Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  What do I do now? What do I do? I’m a father? A father? Wait, what about Woodward? He can never find out about this child, for if he does, he’ll kill all of us! But how can we live like that? Do we have to stay here inside this rock, in hiding, forever? How do I tell the king about this? Is this what I want? Do I even have a choice? Now I suddenly have a family? And what about Brenna? What do I do? How do I go back to Gore and tell her about this? I’m sorry but we’ll never … you see, I have a son now. I have a son! I made him! He grew inside Marigween! He’s my blood!

  Even though there was no foul-smelling rag shoved into Christopher’s face, he felt faint. And it had come on like a Saxon army enfolding his head.

  The bed. There it was, only a few steps away. He shambled toward it, turned, and collapsed onto his rump. His cheeks sank in nausea. His tongue drowned in a rush of saliva.

  This was not how he was supposed to react! He was a father! It was a joyous occasion. He remem­bered when the vice president of the saddler’s guild had had his daughter. The man’s wife had nearly died delivering the child, but, ultimately, woman and baby had survived. The man had been ecstatic. Christopher remembered asking his father why the saddler had jumped around so wildly and had invited everyone to his toft for tankards of ale. Yes, it was because he had been blessed with a child.

  Christopher knew his reaction hurt Marigween. He knew she would want him to react as the saddler had. But he couldn’t-because this was not entirely a blessing. It was unexpected, shocking even. And dan­ gerous. It posed a problem without an easy solution. He remembered Orvin’s words on the field about how he had met many challenges but had yet to face one of his greatest. As usual, the old sky watcher had been right. Christopher had a little boy would look to him, call him father, seek his guidance.

  I cannot believe it!

  The nausea reached a climax, and his recent lunch was ready to explode from his mouth. He swallowed repeatedly. How could finding out he had a son make him want to vomit? It was his nerves, he reasoned. Yes, all the mystery, the waiting, and the incredible shock; they all took their toll on his flesh.

  Marigween crossed to the bed and sat down next to him. “I know this is … unbelievable. I didn’t expect it either. But we can make it work out, Christopher, I know we can. Here.”

  She set the baby into his arms, adjusting the way he held the child so that he supported its head. He could fight back the nausea, but not the tears that battered the walls of his eyes; they painted cool lines across his dusty face, and he saw them drip from his chin onto the wool. He wasn’t sad. He wasn’t mad or even perplexed now. He could not understand why he cried. Perhaps in the face of such a tiny, magnifi­ cent miracle-his son-that was the only thing he could do, and it was simply involuntary. Or were they tears of joy? There was a sense of joy, yes, but it was tempered, shadowed, by fear. Fear of the unknown future. And fear brought the return of anger. He had a family now. He would have to wed Marigween. They would somehow have to explain their child. Those were the things he would have to do. He would have to do a lot. He would have to react to the new path his life had taken, instead of being able to choose it. He should have been able to decide when and with whom he would have a family. Now he just knew.

  But you made the mistake, Christopher. You looked too deeply into M arigween’s eyes. You let lust capture your heart. And now you have changed your life forever! Fool!

  Why did it have to change? Why should he suc­ cumb to Marigween, to this child, to this whole new life that he had never thought about? Parenthood was somewhere far off into the future. He did not suspect he would have a child until he was at _least twenty-one. At sixteen, the duty was already his.

  Christopher softened a little as he considered his son. The child was strong, and his eyes, now open, shone brightly even in the candlelight. He was calm and wrapped one of his little hands around Christopher’s index finger. Christopher was drawn to the baby; the power was indescribable, and the longer he held the child, the stronger it became.

  No. I cannot do this. I won’t do this. It’s not hap­pening! It’s not!

  Christopher shoved the baby back into Marigween’s arms, stood, then double-timed toward the cave entrance.

  “Christopher? What’s wrong? Where are you going?”

  Her plea was a sharpened arrow; it hit hard, and his heart could not parry it. He felt miserable as he finally emerged from the cave.

