by Peter Telep
She had been there only a short time, yet the couple had taken her in like a daughter. Brenna had appreciated their kindness, for without the clothing, food, and shelter they had provided, she would not have been able to go on. But the time had come.
In the middle of the night she left them. Both old man and woman slept deeply, answering each other with loud, drawn-out snores. She walked her horse a hundred yards down river, mounted the rounsey, then trotted off. A frog ribbited its good-bye.
She wished she could have written the couple a note of thanks, but they had no. quill, and that probably meant they did not read or write anyway. She hoped her earlier thanks to them was enough, and she prayed they didn’t think she had used them. She was truly grateful for their help. But the old man wanted to undermine her plan to see Christopher. She could have fought with him, but this way was better. She was able to avoid the confrontation, and at the same time ride into Shores well after midnight, when the battle did not rage. Soldiers needed to sleep like anyone else.
The river wandered left, and as Brenna followed the gradual curve, the distant torchlights of the army rose out of the darl
She had come very far to see him, and had made many assumptions. Part of her was filled with antici pation, the other part with doubt. What if she was wrong? What if Christopher had died on the Mendip Hills? What would she do? How would she act? Would she be able to go on-to live with that shattering fact? She had risked everything in the belief that Christopher was alive and at Shores. If he wasn’t … then maybe, maybe she couldn’t go on. There had been a time, it seemed like a millionscore years ago, when Brenna was ready to end her life over him. But that had been a brokenhearted girl who had thought those thoughts. Brenna was a woman, a woman who had decided what she wanted. It was Christopher who made her happy, who brought into her life all the joy she would ever need. There was nothing he could not provide for her. Few men in the realm were as considerate, car ing, and deeply feeling as he. For a man-at-arms he was unique, able to fight with one hand, caress with the other, doing each exquisitely, agilely, not letting the brutish side of his personality plunder his sensitivity. She would never find another young man like him. Once, she had thought she could replace him, and had found herself drawn to the varlet Innis, a highly polished gem among the rough-faced fighters. But behind all of his gloss had been an empty, self ish, spoiled boy with a violent streak that knew no bounds. No, she could not replace Christopher. No man would ever come close.
What if he’s dead?
Stop thinking that, Brenna. You have to believe. What if he doesn’t want to see me?
Why would he not?
I don’t know. Maybe he’ll think I’m intruding. Maybe he’ll tell me the battlefield is no place for a chamber maid and send me away. Maybe he’ll yell at me!
If he does that, it’s only because he loves you and doesn’t want to see you hurt. So be prepared.
There’s something else. I thought about it once. What if he is alive but he’s not . . . whole.
Do you love him? Yes!
Then you’ll love him no matter how you find him. I will. Yes, I will.
Temporarily lost in her fears, Brenna did not realize she had come upon the perimeter of the makeshift out post. Two wide-eyed, slack-jawed guards accosted her. “Maid! You don’t belong here!” the stouter one shouted, brandishing his halberd, the tip of which he kept only a few inches away from Brenna’s chest. “That is a matter of opinion, sir,” she said, unsheathing a force in her voice meant to command. “I am here to see Christopher, squire of the body.
Please take me to him.”
The guards exchanged a look that meant nothing to Brenna. The taller, clean-shaven one asked, “What business do you have with him?”
He’s alive! He’s alive! Thank you, Lord. It wasn’t all for nothing! He’s here and I’m going to see him!
“It is a private matter that brought me all the way from Gore. If you let me pass now-without further delay-I won’t have to mention your impertinence to him. If you know him, then you know he tends to tell King Arthur everything, being his squire. I wouldn’t want you two to suffer any disciplinary action for delaying me.”
“Are you threatening us?” the fat guard asked, more insulted than not understanding.
With a confident calm, she replied, “Not at all.” Again the two looked at each other, and this time
Brenna could see each man silently asking, “What do we do?”
The clean-shaven guard tightened his lips and shrugged, then he nodded.
The fat guard snorted disgustedly, then switched his glance to Brenna. “Pass. And if you have lied, the punishment we receive for letting you come through will be in turn taken out on you.”
“You are a smart man,” Brenna said as she heeled her rounsey past the guards.
Ha! What a joy it is to be strong, to exercise some power! And to know he’s alive! If we do marry, I will be able to use my authority all the time. Granted, Christopher is not a knight, but he’s certainly no peasant.
Brenna’s bravado leaked quickly away as she entered the main area of the camp. The soldiers had obviously not seen a woman in some time, and their gazes followed her every movement. From wherever they were they watched. Some even woke their snoozing brothers so that they too could have a look at the young, pretty maid atop the horse.
She felt as if she were on display outside a butcher shop, a piece of pork or poultry to be pinched and squeezed.
A few of the men howled. Others whistled. Brenna lowered her head and urged her rounsey forward.
A young man, partially clad in armor, ran up to the side of her horse. “Hold, maid.”
Brenna obeyed.
“What are you doing here? How did you get past the perimeter guards?”
“I’m here to see Christopher, King Arthur’s squire.” By uttering his name, she felt she had recovered a small measure of confidence. His name carried weight, and to be associated with him made her feel strong, no matter to whom she spoke.
“I am the lieutenant of this watch, and if you want to see Christopher, you’ll have to get permission to do so.” “How do Igo about that?” Brenna asked, agitated by the sudden delay.
“He will hav to be notified and then, if he does wish to see you, we can establish a time and a place for the meeting.” The lieutenant spoke with a practiced authority, his voice devoid of feeling. He only knew his orders.
“You mean to say Ineed an appointment to see him?”
“Maid. You have just ridden into the middle of a battlefield operation. Do you understand that?”
