Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  It was easy in the beginning to do that, Orvin. But now, now I do not know …

  With disgust, Christopher sighed. “I’m beginning to think the only one I can trust is myself.” He looked up, ready for Orvin’s argument to the contrary.

  He was alone in the forest. “Orvin?”

  Christopher rolled over on the saddle cloth and shuddered awake. It was a dream. And at the end of it he had dreamed he had awakened-but never had. Was it a dream within a dream?

  What was dream? What was reality?

  In this reality he lay by himself. He was afraid to fall asleep, for fear his troubles would now take him into a black sleep of nightmares; but he was too tired to stay awake. He closed his eyes. Heat and light both vied for control over his body. They had come on suddenly, along with the sensation of a hand on his cheek.

  His eyelids yawned open into daytime. Arthur leaned over him, his expression hard to read. Concern? Anxiety? Anger?

  Christopher pushed up with his arms, then shifted into a sitting position. Arthur sat down on a carpet of twigs and leaves. “You’ve been sleeping a long time,” he said. The king reached over to a nearby bush and plucked himself a handful of berries. He popped one into his mouth and chewed slowly.

  His senses dulled, it was only now that Christopher realized it was the king, the king who sat next to him. “I beg your pardon, my liege, I don’t- know how-”

  “-Relax. Untie the knots in your muscles. You rode very hard to get here.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Arthur frowned, and then he turned his head a lit­tle in thought. “I don’t know. But I do. And that seems fine with me. Is it fine with you?”

  Christopher shrugged. “I’m not sure. Yes, I guess.” “There are so many other things I know as well.

  Would you like me to share them with you?” “Please do, lord.”

  Arthur considered another berry before popping it into his mouth. “Mmmm. These are sweet. Would you like one?”

  They did look good, but Christopher’s belly cut off the desire with a sharp pang. “I think I’ve had too many of those already.”

  “All right. So, where were we? Ah, yes. I know all these things about you, and it is very strange to be talking to you about them. For instance, I know Doyle killed Innis and Leslie. And I know you and he are keeping it a secret from me … “

  How could Arthur rattle that off so matter-of­ factly? It was inconceivable that the king would regard the murders in such a way-unless he had known about them from the beginning. But how?

  “Lord, I beg of you, please, how do you know? And please … what’s to become of my friend and me?”

  Arthur smiled. “I don’t know how I know. I don’t know what’s going to happen to you.”

  The king’s smile was impossible, not to mention inap­propriate. If he meant it, then it was a sinister smile.

  “We should talk more like this, Christopher. You know, if I ever have a son, I would be proud if he lived up to your ideals.”

  “But how can you say that, lord-when you know I’ve kept a terrible secret from you?” Christopher found himself rocking back and forth on the saddle cloth, his nerves lording over his body-the order of things for the past moons.

  “I know you wanted to tell me, Christopher. I know you’re afraid of what will happen to Doyle if you do. Listen to your heart. Then listen to your mind. Do what they tell you.”

  “But lord, my heart tells me not to tell you and my mind tells me to do so!” From the moment Christopher had decided to shield the truth for Doyle, his heart and mind had mounted their attacks on each other. They fought bitterly, and would con­tinue to do so until …

  “What about Doyle? What does he want you to do? Have you ever spoken about it with him?”

  Christopher realized he hadn’t. They had avoided the subject altogether. “No, lord.”

  “Why don’t you ask him what he wants you to do.” “Isn’t that obvious, lord?”

  Arthur steepled his brow. “Maybe it’s not.”

  Something scurried across Christopher’s ankle. He looked down and saw nothing there. He realized he was not sitting up anymore, but lying down. The heat of the sun was no longer upon his face; it was replaced by a cool breeze. He moved to look at his ankle again, then realized his eyes were closed.

  He sat up, and as he opened his eyes, he felt some­ thing shoot across his calf and over the hand he’d pressed onto the saddle cloth for support. It was still night in the stone forest, and it was difficult for him to see what had probed him, but he had a good idea. As he had feared, some form of rodent had found him as he had slept. His linen shirt lay nearby. He picked it up and pulled it on, shivering.

