doyle let themselves into his mind. “The greatest pain I feel right now is for Doyle, who threw himself to the enemy. Somehow, I must get inside the keep and free him, along with the rest of the nobles who may be held prisoner.”

  Orvin turned his head and leveled his soft, gray eyes on him. “A noble quest, young patron saint. But is it also sparked by another desire?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you suspect young Marigween is behind those walls?”

  Orvin knows. But how could I hide my relationship with Marigween from him? He probably saw it in a cloud, or in a fork of lightning! He may be hurt that I never told him. But I knew what he would say: “Young patron saint, you embark on a path of evil, one from which there is no turning back.” But I’m not perfect, and it felt so perfect. What was I to do? Doyle admires me for it. But I know Orvin does not. Brenna is safe and waiting for me at Gore. But Marigween … if she’s alive, she needs my help. It’s too late to consider whether courting Marigween was right or wrong. I must act. Admitting it to Orvin will not make a difference; admitting I was wrong to keep it from him will.

  “There are no secrets I can keep from you, Orvin, though I have tried. I should have told you about Marigween. I was wrong. And I’m sorry.” Christopher could not meet his mentor’s gaze.

  “I have told you this before, but it seems you have yet to heed my words. Do not let love blind you-as it always does. You looked too deeply into Marigween’s eyes. Your love for her destroyed your balance of mind and heart. You’ve. run wild for too long. It is time to come home now, home to yourself, to the responsibilities of being a man, of loving like a man.”

  The silhouettes of a pair of archers appeared on the shoreline ahead. “Who goes there?” one of them shouted.

  “Arthur’s squire Christopher. And Sir Orvin of

  Shores,” Christopher called back.

  “As long as you’re not Saxons,” one of them said with a weak chuckle; then he and his partner turned and vanished back into the reeds.

  The interruption reminded Christopher of an earlier question he had posed to the old knight. “Orvin, you have yet to tell me what happened to you when the Saxons came. Where did you go? What did you do?”

  Orvin reached around his torso and fingered the small of his spine. “My back grows weary. I wish there was a clean place to sit down, but this tabard is borrowed, and I’ve no scrubboard to clean it before its return.”

  “Your back does not hurt that badly. You avoid the question.” Christopher was not usually this curt with his master. Was it the moons on the battlefield that had taught him directness? Indeed, there was no time for coy banter with a spatha-swinging Saxon gal­ loping toward you. He came. He died. No conversation. Except once. And any talk between Christopher and the other knights and squires was, for the most part, clipped. It was simply his environment.

  “What do you know of my pain-boy?” Orvin retorted with a snort. “Do you possess the power to climb inside my body and experience my misery? I think not.”

  Christopher bit his lip. He wished he could pull his words back out of the air and swallow them. “I’m sorry. My manners are as rusted as old armor. It seems I have been left too long in the rain.”

  Orvin ambled away from the water and moved through a gap in the reeds wide enough to meet his girth. It seemed to Christopher that he did not care if the squire followed him or not. But Christopher did, and Orvin said nothing as he fought his way clumsily through the dew-slick reeds, alive with the buzzing and snapping of insects. A frog turned a gear in its throat and let out a short triplet of calls. Christopher was not comfortable with all of the noise he and Orvin made as they struggled to break free of the tall grasses and emerge onto the flat, open field. The nerves of the perimeter guards were pulled taut. Christopher could have been shot when first return­ ing from the castle, and could have been shot while talking with Orvin on the shoreline. He prayed that if they were heard, the guard would call out before he nocked his arrow and let it fly. Most did. But all it would take was one bowman bent on a kill.

  Orvin broke free onto the field with a deep sigh. Christopher followed, then paused to brush himself free of mud and pull a few blades of grass that were caught in the creases of his greaves and poleyns. That done, he surveyed the scene. The smoke from the continuously burning cookfires obscured a large por­tion of the sky to the west. On the other side of the field lay the thin forest that bordered the castle’s tourney ground. At the moment, there were more Saxons in that wood than squirrels, and though they were a mere two hundred yards away, none of those enemy soldiers would dare attack. They were defend­ ers, and Christopher knew they would obey their orders.