  Orvin and Merlin had finished piling timber into the hearth. Orvin worked the flint while Merlin pre­pared an iron tripod, cauldron, and chain to be set over the hole. Christopher looked at them, then let his gaze find and lock upon his courser, leashed with the mules to a cluster of thick vines growing on the canyon wall. The horse chewed indolently and noisily on its hay. He strode toward the mount.

  “Young saint, what is it you’re after? I have the riding bags over here,” Orvin called.

  Ignoring his master, Christopher reached his mount and began angrily to rip the reins from the vines,

  “He’s leaving, Orvin. Your squire apprentice is running away-just as I said he would.”

  Christopher heard Merlin’s confirmation to Orvin; it only made him swing hard onto his mount and kick the animal into a trot west, away from the cave, toward Shores.

  Orvin called after him, but the old man’s words were clouded by Christopher’s steadily mounting rage. He had to get mad to be able to leave, to be able to live with himself for the moment. Yes, he was running away. He could not slough off the disbelief. And he was too confused. Slapped in the face with the news, what did they expect of him? How did they really expect him to act? To say, oh, yes, this is fine? I guess I have to learn how to be a father now? I guess I have to face Woodward and tell him the truth? Didn’t they realize how hard those things were? Didn’t they realize that he was unprepared for all of that? He was only sixteen years old! A man by some measure, but he still felt like a boy. He still had many of the same cravings and desires he had when he was ten or twelve. He still longed for adventure, loved to take risks, loved to just do nothing and everything, and dream. It seemed like he couldn’t do any of those things anymore. Adventure was for the young. He wasn’t young anymore. He was a father, a man. He had a son to think about, and could not take risks. He had a responsibility to the boy, to feed and clothe and protect him. He could not lie around and dream. It sounded like a horrible life.

  “Easy now! Easy!” His courser came too close to the edge of the cliff, and a look down proved, as before, a mistake. He pulled the animal closer to the wall as one of its hind hooves tore free a bit of rock. The stones tumbled over the edge and splashed sec­ onds later into the river.

  He hated the path. He hated having been brought to the cave. He hated the uncertainty of everything. So many problems and not a single answer. Already, his heart beat in his head and put a pressure on it worse than his thick, battle-scarred salet. He had a headache coming to Merlin’s home, and one now as he left it. That was all the place was good for: pain.

  The trouble with charging off lay in his conscience. He knew it was wrong. He knew what he was doing was childish-but wasn’t that the point? He didn’t want to grow up so fast; he didn’t want to know he was a father all of a sudden. Why should he? But how long could he run? Surely one of them would come to find him and pull him back into his forced life. But how could he think of it as forced when he made the mistake? He had made the choice to love Marigween. But the knights had lied to him! It was their fault! He should blame them. Blame them for what? His own naivete? They would only laugh. It probably only took one moment of loving for a woman to become seeded with a child.

  He simply could not accept his mistake. He could not acknowledge his responsibility. And until he could, he would have to run.

  15

  It was called the stone forest, for many of the trunks of the trees growing there were white. There was a name for the type of trees, but Christopher had long ago forgotten it.

  Wild berries and mushrooms had
been dinner, and as he lay, staring at the stars through the treetops, he tasted their dryness and sweetness again. He burped . and swallowed, took in a deep breath then exhaled a sigh.

  When he had entered the wood and settled down on his courser’s saddle cloth for the night, he had been overwhelmed by a sensation of death; it lingered still. Maybe he would die among the dead trees. That would solve all of his problems, wouldn’t it? He knew that was a coward’s desire, one step even below the running. He would never kill himself, no matter how horrible his !ife became. Or at least he thought so at the moment.

  Two more days until he arrived back in Shores, that is, if he rode at a normal pace, which he would not. He wondered how Doyle was. He’d been tor­tured, of course. Doyle could withstand punish­ ment, though; that Christopher had already seen.

  But how much of it? Six days’ worth? He wasn’t sure.