  He was sure he had been dreaming. He knew he had seen Orvin and Arthur. But what had they said to him? He could see their lips moving in his mind’s eye, but no sounds came forth from their mouths.

  Christopher moved to the nearest tree, sat against it, and pulled the blanket over himself. He huddled against the cold and blinked hard to keep his eyes working. To his right, his courser remained undis­turbed. He wondered if the horse dreamed. If it did, it probably dreamed of a more sympathetic rider who would not drive it as hard. Christopher was deter­ mined to be in Shores by the next evening, and he hoped the animal would accomplish the task.

  Sleep well, gentle mount. On the morrow you will feel my spurs. I will try to be merciful.

  With nothing else to consider besides his discom­ fort, he turned his thoughts back to the dreams and attempted to extract some detail from them. What had Orvin spoken to him about? It surely had some­ thing to do with his running. And why did he dream of Arthur? What was it the king had said? It got closer, neared reality … there. There it was, he remembered. The king had told him that he should speak to Doyle, to see if Doyle would allow Christopher to inform the king about the murders on the Mendip Hills. That was mad! Doyle wouldn’t allow it!

  Would he?

  The king had suggested that Doyle’s reply might not be that obvious. If Christopher could tell Arthur the truth, he would walk across the land a much lighter man. It would be up to Doyle. If Doyle still lived, he would ask him. If he had died, then Christopher would make his confession to Arthur.

  Perhaps Doyle would want to tell the king himself … . With that door open, and a course of action laid true, Christopher diverted his thoughts to Orvin. Why had the old man come, or rather, why had he dreamed of his master? The obvious reason was that he needed help. Had Orvin provided some? He couldn’t remember.

  What good is dreaming of you if you cannot help me?

  For a frosty second, Christopher thought he heard his question being answered, but it was only the scraping of branches against each other, forced into intimacy by the breeze. He pulled the saddle cloth over his head and continued to think about Orvin as he rocked himself slowly toward morning.

  16

  Two hours outside of Shores, on the rim of the eastern forest that stretched all the way to the village, Christopher’s horse slowed from its gallop into a canter, then into a trot, a walk, then stopped altogether. All the spurring in the world would not budge the courser.

  “Orvin once had a mule like you,” Christopher told the courser as he lifted himself out of the saddle. “But she was a mule. She had an excuse. You’re a courser.” Christopher ran a hand over the horse’s flank. “Look at your muscles, how strong they are. You should be able to take me all the way home.” He crossed to the animal’s head and stared into its large, blank eyes. “I won’t force you. You can walk with me if you like. Or stay here and rest.”

  Christopher dropped the reins and started off. After a moment, he looked over his shoulder and saw that the courser followed him. Good. If he left the horse behind, it would surely be stolen.

  The eastern forest was a deeper, darker, denser place than the stone forest, and much more familiar. Christopher and his old friend Baines had trained in the closer, thinner forests that paralleled the tourney ground of th
e castle, but this was the place they had spent the majority of their time. If he searched hard enough, he could probably find the carvings they had made with their daggers in a trio of oaks; but now, the shadows of night would shade those memories. There was no time to reminisce. He would move his saddle-sore legs as quickly as he could, circle wide around the castle, then slip down to the Cam to find Phelan and Neil.

  In less than an hour, Christopher stood looking at the lights of Queen’s Camel Abbey; they burned in the distance like stars resting on the ground for a spell before they resumed their places in the heavens. Christopher turned his gaze from the abbey to his courser, slid a boot into its stirrup, then swung up onto the mount. The horse had followed him all the way and he sensed that the animal was rested enough to carry him for the last leg of the journey home.

  When he arrived at the camp along the Cam, he saw that something was wrong. Nearly all the men wore grim, sullen faces. Even the guard who let him pass was dour, barely able to answer him. He felt as if he rode into the camp of a defeated army, and he quickly prayed that was not the case. A few heads lifted to acknowledge his presence and to regard his battered state. He had barely eaten in the last two days, had worn the same clothing, and had slept in the forest with only a saddle cloth for cover. His arms were scuffed, and lines of grime outlined the wrinkles in his skin. He could only imagine what his face looked like. The fine layer of hairs that was his budding beard were surely caked with dust. He must eat and bathe and res­ cue Doyle-not necessarily in that order.

