Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  Brenna whirled to get out of his grip, her thoughts locked onto running, onto escape; but Montague was surprisingly swift in his reaction. She spun out of his arm, but he managed to grab the collar of her kirtle, and, as Brenna pulled, she found herself being choked. Montague exploited her delay and tugged her in as he came from behind her, then slid his arm around her neck in a deft, practiced motion. He dropped the hand clenching the kirtle and wrapped it around her waist. Then she felt him bury his hairy face into the side of her neck, his coarse hairs scratch­ ing her. She felt something wet and realized it was his mouth on her skin. He let out a soft moan, the mating call of some awful beast. Brenna fought against his grip, pushed herself forward, kicked and connected with his legs. But he was too massive, too strong. She wouldn’t give up. She fought on, straining each mus­ cle in her tiny frame. She tried to lean down and bite him, but the arm around her neck tightened and she felt an agonizing weight on her throat.

  He is just too strong! He is! Don’t give up! Don’t give up! I can’t break free! I can’t!

  Do you know what he’s going to do to you? But he’s holding me so tight!

  Break free, Brenna. Try! Try! Try!

  And she tried. But his grip held. And his tongue, a wet, slithering, probing snake, found her earlobe. And the others rushed over and chuckled and spat at her and told her they would have a festival once night fell. They said she would not need her clothes.

  From the tree to which she was strapped, Brenna looked upon her surroundings. The fog had slunk away into the caverns and dark hiding places of the earth, had laved the land to a rich luster, then burnished the heavens to a shimmering ebony. An air of quietude and peace filled the shallow valley. She looked over at the five horses which stood tethered to a pair of oaks, then let herself drift into the country­ side. She ran the short distance to the horses, vaulted onto her rounsey, wheeled around, and escaped.

  Brenna pulled on her wrists, ready to mimic the waking dream, but the leather that bound them was a rough, tight reality.

  The breeze was cool-uncomfortably so consider­ ing there was nothing shielding her body from it. She stood exposed, bound on the tree, her nipples hard, legs pressed together, crotch held firm against the horrors to come. They had stripped her, tied her, and now waited. For what?

  The brigands had argued who would set the cook­ fire and it had taken them almost an hour to do so. They had offered her some bread they had warmed over the flames, but she had refused. Her stomach was as knotted as the thong that constrained her.

  Leaving his boys encircling the fire, Montague rose with a flagon in his hand and lumbered toward her. She was far enough away from the fire to be in shadow, and she was thankful for that. There was no more shame in the world than being seen nude. Montague had told the boys to remove her clothes­ and when she began to shed tears, he had ordered them not to stare at her. One of the boys had gagged upon seeing the whiteness of her skin, and another had mentioned something about how true it was about the body being ugly. Montague, on the other hand, had eyed her with a lust that bubbled over.

  As he drew closer, she watched as his gaze fell upon her breasts, then flicked down to her crotch. A nerve in one of Brenna’s eyes throbbed uncontrollably. She knew she was at a point where terror now took hostage of her body, abusing it with chills and wild nerves and tremors at odd times and in odd places. And terror demanded no ransom. She was its slave.

  Was this it? Had he come over to have his way with her? In a sick way, she almost wanted him to do it. At least the waiting, the anticipation of horrors probably greater than actually existed would be gone. It would be terrible. But it would be over. As she stood now, there was only her imagination to go on, and it sketched scenes of her rape, torture, and death, lengthy images that went into great detail, exploring her pain and misery.

  No. No. Her fear tricked her; it tried to make her justify what would happen. She didn’t want to be vio­lated at all! It shouldn’t happen at all! She should not concede so easily to the situation. She had to keep her mind fixed on getting away and not give up hope. To shrink into Montague’s arms, to willingly open her legs to him, would release forever everything she held true and sacred. Mother had told her that virgin­ ity was a gift, a gift she reserved only for Christopher. To give it up so easily was not right. No, it was not right at all.

  She would fight. She would kick and scream to the end. He might have to kill her.

