Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  Merlin extended his arms to the heavens. His tabard billowed in the wind, and he looked powerful and sinister. Someone not privy to the conversation would think the druid evil … and mad.

  Come to think of it, I’m privy to the conversation, and Ithink he’s mad!

  “You must come with us, Christopher. You have no choice! It is matter so grave, so important, so meaningful to you, that if you were to miss it, why, your whole life would be … ” Merlin thought a moment, then: “Nothing!” Merlin moved in close to Christopher and grabbed him with long, gnarled fin­ gers by his shirt collar. His next came in a tone that evoked strange portents. “It is a matter of blood.”

  Still clutched by the druid, and feeling as awkward and cold and confused as ever, Christopher asked, “Where are we going?”

  Merlin released him and stepped back-so that he could wave his arms again for emphasis. “Well, we’re going to a place most fantastic. Hidden away from the cares of the world, it is a place few have seen a place where the power of the land is fully realized. We’re going to my cave!”

  A cave. Most fantastic? Christopher didn’t think so. It was probably cold and cluttered with coveys of sharp-toothed bats, and he was sure it reeked of mildew. And the nearest caves to Shores were at least three days’ ride away. What were they supposed to do there? Also, it would be a minimum of six days before his return. Would Doyle be alive that long?

  “He’s awake. Good.” Orvin’s voice came from behind, and Christopher craned his head to see his master round a tent comer and shuffle toward them. The old knight arrived, not completely out of breath, but nearly so. “What have you told him?” he asked Merlin, his voice honed with accusation.

  “Simply the where of our journey. That is all, fret­ ful knight.”

  Orvin had told Christopher that knowing Merlin was no pleasure of his, and that fact was now boldly illustrated before Christopher’s eyes. Yes, these men openly despised each other, but Orvin’s hatred was in the fore.

  “I hope you are not lying, as is your practice. Remember our covenant.” Orvin sneered at Merlin, but the look had no effect on the druid.

  It was fortunate for Merlin that Orvin was unarmed; Christopher would have to make sure to keep his weapons out of reach whenever these two were together. But what was it that Orvin said?

  “What covenant do you speak of, master?” Christopher asked.

  “You’re freezing. Get cleaned up and dressed. Pack your bags. We travel for three days. I’m going to fetch our mounts. We’ll meet here.” Orvin looked at Merlin. “If that is all right with you, oh great sooth­sayer.”

  “The petty details I leave to you,” Merlin answered. He spun and ambled off, then called back,

  “Remember, Orvin. If there is any problem, you know what to do.”

  Christopher watched Merlin shuffle by passing horses and men, then become obscured by the rest of the army. He looked to Orvin, and stiffened. He would get answers. Now. “Why are we going to Merlin’s cave?”

  Orvin sighed. “There is no time to discuss the whys of the world, young patron saint. Trust your master.” Christopher shook his head negatively, uncomfort­able with his sudden rebellion but holding his ground. It was the first time ever he refused Orvin. “No. Tell me why-otherwise I am not going. My friend most assuredly lies in a dungeon cell, and he will die if I do not help him. Now you ask me to go on a journey? To leave him? For what? For no rea­son! Unless the king is in on this as well? Has he asked you to take me away for some reason? How can you expect me to go without knowing why? How can you expect me to leave my friend to die?”

  “Curse that druid’s insight,” Orvin said, then stepped quickly toward Christopher, pulling some­ thing out of his pocket, something wrapped in a linen rag. He pushed it into Christopher face and the smell was horrible, worse than a dung pile as high as the curtain walls of Shores! Frantically, Christopher tried to pull Orvin’s hands away from his face, but as he inhaled through his nose, he felt himself become numb, weak, and he sensed his arms fall away from his face. Suddenly he felt very pleasant, very light, and the muscles in his legs and back were no longer contracted and supporting him. A cool wave of darkness rolled in, and there was nothing more to see or hear, smell, taste, or touch. There was only the void.

