Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  “Done,” Kenric said, not even thinking about it. That was what Seaver liked about Kenric. No hesita­tion. No indecision. When he heard a good plan, it was implemented. Period.

  “I am deeply sorry about this,” Renfred told Kenric, lowering his head. “My honor and my name have been defiled. That is already punishment enough.”

  Kenric answered in earnest, stealing a last look at Darrick’s gore-laden corpse. “I hope I do not have to kill you, too.”

  The passageway to Seaver’s chamber was a dark stretch of stone intestine, lit by only two torches, one at each end. There were no windows allowing entry of the warmth and light of the afternoon sun. It was one of only two halls in the entire keep so con­ structed. Save for the dungeon, it felt like the darkest place on earth. Seaver and Kenric had chosen such chambers for protection. Centrally located on the top floor, they were seemingly Celt-proof, or at the least provided ample time for escape if the Celts were to reach the perimeter windows. The depressing gloom was unavoidable.

  The sound of his footsteps was too loud. He wished they had been able to save some of the tapestries that had once hung in these halls and had muffled the noise. Flame-happy infantrymen had put their torches to the dry, colorful fabrics, and all that remained of them were their long, scorched hanging poles.

  He reached his chamber door and pushed it in, expecting to find Ware waiting for him. He had ordered the scout to meet him, for he would now serve as Seaver’s personal guard until the conspiracy was over.

  Blackness clogged the room. A small wedge of light from the hallway pyramided across the floor, but left the corners of the chamber in gloom.

  The feeling was small, a whisper somewhere within Seaver. Then, like a beast whose young were in dan­ ger, the feeling abruptly roared.

  He was not alone.

  Seaver craned his head just as someone came from behind and shoved him into the room and slammed the door shut.

  A thin puddle of light leaked under the door, and though it was meager, it was enough to cause a shadow. And as Seaver turned around while backing away, he saw and heard the shadow lunge.

  Seaver dived right, knowing his poster bed could not be far off. He crashed into the bed pole near the trunk at the foot of the bed, elbows and shoulders impacting on the wood-and-iron column. He repressed a groan. He rolled and looked up, rubbing the heat of pain from his arms onto his thighs. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, he saw the silhouette of the attacker and was able to pick out the daggers the per­ son clutched in each hand. The assassin sniffed, shifted his head right, then left, as though all senses save for sight probed for Seaver. There was nothing distinguishable about the traitor’s clothing; it must have been dyed in a deep hue.

  Seaver knew he would not make it across the room to the comer where he stowed his weapons. He was on this side of the chamber and would have to find something, anything to defend himself with. A vision of the recent past came to him, and he silently cursed his wandering mind for summoning it up. It was the most trivial of things, and he could not understand why he had thought about it. He had a stack of wool­ skins inside the trunk that needed to be dyed. It was a notion he had had back on the Quantock Hills, for he could not wear the light-colored, though exceed­ ingly warm garments at night. An enemy would spot him easily. Yet dye was a commodity the Saxons had little of, using it up as quickly as they plundered it. The Celts knew how to make dye; the Saxons had yet to discover the method. Then it dawned on him. He had set two large pitchers of black dye on top of the trunk and had ordered one of the Celt maids to take his woolskins out to be dyed. The other Saxon lieutenants were quick to confiscate and use the dye, and Seaver had reserved his two pitchers by taking them to his room. If the maid hadn’t dyed the skins yet, the pitchers would still be there. He reached over. His hand was met by smooth, hard clay.

  “I’m right here, traitor. If you dare to come.” Seaver gripped the handle of the dye-filled vessel.

  The assassin came slowly, furtively, his footsteps almost undetectable, his silhouette vague, though enough to betray him.

  Seaver heard him breathing, hard and heavy, and knew the man’s heart must be rumbling in his chest­ as Seaver’s was. He thought about stone. He thought about himself as stone, stiffening every muscle in his body. He took in a very long breath and held it.

  The traitor was only a yard away. He cocked his head and kept himself erect. He would not expect an attack from below. The assassin turned right, display­ ing his profile to Seaver.