  “Saved you a couple of swigs of cider, lass,” he said as he lifted his gaze to hers, then thrust the flagon forward. He smiled. “Oh, you cannot take it, can you.”

  “No, I cannot,” she answered darkly. “And I do not want any.”

  “You must have something,” he said. “Here.” He stepped up to her and pressed his beefy gut to hers,jammed the lip of the flagon to her lips, then began to pour the cider down her throat.

  Brenna swallowed a bit of the liquid, admitting to herself that she was very thirsty, very hungry. But then principle took over and she began to spit the cider up, showering the fat foreigner.

  Pulling the flagon away, Montague swore under his breath. The words he used were peculiar and Brenna could not repeat them if she tried. “Where are your manners?” he asked, his face creased in disgust as he wiped himself off.

  “Where are yours?” she parried. “I told you I did not want any cider!”

  He dropped the flagon, marched up to her, and pawed both her breasts with his filthy, thick hands. He slid his thumbs and index fingers to her nipples and tugged on them, moaning again as he had done while kissing her neck. She knew of no sound more repulsive. Then he lowered his head to her left breast, wrapped his lips around the nipple and began sucking on it like a nursing newborn.

  Brenna drove her leg up toward his groin. She could not get the proper angle to drive her knee into his crotch, nor could she use the sole or tip of her foot to pound it. She had to settle for using her shin like a hammer to pound him. The blow felt hard enough though, and Montague tore himself away from her breast, his teeth scraping over the nipple as he did so. He staggered back, clutching his groin.

  Brenna throbbed with her own pain. Her nipple was swollen and red and covered with saliva. The breeze stung it. She looked down to see if he had drawn blood, but none was visible. She wanted very badly to clutch her breast with a hand, to minister in even the most feeble of ways to the pain. She silently thanked the Lord Montague had not bitten her.

  A chorus of laughter erupted from the boys around the fire. Montague, still hunched over and gripping his privates, flipped them a look, then fired a glare at Brenna. “Shut up!” he screamed to his followers, keep­ ing his gaze aimed at her. “You,” he said to Brenna, “you and 1 are going to have a private festival.”

  Montague hobbled a few steps toward her, then removed his headband. He slid it over Brenna’s head.

  “Now what?” she asked as the world went dark.

  He adjusted the headband, tightening it around her eyes.

  This was different but no less worse than her imagination of the event. She was back to the wait­ ing and wondering, not knowing what would hap­ pen, not even being able to prepare mentally for the worst.

  I am sixteen years old-and this is how I will lose my gift.

  Stop feeling sorry, Brenna. Don’t give inf Remember? Escape. You have to get away!

  She heard Montague circle behind her, and she felt him grab one of her hands. She flinched, but he strengthened his grip. Then suddenly her hands snapped free. He had cut her loose! She turned, pulling her free arm forward. She brought her hand up to the headband, began to tug it off, but heard him shuffle around. Her hand was slapped away from the band and twisted behind her back. Straining aloud, he started retying her wrists together. She pulled her body forward, digging her feet into the dew-slick grass but finding little traction there. She slipped and fell; the icy, wet blanket of grass came up with rude speed. She forced her wrists apart and discovered that Montague had not finished fastening her
bonds. With a considerable abrupt tug, she freed herself and rolled over once, twice, then sat up, slid both of her thumbs underneath Montague’s headband, then ripped the foul thing from her head. She opened her eyes.

  And almost wished she hadn’t.

  Montague came at her, panting, drooling with lust, and charged with an anger that illuminated his eyes.

  Brenna retreated on her back like one of the crabs she had once seen at the market of Falls. She kept her face to Montague and her hands and legs moving. After ·a yard, she guessed she would not escape.

  He kicked one of her legs, then bent down and grabbed the other; she writhed out of his grip, but not before pulling him off-balance. Montague went down with a howl.

  Brenna rolled and stood. She looked right and saw one of the boys around the cookfire pointing at her.

  “Don’t play shy, lassie,” Montague said between groans. “If you run away, I’ll let the boys have their way with you as well.”