  He felt the up and down rhythm of a horse under him and detected the sound of its hooves clattering over a rocky road. He knew he was prone, but in exactly what position he couldn’t tell. He opened his eyes, but sunlight launched its painful arrows of light, and he shut them tightly, globes of whiteness flashing in the blackness within himself. He opened his eyes again, this time forcing them to stay open. He blinked repeatedly, then caught sight of the road, and the hooves and tail of the courser. It was his courser, car­rying him fifteen hands high above the ground.

  Christopher hoisted his head, then realized it was full of blood and throbbing with near-dizzying pain. He winced, then took a look ahead.

  Merlin cantered on a charcoal gray mule, his hair tossed gently by the canyon updrafts. Christopher saw that the reins of his courser were spindled around the aft peak of the druid’s saddle so that the druid could escort him down the narrow, winding road ahead. Winding was an understatement. The suicide path was a hair-raising, cliffside affair that promised at least a half dozen switchbacks.

  As he eyed the druid and the road, a shock wave broke free in an alcove of Christopher’s mind. The wave rattled with the news that he was not in Shores, far away from it, in fact. Days away.

  Then he remembered. Orvin had done this! How could he? And what was it that he had used to make Christopher sleep for so long? A potion of Merlin’s?

  He whipped his head right and saw Orvin atop a brown jenny behind him. “Orvin!” he shouted, his voice echoing sharply off the rock. He decided to hop off of the courser. He pulled his arms up, but found his wrists tied together with leather straps and bound to his boots. His pulse skipped a beat, then made up for it by leaping into a sprint as panic and despera­tion breached the walls of his heart.

  What’s going on? What are they doing to me? Are they impostors or something? Is this not my master behind me? Is this not the man I’ve grown to love and respect and honor? Has some incantation been cast over him by M erlin?

  “Orvin! What happened? Why did you make me sleep?” He realized the throbbing in his head was much worse, the beat of his own heart a menacing drum that clogged his ears. No matter what Orvin’s reply was, Christopher needed to be untied. He had to sit up.

  “You left me no choice,” Orvin said, lifting his voice above the hoofbeats of the mules and horse. “I was going to tell you on the field, but two things held me back. Fear. And a promise I had made.” Orvin had tried his best to comfort him, Christopher knew, and he must-he’d better-have a good reason for all the secrecy. But relief would only come when he was untied and delivered the truth.

  “I cannot stay like this! My head rages!” He hadn’t even mentioned the wolf of hunger that howled and tore bloody hunks out of his stomach.

  “Ho. We stop here.”

  Christopher watched as Merlin dismounted, then walked gingerly toward him. The old man jammed his sandal on a stone and nearly fell face forward, but caught himself at the last moment.

  “Foul road! Foul road!” the druid cried. Christopher sensed that Merlin’s ego was bruised, but that his foot was fine. The great wizard had looked ridiculous, how­ ever, Christopher was in too much pain even to grin.

  Merlin unstrapped him and helped him down from the horse. Christopher stood. The towering walls of the canyon swayed around him-or was he swaying? The road would not stay still; it, too, rolled like waves across the Cam.

  “How long have I been on this horse?” he asked Merlin.

  “Three days,” Merlin said matter-of-factly. “Three days!”

  “Not continuously, young man. We took you down.

  Watered your throat and kept you warm at night.”

  As the realm slowed and collected itself into th
e rock-solid place Christopher knew it was, he contem­ plated the news. Three days of his life had been taken away. Three days in which Doyle might have been killed. Three days that he could have done so much with. And these two old men, did they really know what they were doing? He could have died, strapped to his horse for that long! Didn’t they know that?

  And exactly where was he? Probably east of Shores, but that was all he could guess. Maybe that was the plan. He was not supposed to know the cave’s loca­tion. Perhaps Merlin feared he would tell others.

  ” “Now that you’re awake,” Merlin continued, “I sus­ pect you realize it’s much too late to run away. My cave is less than a quarter day’s ride from here. So you might as well come along now.”

  Orvin scuffled over the dusty rock to Christopher’s side. Christopher grabbed his mentor by the collar of his tabard. “Promise me something, Orvin. Promise me that when we get there you will explain everything.”

  A strange light, a light of knowing, filled Orvin’s eyes. “I may not have to.”

  Christopher ripped his hand off the tabard and sighed loudly for their benefit. “Damn the mystery! Damn the deception!”