  He found a lieutenant he knew was a member of the Vaward Battle group and asked him if he had seen Phelan or Neil. The lieutenant directed him upriver, where a large gathering of men stood for matins and lauds, directed by a brown-robed monk from Queen’s Camel.

  He spotted Neil standing near the rear of the crowd. As Christopher dismounted, a young page offered to groom his courser for a denier. He agreed and handed his reins to the boy. He would have to ask Phelan or Neil for the money; his coin pouch was in his saddlebag back at Merlin’s cave.

  Christopher came from behind Neil and gently rested a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. Neil looked up, and his eyes registered the surprise. He stage-whispered, “Where have you been?”

  “Too long a story to tell now,” Christopher answered. “Where’s Phelan?”

  “He’s back at our tent. He hasn’t been feeling good. A problem with his bowels. He hasn’t been able to pass his meals.”

  “That sounds serious. Has Hallam had a look at him?”

  Neil sneered. “Yes, he has. And his remedies have done nothing.”

  A tall, lean archer in front of them turned around and put a finger across his lips, shushing them.

  Christopher gestured with his head that they move away from the crowd of worshipers. As they did so, once again, Christopher was met by the somber looks and the lazy, halfhearted steps of the men as they dragged themselves to their destinations.

  “What is wrong with everyone?”

  “That’s right,” Neil said, “You’ve been away.” He sighed. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  Christopher had heretofore been unnerved by statements like that, but after being told he had a son, nothing would surprise him. He nodded.

  “The Saxons have taken the castle of Rain. Lord Nolan and his army won’t be able to help us. He’s a little busy, you understand. “

  Christopher felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. “They have two of our castles? What about Uryens? Can he help us?”

  “He’s transporting his siege engines down now, but they won’t be here for a while. It doesn’t look good.”

  “What about diggers? Have we recruited any?”

  ‘‘I’m not sure. You’d have to ask Arthur about that.” Neil point d to a row of tents set as far back from the shoreline as possible. The reeds that had once surrounded the shelters had been hacked away, and a large pile of them was nearby. “That first one is ours.”

  Neil leaned over and slid into the tent. Christopher followed.

  There was barely room enough for two inside the shelter, let alone three. Christopher sat down with his back pressed against the entrance flaps. Phelan lay on a pile of woolen blankets to his right, the bird’s face a faint shade of yellow. He lifted his head, the effort clearly a strain for him, and smiled when he saw Christopher. “Where have you been?”

  “He says it’s too long a story to tell now,” Neil answered. “I suspect he doesn’t think we’re close enough friends to tell.” Neil’s barb was good-natured; it seemed his mood was much lighter than the last time they had spoken, arguing over whether to save Doyle or not.

  “No, it’s as I said. It’s just too complicated. There’s just too much to tell. What I really want to talk about is freeing Doyle. Phelan, it appears you are-”

  “We’re not· talking about Doyle anymore,” Neil said annoyedly, cutting Christopher’s sentence off at the knees. “He’s dead. Accept that.” The barbarian’s good mood had dropped like a mangonel stone.

  “How do you know for sure?” Christopher asked. “Come on, how can he not be? We both know him.

  He spat in their faces and then they knifed him.” “What if you’re wrong?”

  “I’m not,” Neil snapped.

  Phelan pushed himself up onto his elbows. “You can’t be sure about that,” he told the barbarian.

  “You’re only certain because it makes you feel better. I think Doyle is alive. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t try to help him.”

  “You’re not doing anything,” Neil replied. “Look at you. You’re … sick!”

  “I don’t care.” He turned his glossy eyes on Christopher. “I still want to go with you. When do we leave?”

  Christopher opened his arms to his fate and made a resigned acceptance of the fact that anything that could go wrong in his life would. He had returned to Shores, had run away from the responsibility that lay waiting for him in Merlin’s cave, and simply wanted to bury himself in the idea of saving Doyle. He had decided that even if Neil still refused to go, that wouldn’t stop the bird or himself. But Phelan was ill. Again, he was alone to face everything.