  Now / move!

  Homs of advance resounded in Seaver’s mind. He lifted the pitcher from the trunk, thrust it up toward the assassin, then jerked it back.

  No, the assassin did not expect an attack from the floor, nor did he expect to be doused with the cold, slimy mire that was the dye..As the liquid cloud fell over the man, he cried sharply in surprise. ·

  Seaver would not wait around for another reaction from the traitor. He sprang to his feet, dodged around the man, then scrambled toward the line of light that marked the entrance door. His hand found the latch and he yanked the wooden barrier open.

  Something tore hard across his shoulders, and a warm, tingling sensation quickly followed it. He stag­ gered into the hall and turned to see Ware rounding the comer at the other end. Then he whirled around to view the assassin, whose face was completely masked in the black dye. ·

  Dousing the traitor had bought him the moment to escape, but now there was no way to identify him.

  Seaver shouted to Ware, but he didn’t have to. The scout, upon seeing the black, knife-wielding assassin, broke into a sprint down the passageway.

  The traitor looked at Ware, then back at Seaver. The movement of the man’s eyes was highlighted by the dye, the white of those globes the only color on an otherwise swarthy face. He repeated the action, and Seaver knew the man’s mind ticked with deci­sion. He had yet to lunge, and Seaver continued to back away from him in Ware’s direction. If he was going to make a move, he would do it now.

  The assassin turned and darted off toward the opposite end of the hall.

  “I’ll get him, lord!” Ware yelled as he neared Seaver.

  “No. Let him go,” Seaver said. “I need help.” And then he felt himself hit the floor and his gaze focused on the long wooden support beams that crisscrossed the ceiling. The back of his shirt was warm and damp; he’d been cut. He shivered as he wondered how deep the traitor’s blade had sunk.

  Ware hunkered down, then stared at him, his eyes bulging, his face riddled with deep concern.

  “Don’t look at me,” Seaver said weakly. “Fetch the doctor.”

  “I won’t leave you!” Ware countered. “Then I might die. Go.”

  Clearly, Ware was tom. And the young man had a point. The assassin could return-but that was not likely. It was better that Seaver be left momentarily alone. The risk had to be taken. And it was good that Ware reasoned that out, stood, then jogged off, yelling for help.

  Seaver closed his eyes and listened to himself breathe.

  13

  Brenna knew that by now, Wynne whim­pered like a child. That was always how her friend reacted to bad news. The abbot would have told her she was staying at the abbey until she healed, and then would be taken by Friar Peter, a scribe of the abbey, back to Gore. Peter had business with the abbot in Gore, and it would be no trouble at all for him to escort Wynne.

  Though she knew she had hurt one of her best friends in the world, Brenna did not let her guilt put an end to her journey. She knew what she did was selfish, but it was time she did something for herself, instead of always tending to the needs of others. And besides, she had already agreed that it was too dangerous and too great a burden to take Wynne any farther. Her conscience would not allow it. Then why was she second-guessing every move she made? Was it because she had never done anything like this before, never acted so quickly and rashly? That had to be part of it. She felt as if all of it was a fever, and she sweltered with the desire to go on, to see Chri
stopher, no matter what the cost.

  Even the dense fog that now shawled the land and lurked at her rounsey’s hooves would not stop her. A few hours after she had left the abbey, a ter­rific rainstorm had pelted Glastonbury and the sur­rounding farms, and the rain continued to track at her heels. She continued evading it, and had retreated into a roiling mist. The path paralleling the farmlands toward the Cam was gone, replaced by a gray, vaporous wall. The occasional oak, beech, or fruit tree came into view only at a few yards’ distance. She would have to pay close atten­tion, to mindfully steer her horse. This part of the journey was supposed to be routine; now it proved anything but.

  A chuckle sounded in the distance. Did it come from in front of her or behind? Another laugh. And then a deeper voice shushing the giggler. She strained to see into the fog, but the effort afforded her noth­ ing. People were out there. Were they watching her? Following her? Who were they? What did they want? Though reckless, Brenna snapped her reins and heeled her rounsey out of its trot into a canter. Her face moistened with sweat. The nerve-racking, hollow cries came from everywhere and nowhere.