  “If it is the truth you so desire, then let’s stop wag­ ging our tongues and ride,” Merlin said. He turned and walked back to his mule, this time carefully measuring his steps over the obstacle course of small stones.

  They rode in silence. After downing a small portion of overcooked pork, Christopher finished up his desper­ ately needed meal with a large cluster of wine grapes, plucking them from the small vine with his mouth. The grapes were ripe and sweet, unlike Christopher’s mood, which was sour through and through.

  I had better get the truth when we arrive! I had better get the truth-or I don’t know what I’ll do!

  He followed Merlin around a sharp bend in the road, careful not to look over the edge of the cliff. He’d made that mistake a few turns back. The sheer drop-off and the image of the river so tiny, so very far down below, clinched his throat and nearly made him drop his reins. From that moment on, he steered his courser close to the canyon wall, hugging it as tightly as possible without chafing the animal’s flank.

  Around the bend, the road became much wider, and a great mouth of stone yawned in the canyon wall. Before the cave entrance was the ring of stones of a well-made, heavily used hearth. As Merlin guided his mule around the hearth, Christopher turned his head to peer into the shadows of the cave.

  Out of those shadows came an angel. She wore a pale linen shift that flowed like ivory honey over her lithe frame. Her eyes lit on him, and a lance of adrenaline impaled his being. Without thinking, only reacting, he dismounted and ran toward her, calling, “Marigween !”

  She was a dream. A dream made real.

  12

  Men dealt with torture in different ways. Some took it in silent defiance. Others held conversa­tions with themselves that were diversions from the suffering. Others had no pride at all, fell to their knees, then appealed for mercy.

  Seaver had little tolerance for the prideless ones; those he gutted with extreme repulsion. The talkers were a rung braver than the silent ones. He usually let them live for a while, then rewarded their semicourage with a merciful death as they slept. The men he held in highest esteem, the men he feared most, were the prisoners of reticence. These were men who would flinch and bleed and tremble, yet remain silent. There was something unsettling about a man who took his punish­ment without protest. It was as if he had some deep, dark, powerful secret buried in a place that only he and the gods knew about. Perhaps in death, he would dig up this power and unleash it on his oppressor.

  Seaver stood with Kenric in the middle of Darrick’s cell. The poorly lit room was now a grotesque melange of dirt, sweat, and blood. Seaver and Kenric looked as if they, too, had been tortured, but it was only Darrick’s vital fluid that stained their · livery. When Kenric had broken the fat mangonel operator’s nose, a piece of the soft bone had burst through the skin and a fine, warm mist of blood had showered the two Saxons. After Darrick had fallen, Kenric had used the heel of his heavy riding boot to drive the fat man’s eyes into his skull.

  Darrick had taken his death in silent defiance.

  Kenric had demanded the names of the other traitors for the past three days, a relentless period of questioning that had evoked a black passion in Seaver’s leader. Seaver had seen the anger in his lord as it had festered, the way the veins at his temples had bulged and pulsed. Finally, Kenric had snapped.

  Darrick had not even cursed his slayer, had not even defended himself. He had died as Cuthbert must have, without a struggle.

  But Seaver knew Darrick was no young oaf. The man had had a plan, and now he might have his revenge. With the names of the traitors still unknown, they all still posed a threat to Seaver’s life. They could move unfettered throughout the castle and close in on Seaver until it was too late. Darrick must have known that. He must have reasoned that it was better for him to die, for he would get his revenge. To live and give up the names would only mean he would not die alone. And so, in death, he had vengeance to gain.

  “Lord. I am here as ordered.” The deep, resound­ ing voice came over Seaver’s shoulder.

  Seaver whirled to see Renfred standing on the other side of the iron bars.

  Why don’t you cut your hair, Renfred? It’s so long and brown and straight. You look like a tavern wench. Do you accidentally sit on that hair when you mount your horse? And what is that loop of sil­ver I see dangling from your ear? The tip of an an/ace could catch that nicely and take off your lobe with it! You appear to spend more time plucking the hairs between your eyebrows than you do honing your skills as a lieutenant. But, that mistake of yours has already cost you. Look upon this scene with fear. You are next if you do not obey!