  Insects made sounds that split open the quiet of the forest. The tiny creatures had too many friends who also loved to screech and chirp. Christopher felt comfortable with the rhythmic and soothing call of the crickets. But there were rogue bugs out there whose calls were abrupt and impossibly loud for such tiny things. He longed for the hoot of an owl, for its presence would make him feel safe from the curious, scampering field mice who might explore his sleeping frame. The owl would carry the rodents away to its nest, then dine on them throughout the night.

  Christopher could not get comfortable, and he could not drift to sleep. The events of the day, com­ bined with his lack of a tent and lack of a decent meal, had turned him into a stiff, hungry demon who would lie on the border between dreams and reality all night. Too many sleepless nights had already ruined his demeanor. He had to get some rest. He closed his eyes and forced his mind to think about darkness. He stared into the black, focused every­ thing on it, thought only of it.

  Christopher did not know how long he had been asleep when he found himself sitting up, backed against one of the bone white trees

  Orvin was opposite him, hunkered down, an unusual position for the old man, his ramshackle back somehow permitting it. The old knight fixed Christopher with a gray, penetrating stare. “Make me understand what it is you are doing, young saint.”

  Dumbfounded, Christopher asked, “How did you get here so fast? Once I left the canyons, I galloped all the way here.”

  “You can never run away from me, saint. I’ll always be up here.” Orvin tapped his temple and smiled; oddly, his teeth were as white as the clouds, not the yellow Christopher knew.

  “Is this a dream?” he asked his master. “What is real?” Orvin asked.

  “Dream or not, you’ve come to take me back, haven’t you? Where’s Merlin? He’s here too, isn’t he?”

  “No. I come alone for knowledge. And to offer you guidance. That is all.”

  “There is nothing you can do to help me, Orvin.

  My life is in ruins.”

  The old man frowned. “What’s so terrible about it?” Christopher snorted. “Place yourself in my boots!” “In your shoes,” Orvin corrected.

  “Shoes, boots, whatever the saying is! Can’t you see what’s happened to me?” Christopher closed his eyes, rubbed them hard with his fingertips, then reopened them. No, Orvin had not vanished. He was, however, blind to Christopher’s problems. Or was he?

  “When a father loses a son, or a son loses a father, it is a great tragedy. Of this, I can assure you.” He leaned closer. “Has your son already lost his father?” Orvin was not shy about the challenge.

  “I don’t know,” Christopher fired back.

  Orvin slid smoothly into a standing position, turned and began slowly to pace in a circle around Christopher and the tree. Christopher craned his neck to keep his master in sight. What was the old man up to?

  Over the years, Christopher had grown accus­tomed to Orvin’s odd behavior, his secrets, his cryp­ tic answers, and the questions answered with questions. But ever since returning to Shores this time, his tolerance for the old man’s whimsical ways had reached its end. He’d been brusque with his master, and realized he thought of the man more and more as an old fool than as a wise teacher. Why? Was his ego becoming so large that he no longer needed guidance? That couldn’t be true, for he needed it more than ever now. But he doubted Orvin’s ability to help. Was the old man so out of sync with Christopher’s life that there was no way he could help? Christopher could only pray that wasn’t true. Yes, he had reasoned that the battlefield had hacked away a lot of his patience, but his respect for Orvin should have remained intact. But it had been many, many moons since Orvin had had to deal with any of the problems facing Christopher now, if he had dealt with them at all. Was that it? Was it simply the man’s age that distanced him from Christopher? Once he had looked upon Orvin as a sage, a prophet and teacher, the man who had rolled out the carpet for him to step upon and become a knight. The man had taught him humility, taught him how to be a true servant, to realize where he was best suited among the vast numbers of Britain. And in that position, squire of the body, he had become the best. The other young men looked up to him for an example. Indeed, he owed that to Orvin.

  Then why the bitterness? Why the challenging of a man who had done so much for him? Was he taking out his own shortcomings on his master?

  “If I could read your mind, young patron saint, what would I find there?” Orvin was behind him, hidden by the tree.

  Christopher huffed. “At this moment, you wouldn’t want to know.”