  She could do it. She could outrun them. She could escape. Brenna gathered saliva in her mouth and spat at Montague, hitting him on the cheek. “God will punish you.” She spun around and sprinted away, the cries of Montague’s boys not far behind her.

  It had come. The waking dream had fleshed itself into reality. She ran toward the horses tied to the pair of oaks. In her imagination she had vaulted onto her horse, but now the twinge of forthcoming pain across her thighs told her she had better swing up onto it instead. Knights in armor were often injured vaulting onto their mounts. Naked chambermaids would wear the scratches and bruises of the act for moons.

  Brenna’s rounsey neighed softly as her trembling hands unfastened its reins from the tree. She slid a bare foot in one of the stirrups and pulled herself onto the mount. She had thought the saddle fairly smooth when she had first sat on it, but every imper­ fection in the leather was exposed to her skin now. The saddlemakers had never expected nude persons to be sitting in their seats. Ignoring her sweat and the tiny cuts across her arms from the grass, she smacked her rounsey on the rump, dug in her heels, then cracked the reins. She knew the highwayboys would mount up to pursue her, and so she didn’t look back, but focused her gaze on the forest ahead. She would have to negotiate the wood while still at a full gallop, but it was not that dense and the opportunity to lose the boys in there was one she could not ignore. The notion to skirt the forest had entered her mind but had been discarded in a millisecond. If she could thread her way through enough of the shielding trees she could stop, hide herself and the horse there, then wait until morning. There was still the question of clothes. She could not ride into Shores naked!

  Brenna, you haven’t even escaped yet. Worry about the c;lothes later.

  The forest opened its arms to her.

  14

  “Madgween! You’re all dght!” Christopher had never thought that the secrets

  Merlin and Orvin kept from him involved Marigween. The entire journey he had considered a diversion from her, and from Doyle. How could he have known that one of the very things he desired most had already been taken care of by the two old men? As he looked with sore eyes at Marigween, then reached up and touched a rough finger to her smooth cheek, he could not for the !ife of him figure out why the wizard and the ancient knight had kept her presence at the cave a secret. Why not tell him she was safe?

  He would get answers to his questions later. There was only now. The moment. With her. She slid an arm over his shoulders and the other around his waist, then tilted her head back and pressed her lips to his.

  Oh, did he swim in the kiss! His longing for her melted into the intense satisfaction of having her. He bathed in her and was showered by the feeling of her body against his. And the undamned river of emo­tions took him back to their first night in his cham­ ber, the first time they had made love. Christopher cursed the fact that his memory was not cohesive, no more than a string of pictures and feelings stitched loosely together in his mind, images and senses that stood out and had burned impressions into him:

  Marigween on her back, her great mane of red hair spread out like a halo around her head …

  Her legs sliding along his sides, her heels pressing into his back …

  The cool, sweet flavor of licorice on her tongue as his mouth devoured hers …

  Her whimpers, her cries, her low, throaty groans, and the way she moaned his name, broken by desire: Chris … topher …

  That peculiar odor of sweat and heat, the fury of their passion as their lathered bodies slid effortlessly back and forth against each other… .

  In truth, the moment had not been as spectacular. He had been nervous, and had felt extremely awk-ward. But those less-than-romantic elements were erased by a heavy dose of fantasy in his mind. This was the way he would remember it.

  I’m out of breath!” she said, pulling back.

  He felt the heat of his blush. ‘‘I’m sorry. It’s just I-” “-I know.”

  She turned her head, and on the cheek he had not touched there was a long, narrow scab. “What hap­pened?” he asked, studying the mark.

  She put her hand to the wound. “It’s healing. Orvin stitched it up. He removed the stitches, but the cut opened up again. We let it heal without stitches this time.” Her voice was smooth and explanatory, and did not carry any of the expected horror and dread a vision such as herself might feel upon her beauty being marred. Her cool acceptance of the scar was most odd. Christopher gently grabbed her chin and turned her head so that he could better view the scar in the light that edged into the cave’s entrance. “How did it happen?” “When she saved me!” Orvin shouted from behind them. Christopher turned from Marigween and regarded the old man, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Yes, young patron saint. I did battle with a Saxon at my stable and Marigween helped. We slew the dog, but not before my home was lost.”