  “I had hoped it would not come to this,” Kenric said. “I cannot understand it. Darrick had always been loyal. Why did his loyalty wane? Do you know, Renfred?”

  Good, lord. Make this coward sweat.

  Renfred frowned. Seaver hated the look. If Renfred had smiled, Seaver would have hated that, too. “I insist, lord, that this man acted entirely on his own. I had nothing to do with him, or the others. He received no direction from me.”

  Kenric waved a hand. “Come in here, Renfred. The door is open.”

  With distinct trepidation, Renfred clenched his fists at his hips and slowly stepped into the cell. When he crossed in front of Seaver, Seaver acciden­ tally smelled the man; the perfumelike odor wafting from the lieutenant made him want to gag. Renfred reeked of that soap many of the men had found in the chambers of the Celt nobles.

  As he pulled at his nostrils, trying to stifle the odor, a question regarding Renfred’s last statement occurred to Seaver. “Lord,” Seaver began, “how is it that Renfred knows there were others involved? Darrick’s imprison­ ment is well-known by now, but only you, the chief guard, and I knew there were other conspirators.”

  Kenric turned his head to Renfred, then raised his brow in a query of his own. He took a threatening step toward Renfred. Seaver did likewise.

  Hemmed in by the walls of the cell, the bars behind him and the two encroaching men, Renfred could do little more than tremble. And that delighted Seaver. He noted the way Renfred kept swallowing, wringing his shaking hands, and shifting his weight back and forth between legs.

  “Answer the question,” Kenric ordered curtly. “They c-came to me. They w-w-wanted my sup­port. I told them n-n-no.”

  Shake, you dog! Rattle in fear!

  “Did you?” Kenric asked, prying for the truth.

  “Y-Yes, lord. I know why you chose Seaver to second you. His scouting and then his leadership during the siege of this castle was remarkable. Many despise him because of his stature. But I admire him. I aspire to be a leader such as he.”

  Seaver tried to read under Renfred’s words. He knew the Saxon lieutenant would say anything to get out of being killed. But Seaver had to admit that the surface meaning of the
words was most pleasant. It was grand to listen to the tall, lean, strong man speak so humbly. But was any of it true?

  Does he really aspire to be like me? I don’t know. The fact is, if I’m murdered, and Renfred is not involved, then Kenric will logically choose him to succeed me. Blame the murder on a few rogues and Renfred gets his command neat and clean. That could be his plan. Deny he’s involved, and have me murdered just the same.

  But why warn me? If Renfred is that thirsty for power, why did he send Darrick to issue me an ulti­matum? The only reason I can think of is that Renfred, or whoever is behind this, has a conscience. Why kill me when I might just step down out of fear? But they underestimated my courage.

  Seaver could conjecture all he liked, but it was to no avail. Renfred’s fate was not in his hands. Kenric would have to decide. He could only pray to Woden that his master would make the right decision.

  Kenric buttoned his lips and scratched an itch behind his ear. He squinted into a thought, then took a deep breath. “I · don’t know what to believe, Renfred. Let’s begin again. Who came to you with the idea of taking away Seaver’s command?”

  “I said ‘they,’ but it was Darrick. He told me he represented many. He didn’t tell me who they were.”

  “Then it is conceivable that Darrick plotted alone, is it not?”

  Renfred beamed with the notion. “Yes. Yes, it is.” “Lord,” Seaver interjected, “there are those who have served with me whose respect I have earned. But you must know there are many whose envy and whose prejudices dictate their actions. I believe Darrick did represent others.”

  “What you believe and what I believe are not nec­ essarily the truth,” Kenric said. “Therein lies our dilemma. We do not know anything, and all we have”-he leveled his steely gaze on Renfred-“is your word to go on.”

  Seaver thought a moment, then said, “I do not wish my life resting on assumptions, lord. I suggest we give the traitors the opportunity to come forward, with the promise they will only be banished and not killed. Meanwhile, I suggest that Renfred be kept under guard in his chamber. It may not be his fault that some have acted on their own-if they have­ but the fact that he is involved makes it a necessary precaution.”