  “Neil’s right,” Christopher told Phelan. “You won’t even make it into the first passage. I’m sorry. I’ll go alone.”

  Phelan pushed off his elbows and sat up, then threw off the blanket covering his lithe frame. “No, you won’t.” The bird’s legs, visible below his breeches, were that same unnatural tint of yellow as his face. Phelan considered the color of his legs, then looked at Christopher, a smile taking hold of his lips. “If nothing else, I’ll scare the Saxons to death with the color of my skin.”

  How Phelan could keep a sense of humor at such a moment, Christopher did not know. It had been too long since he chuckled, and he found himself still unable to do so. He stood, bumping his head on the tent top.

  The bird became anxious over his move to depart. “No, Christopher. I’m coming with you I tell you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  All the while, Neil said nothing. Christopher had to respect the barbarian for sticking to his decision, though wishing fervently he would change his mind. That event appeared to be something just short of a miracle.

  He could use a miracle at the moment.

  Phelan continued to call after him as he left the tent. Christopher heard Neil try to settle the bird down, and then found himself in the middle of a swarm of muttering men. Matins and lauds had ended the soldiers ambled back to their quarters.

  Christopher became lost in thought, and he stopped in the middle of the crowd. What would he do next? Bathe and eat were still on the agenda. Then he would need to procure weapons. His broadsword was hope­ fully still in his tent; he had not seen the blade during the journey to Merlin’s cave. He also wanted a cross­ bow, a hauberk, and light sandals for running. The Saxon livery he needed would come from an unlucky guard. It was a shame he hadn’t taken the time to dis­ cover what Orvin had used to make him sleep.
He could use that on the Saxons instead of having to hit or kill them. Too late to find out now.

  What about Arthur? And Woodward? Christopher had been seen by a lot of men, and one of them would report his presence.

  No matter. He had already decided to disobey the king and rescue Doyle. What was there left to talk about? Arthur’s plan to free the castle seemed to be at a standstill, for the men seemed to be doing little more than wallowing in the bad news of the fall of castle Rain. They needed some hope. If Christopher was able to rescue Doyle and a few others, the men would cheer his accomplishment and know that it was possible to defeat their seemingly unconquerable enemy.

  As men elbowed and shoved their way around him, Christopher lowered his head and closed his eyes.

  Lord, ease my fear and give me the strength to help

  my friend. And please help me somehow. I’m so afraid of my future, of what to do about my son. You know I don’t want to think about him now, or about any of them back there. I don’t hate them. I don’t hate what’s happened. I’m just not sure how to act. I sometimes think, maybe the rules of combat apply to this: do not think, just act. But I don’t know how to act now, and the more I think about it, the more frightened I become. I want to do the right thing. But I’m scared. Help me.

  Christopher stood alone near the shoreline. The crowd had passed, leaving him, like their muddy footprints, behind. Heart pounding, he started off in search of his tent.

  17

  Brenna was safe. She had escaped Montague and his highwayboys. The brigands had scoured the forest all night but had not found her. By morning,they had given up the chase. Wrapped in her roun­sey’s saddle cloth, she had ridden for a day, and had encountered only the small animals of the field: the crows, larks, and pipits that had wheeled and darted overhead; the brown and gray squirrels who had studied her with curious eyes from their perches on tree limbs; and a fox, who, upon seeing her, had scampered off into a thicket.

  She had come to a pair of small huts huddled among the tall gold and green grasses along the Cam. The huts belonged to an old man his wife. Once a tanner in the village of Falls, the old man had opted to spend his twilight years along the cool waters. His wife had been kind enough to loan Brenna a shift and kirtle, which had been big on her, but that had hardly mattered. She had told them of her escape from the brigands, and had lost her breath as she did so. They had listened, deeply intent, their faces reacting to every dip and tum of the story. Shocked by her ordeal, the couple had resolved to take care of Brenna, and even escort her back to Gore. Brenna had insisted she was returning to Shores, but in a snipped reply, the old man had said that was out of question.