  “You make it sound as if I helped,” Marigween said with a laugh. “I only tried and got this cut.”

  “So you escaped and came here,” Christopher said. “There is no safer place in the realm,” Merlin said,teetering up to Orvin’s side.

  For a second, Christopher caught Orvin communi­ cating something to Marigween with his eyes. He flicked a quick look to Marigween and saw that she nodded a response. “Is there something I should know about?” he asked them, jarring both.

  Merlin turned and looked west to the sun, which flirted with the rocky horizon. “Orvin. You will help me build a fire.”

  “Oh, I will?” Orvin’s tone said he would not.

  “If you want to eat,” Merlin said.

  Orvin signed, then nodded. When it came to food, the old man would forever surrender.

  Marigween tugged Christopher’s shirtsleeve. “Let’s go inside.” ,

  She led him into the entrance tunnel, its floor smooth but uneven, its ceiling rooted with scores of teeth. The tunnel jogged right and opened up into the main room of the cave, where a single candle burned atop a trunk. The quarters were dusty, Spartan.

  “You’ve been staying here?” he asked. “What does it matter so long as it’s safe?”

  Christopher realized she was correct. He was used to living in places such as this, his cave a thin tent on a cold hill. He made that sacrifice to preserve the splen­dor of the castle for women like Marigween. He fought for her safety and comfort, and it seemed ironic that she would wind up within the confines of a dusty rock. She crossed over to the narrow trestle bed where a small bundle of wool lay propped up against a pillow. With unusual care, she picked up the bundle and cradled it in her arms-as if it was a child. “What’s that you have there?” he asked.

  She did not answer him until she was close, and then she began to push back the wool.

  Christopher already suspected what it was. The way she held it. The way she had to push the wool away to reveal it to him. It must … it must be a child. Hers? No. It was probably an orphan. An orphan of the siege she had taken in. Or maybe, just possibly, it was a child-but not a human. A baby


  something or other. Bird? Cat? Dog? Still, he could not shake the idea that it was a human child; the notion clung to him.

  A tiny, pink, sleeping face, framed by wool, appeared within the bundle. More of the wool parted to reveal the swaddling bands wrapped loosely around the newborn. Christopher had seen babies before, but never one so … so familiar-looking. He was not the type of person to spend hours in front of a mirror, and often used the blurry reflection of his shield to comb his hair. He kept himself as neat and clean as he could, but was not overly concerned with his appearance, such as the varlet Innis had been. He knew women found him pleasing to the eye, and that was enough. He had, however, spent enough time gazing at himself to know-to know that this baby bore an uncanny resemblance to that young man who stared back at him from within the waves of a river, from within the hard steel of a shield, from within the smooth glass of a mirror.

  No. No. No. It was impossible. They had told him the tales. The men of the garrison and various knights he had questioned had told him the same story: a woman must be loved six times before she can bear offspring.

  He and Marigween had made sure to count the number; they had stopped after the fifth time.

  Had the knights and garrison men lied to him? They had taken his question very lightly and had chuckled as they had delivered their answers. Yet all had answered the same. Had it been some cruel joke they had played on him? Was that what older men did to younger men. who inquired about lovemaking? Had it been some kind of crazed initiation into the world of loving?

  No, it couldn’t be. The knights had been right. His fear was unwarranted. The child was an orphan. It just happened to look like him.

  “Christopher,” Marigween began, her voice soft and wavering with nervousness, “this is our son.”

  Christopher took a step back. He felt one of his legs begin to jitter. “No, no, he can’t be.”

  “He is. And he’s beautiful. Look at him.” Nervously, she lifted her arms to bring the baby into full view. “It is truly God’s will that he looks so much like you.” And now she beamed With pride.