  More shushing. Then the bellow of a wolf that was not a wolf came from somewhere in the fog. If terroriz­ing her was their goal, then they had already attained it. A row of wheat that shouldered the narrow dirt path sprouted out of the mist. The field to her left lay harvested, but the opposite one was untouched. It was from there that the voices must have come. Surely, they hid in the wheat, watching her through the thin, golden stalks with eyes fixed, hearts intent on causing her harm. They were going to kill her.

  Whoever they were, they were going to kill her.

  Stop it, Brenna! Don’t think like that! They could

  just be farm boys having a bit of fun, jesting with me. Yes, that’s who they are. They’re boys as sweet and kind-looking and generous as the ones Wynne and I passed while riding to Glastonbury. M aybe one of them will offer me an apple as well!

  Think.about it Brenna. They giggle. They howl. It’s not what they’re going to give you. It’s what they’re going to take!

  M aybe they won’t bother me at all. If I ride away quickly enough, maybe they will leave me alone.

  Thought turned to reflex, and Brenna snapped her reins again then drove her heels into the rounsey. She reached to her side and drew her anlace from its sheath.

  They smashed through the wheat, two of them, young brigands not much older than herself. Then another one popped up from behind a plowed ditch on the harvested field. Shocking her rounsey with cackles and blocking the horse’s path, the highway­ boys caused the animal to neigh in protest and rear. Brenna slid backward out of her saddle, felt her san­dals leave the stirrups, and then was falling backward in the air. Her dagger slipped from her grip.

  She felt the wind blast out of her lungs as the sud­ den vibrating jolt of the earth tore through her. She had tried to put her hands back to break her fall, but somehow they had missed the ground. Her only for­ tune was that the path was soft; had it been dry for a few days, it would not have been as forgiving, and her rump would truly be burning with pain. Presently, her posterior stung mildly and her vision was blurred: everything gray and unfocused. She was aware of movement around her. And sounds. The continuous cackling and chortling. Much too close to her. She lay on her back a moment, fearful even to breathe.

  Seconds passed, and finally she reasoned she had to move. Brenna sat up, then moaned softly. She felt the mud caked onto the back of her head and kirtle, then looked down at her fingers; they were covered in the muck. She leaned forward and felt as if a bed­ making pole was jammed up her spine, one she would be forced to live with for the rest of her life. As she oriented herself, she thought of her rounsey, and the provisions in her riding bags; those were what the boys were surely after.

  Three of the youthful robbers were at her mount, one holding the reins and calming the horse, the other two rummaging wildly through the bags. There was nothing distinct about the three. They were a seemingly natural part of the landscape, mirroring its saturated filth perfectly. She had been taught not to judge people, but in this case, the boys were as they appeared: the lowest form of rabble in the realm.

  With a noisy stomping of feet through the wheat, a fourth brigand broke into view, using one of his thick arms to clear a path for himself through the stalks. He stepped onto the path.

  Brenna could not bridle the shiver that quaked through her head and neck as she took in the garish, ugly splendor of the fat, middle-aged man. He wore silver and gold rings on each of his fingers-including his thumbs, and the rings bore the flickering colors of many gemstones. His hair was dark and as greased as a cart axle, the long, flat mane kept in check by a head band as bejeweled as his rings. His shirt, Brenna knew, was of the finest linen, but its days of purity were moons gone. His breeches were expensive as well, but one of the legs was stained a deep crimson from either blood or wine. His eyes wore the luster of a king, his walk as lofty and ceremonious.

  He approached Brenna, reached up past his mus­ tache, and stuck a fat finger very unkinglike into one of his nostrils. Still picking his nose, he spoke, the words ringing oddly, suggesting he was not from Britain but somewhere very far off. “Well, what do we have here? A young lass who has fallen from her horse. Allow me to assist you, dear.” The thief took the finger out of his nose and proffered that very same hand to help Brenna to her feet.