  A plow lay not far from where they stood, its long main beam an inviting bench that Orvin did not let go unwarmed. He hastened to the farm tool and moaned softly as he took the weight off his feet. The warped wood creaked, then settled. “Ah, the little pleasures of life are often found in the strangest of places … “

  Christopher joined Orvin, but he did not sit down, for fear that the plow might not hold the both of them. A night zephyr picked the hair off his forehead and raked it back. Christopher turned into the breeze and inhaled deeply. He smelled home, the gorse, the humus, the faraway tanning of leather. Then a remembrance impaled him; he cocked his head toward Orvin. “I’m supposed to report to the king! Surely Woodward will tell him I’ve returned, and I wager he is looking for me!”

  “I thought feeling more comfortable would make what I have to say more comfortable, Christopher. But as I sit here and ponder that, I see it will not. Go to the king, then.”

  “What is it-”

  “Never mind, saint. Go. The king waits for no one.” “All right. Sorry, Orvin. We’ll talk later, yes?” Orvin nodded, a sad wave washing over his leathery face.

  What’s the matter, old friend, dear mentor? Why the mystery? What do you have to tell me?

  Christopher turned and rushed away, striding along the path where reeds met field, searching for the right spot to cut through and find the king’s tent. Orvin’s long face and somber tone were obviously part of some heavy burden he shouldered, and that burden somehow involved Christopher. With each step, Christopher tried to guess what cross it was that Orvin carried, but it could be anything. To guess any­ more would drive him insane. He elbowed into the reeds and saddled his mind with new thoughts of what he would say to the king.

  7

  Brenna clutched her heart as she watched the young, lanky monk slide the stable door closed. She gazed a second at Wynne, who trembled, and tears flowed freely from her eyes. Brenna brought her index finger to her lips, and though Wynne understood, it seemed compliance would be a difficult task for her. Wynne’s fear looked as if it would burst from the young chambermaid’s lips.

  The monk stepped into the moonlight a moment. He had the hood of his robe down on his shoulders, and Brenna was afforded a view of his thick beard and pale, gaunt cheeks. He looked like an amicable fellow who might not give them any trouble. After all, he was a monk. But, she reasoned, it would be best if he did not discover them.

  The monk opened the door on one of the horse stalls, and Brenna watched as he stroked a pale gray rounsey that neighed softly and somewhat content­ edly. “Why do you not sleep? You must get your rest. I know your leg hurts, but the poultice will help. Let’s have a look at it.” The monk leaned down out of view;

  There. He’s just checking on his wounded horse.

  Nothing to worry about.

  Wynne let out a soft whimper. Brenna whipped her head around and glared at her friend.

  The monk came out of the stall and stared up in their direction. Thankfully, the angle obscured them from his view, but Brenna pushed herself slowly back anyway-and knocked over her uncorked flagon, its contents spilling onto the floorboards of the loft and seeping through the cracks. The cider dripped
from the bottom of the loft and fell some twenty feet to the earth floor. Brenna didn’t look, but she expected that the monk was investigating the sound.

  The monk said nothing. He did not call out. And that frightened Brenna even more. He moved, and she knew he was nearing the dripping cider. What he would do next, she could not even guess. Another look at Wynne proved to be a mistake. Her friend’s watery eyes, shiv­ ering frame, and fidgeting fingers served to further agi­tate Brenna. She had been the leader, the confident one. Now she was scared out of her wits with no one to assure her it would be all right. And Wynne must think her a fool. But did that matter now? Could they really talk their way out of trespassing?

  She heard the monk mount the stairs, and his climb was deliberately slow. Yes, he was probably as frightened as they were. A confrontation was inevitable. Would it be better if she called out to him? Allay his fears and possibly her own?

  “Friar, we are two maids who sought rest here!” Brenna blurted out.

  He appeared at the top of the staircase, a hasty weapon-a pitchfork-held in his hands.

  Wynne took one look at the monk brandishing the sharp, steel fork and burst up, bolting forward toward the edge of the loft.

  Brenna knew what her friend was about to do and screamed, “No!”

  But in a frenzy, Wynne leapt from the loft and plummeted toward the earthen floor.

  Brenna scrambled to the edge of the loft as she heard Wynne shriek and hit the ground with a brutal thump. She looked down.

  Wynne lay on her side near the center of a puddle of moonlight. She did not move. Brenna could not tell if she was breathing. “Wynne!”

  “Dear, Lord,” the monk said, dropping his pitch­ fork. He turned and raced down the staircase as Brenna rose and hurried to follow.

  Wynne was still not moving when they got to her. Brenna fell to her knees and turned her friend’s head toward her. “Wynne, wake up! Wake up!”