  “Perhaps you’ve come to doubt me.” A short, hot breath was immediately on Christopher’s neck as Orvin continued, now into Christopher’s ear. “Does that strike a chord?” The knight stepped around the tree to face him. “Your eyes betray you, Christopher. You’ve forgotten about your first lord already? My son took you into battle. There, he died. I spent a good part of my life raising that boy. My father died before he could teach me how to be a father. But I learned. And as much as I hate admitting it, I learned from Merlin. I will pass on to you what I know.”

  “I don’t even know if I want to be a father, let alone need instruction on how to do so.”

  “You are a father, no matter how you look at it,” Orvin said.

  Orvin, why are you so right?

  Christopher relinquished a slow nod. “Tell me, is there any way to learn that kind of skill? Even from Merlin? Is it not something you … I don’t know … just do?”

  “Why is it you ask? I thought you were not inter­ ested in knowing.”

  Orvin wanted to take Christopher’s doubt and stretch it out until there was nothing left of it. Christopher knew that and would not fall into the trap. He clutched his doubt, for it was a part of his old life, the life he didn’t want to leave behind.

  But he could not get that tiny face out of his thoughts.

  “Just tell me, Orvin,” he answered.

  “Experience is fatherhood. Love is fatherhood. Understanding, compassion, and sacrifice. Those are fatherhood. And so much more.”

  “They’re all just words lost to the wind,” Christopher said. He felt the desire to stand, to even his gaze with Orvin as they continued to talk. He tried. His limbs were locked. “I cannot move!”

  “You’re bound in your misery,” Orvin said.

  Christopher cocked his head sharply away from Orvin, then squeezed his eyelids shut. “How could I be such a fool? “

  “Stop asking yourself that and get on with your life.” Orvin’s tone suggested the act was as simple as honing a dagger or choosing between ale or wine to have with a meal.

  “I don’t even know what my life is anymore.”

  Orvin pursed then smacked his leathery lips. “You’ve lost balance. Begin again. Consider where you have come from, where you are now, and per­ haps those will tell you where you are going.”

  Christopher thought aloud. “Where I come from, where I am now … I come from Shores. I am the son of a saddlemaker who was killed in a Saxon inva­sion. Now I am a squire, squire of the body, King Arthur�
��s squire. My best friend is in an enemy prison, and I have just found out I have a son. That’s where I am.” Christopher strained to find an answer to where he was going; if there was an answer at all, it was too well hidden in his mind for him to uncover it. “I don’t see how those things will tell me where I am going. And besides, why can’t you tell me? Haven’t you looked into the sky lately?”

  Thank St. George his bitterness was ignored by the old man. This was a kinder, gentler, healthier Orvin who stood before him. “You were not born to lead a craftsman’s life. Look at how your life has changed. At thirteen, you had already resigned yourself to the sad­ dler’s bench. Then a scant number of moons later, you stood on the practice field, ready to begin training as a squire. And unlike the craftsman, your life is ever­ changing. That is one sure destiny of yours. It is time to assume another role. Saddlemaker, squire, and now father. Welcome the change. Welcome your new life.”

  “Don’t you realize how hard that is? Do you know how many other problems I have to deal with because of all this?” He knew he whined, but what else could he do? He was frightened, so frightened of everything to come-whatever would come.

  “You worry yourself with details, with petty things that may resolve themselves without your interven­tion.” Orvin’s face became rigid. “They are not your priorities. You must not worry anymore.”

  “How can you tell me not to worry when you offer no answers? I’ve had a child out of wedlock with a woman betrothed to the lord of my castle! Granted, he is freeing Marigween, but when he finds out that I courted her behind his back, he’s going to challenge me. Besides that, no one will accept my bastard son!”

  “You will wed Marigween.”

  Christopher smirked at the ease of Orvin’s reply. “The church will not approve-and that will not change my son’s place in this world.”

  “You will get the abbot’s approval, trust me. The people of Shores will be most forgiving in these tur­bulent times.”