  Brenna grimaced, then refused his aid with a quick, short shake of her head. She pitched her body forward, pushed herself up onto one of her knees, then stood. A large chunk of mud clung to her kirtle where her knee had driven it into the ground. She shook the kirtle and the chunk fell off, leaving a deep stain in its wake. She had never felt so dirty and scared. She tried to channel her fear into a preoccupa­tion with her clothes, examining them, brushing her­ self off, trying to purge her body of the filth. If there were only a way she could purge herself of the men.

  She knew he watched her. She felt his gaze touch her, and wished she had something to hide behind. She continued to wipe herself off, reaching down to her sandals. She checked the ground for her dagger, but it was gone. She straightened.

  They’re not going to go away, Brenna. You cannot clean yourself up forever … and you have no weapon. ‘Tm Montague, lass. And those are my three trav­ eling companions.” He gestured with his head toward the boys plundering Brenna’s riding bags. “I’ll let themselves make their own introductions, if they so desire.”

  “Please, don’t hurt me,” Brenna said, cursing her­ self for the way the words had come out, making her seem absolutely helpless and frail. It was true she felt that way, but she didn’t have to let him know it. Her courage wasn’t completely gone; it just lurked behind a tall fence of fright. She summoned it out repeat­ edly, but it shied away. It was just a matter of time. Hopefully it would not be too long before she could unleash the strength she knew she possessed.

  “My poor lass. I apologize if we’ve frightened you. It’s been a very slow day, you understand, and what with this rain and fog, there haven’t been any travel­ ers out on the road. Your business must be very important for you to venture out in weather as dis­ agreeable as this.” The-headband on Montague’s fore­ head lifted as he crinkled his brow.

  What business is it of yours where I’m going, foul man! You just leave me alone before I . . .

  Her courage stood on the top of the fence that pris­oned it in her mind. But it wouldn’t leap over. “Just take what you want. But leave me my horse.”

  Montague edged closer to her; his every shift for­ ward, no matter how slight, made Brenna flinch and worm in retreat. Harnessing a tone of command, he said, “You haven’t answered my question.”

  ‘‘I’m heading east,” she reluctantly confessed, drop­ ping her gaze to Montague’s slightly bowed legs, then farther to his mud-covered riding boots that must have belonged to a knight. A now unfortunate knight. “East,” Montague said, not believing it. “To the Cam?” The fat king of t
he brigands was nonplussed. “Why, the armies of Arthur and Woodward are holed up there. Don’t you know that the castle of Shores has been sieged by Saxons?” Brenna nodded.

  “Poor lassie, you’re riding into a battlefield!”

  Brenna looked away from Montague and spied his three accomplices hungrily chewing on some of the food given to her by the monks at Glastonbury: boiled chicken, assorted fruits, three flagons of spiced cider, and a loaf of sweet bread. The boys chugged the cider and chomped on the chicken, leav­ ing the fruit and bread untouched.

  Montague must have noticed her looking at his boys, for he shouted to them. “Save some for your master, greedy lads!”

  The boys continued eating; one of them, the tallest, nodded, a drumstick held to his mouth. He was the only one who acknowledged Montague.

  “Ah, they are getting more unruly by the day,” he added with a small measure of disgust.

  She resumed gazing at him and, ignoring the urge to swallow, asked, “What are you going to do? I said you could have my provisions. Just give me my roun­sey and let me go. I won’t mention this to anyone.”

  “Oh, I wish that I could do that, but it’s for your own good that you spend some time with old Montague.” Without warning, he moved in quickly and draped his arm over her shoulders. Brenna did not breathe through her nose, for fear Montague smelled as bad as he looked. He continued, “We cannot have you riding into the middle of a castle siege now, can we?”

  ‘‘I’ll be safe-if you’ll just let me go.” She was emphatic, but he shook his head against it as she fin­ ished the sentence.

  Ironically, as Brenna concentrated on not getting a whiff of him, he commented on her odor. “Lass, you do smell heavenly. It has been too long for me. Much too long.” He shot a look to his apprentices. “They can have all the food. But they cannot have you.”