No, Brenna did not-would not-understand. She didn’t have to. Christopher could not be more than a few hundred yards from where she was, and the only thing that stood between them was a dull oaf and his orders.
“He’s probably just up ahead. If you’ll go fetch him, Iknow he’ll want to see me now. Iknow it! Please!”
The lieutenant wagged his skinny little empty head no.
Brenna cracked her reins and jammed her stirrups home into her horse’s ribs. The animal leapt forward.
“Stop!” the lieutenant cried. “Stop her!”
Brenna galloped down the main path of shoreline that divided the river and the tents of the army. “Christopher!” She called to him loudly, putting everything she had left into his name. “Christopher!”
18
A sergeant of the Main Battle group swiped one of Christopher’s tent flaps aside and leaned inside the tent. “Christopher, did you hear about that crazed maid who just rode into camp?”
Christopher indicated he hadn’t, then pushed past the sergeant to join the man outside. He adjusted the hauberk, crossbow, and quiver of bolts he carried in his left hand, then rested hi
s right hand on the hilt of his broadsword that was sheathed and bound· to his belt. “I’d love to chat about it, but I haven’t the time.” “Where are you going at this hour?” the sergeant asked.
“I thought I’d sneak into the castle and rescue a friend.”
The sergeant began to chuckle, and he continued until his laughing came so hard he choked.
“Easy there, old man,” Christopher said, slapping the man-at-arms on the back, “I’ve been told before I’m an accomplished jester, but never has my humor brought one so close to death!”
The sergeant swallowed, then wiped the tears from his eyes. “I’m all right. Yes, yes, I’m fine. Oh, I needed that, Christopher, I truly did. Thank you. It’s been too long since I’ve had a good laugh.”
“Glad I could help. Well then, good evening.” Christopher turned toward the tall grass behind his tent.
“Oh, Christopher,” the sergeant called, “I never finished telling you about that maid.”
Christopher paused, craned his head, then smiled. “Some other time.” He turned away, stepped into the many damp blades, and was soon walled in by the marshy landscape.
The grass grew taller as he moved on, and there were other plants around him as well, the thin leaves of which extended over Christopher’s head. He with drew his broadsword and hacked a path toward the field beyond. It would have been much easier to take the path already cleared to the field, but it would have been much harder to convince the guards at the end of that path that he was just out for a bit of hand-to-hand practice. They would have wanted to know why he was headed in the direction of the castle, and with whom he planned to practice. Better to forge his own path.
After fighting his way a score of yards through the grass, Christopher knew that he was close to the field. He could no longer make as much noise. He stepped gingerly, sheathed his sword, and elbowed through the foliage, a slower but quieter method of travel.
It was interesting, he thought, how firmly his mind was set. His doubt was beaten down by a powerful sense of certainty. He knew Doyle was alive. He was not a soothsayer, there was no magic up his sleeve, no crystal ball gleaming back in his tent. There was a connection between him and Doyle that could never be broken, a link of blood forged moons ago that bound them to each other no matter what stood in between. The curtain walls of the castle were a mere physical barrier. Their link was extraordinarily beyond the physical; it was generated from their hearts and would exist as long as each was alive. The closer Christopher got to the castle, the more he understood this’. Yes, he had doubted, but no more. With the link came the peace of knowing, and there was nothing that could relax him more. He had never done any thing so dangerous, never submitted himself to some thing so ambitious, and at the moment his heart ought to be pounding and his steps ought to be uneven.
But he was calm. Confident. Resolute.
Doyle was there. He knew that no matter where his friend was inside the castle, he would figure a way to get him out. He would have liked Phelan’s help, but he didn’t need it. What was it that Hasdale had told him about a man going into battle? If a fighter’s heart and mind are right with God, then his apprehension and fear are allayed. He rides toward his fate with a calm purpose. He seizes the poetry of the moment and lets his body do the work. As Orvin had taught, he acts; he does not think. If he is true to himself and his quest, he does not have to think.
It would be grand, Christopher thought. The cries of the Saxon sentries as he took them out one by one would be music to his ears. His crossbow would soon sing, and his sword would soon conduct a song of hope and victory. As he had already dreamed, he would emerge from the castle with Doyle and a stream of freed peasants. His blade would rise in the fresh, crisp air of morning and signal to every fighter in the army that the castle was theirs again.
Quit dreaming and get on with it, Christopher!
He came to the point where the reeds and grass broke off into the field. He hunkered down to survey the scene.
A quick fifty-or-so-yard dash would put him into the forest that divided this field with the tourney/practice field of the castle. There was no way to tell if Saxon perimeter guards were in that forest, though he assumed they were. The many shadows cast by the trunks, brambles, and limbs made the thin forest appear much denser. Christopher let his imagi nation run wild, seeing a Saxon posted behind every tree. He would have to contend with each, and when he was done, all the killing would make him so ill that he would not be able to go on. He wouldn’t lis ten to those thoughts, and refused to see those images again. There were two, maybe three guards in the forest, all unfamiliar with the territory, all tired and cranky and miserable over being stuck on the wee hour watch. Their senses would not be alert. Christopher would exploit their heavy eyelids and hard dispositions.
The trouble was, he had to run the fifty yards to the cover of the trees. That run would leave him vulnerable. He had a plan for crossing the tourney ground to get to the next forest, but the first field left him baffled. The only way to do it was run outright. Simply put everything he had into a mad dash for the forest, and whisper to his old namesake, St. Christopher, to protect him on the short but danger ous journey.
Ready . . . and go!
He hadn’t realized how heavy his equipment was until he tried to run with it. Plodding along through the grasslands was one thing, hightailing it at full tilt over the field was another. And the noise-his cross bow banged onto his quiver, which repeatedly struck the hilt of his broadsword, which thumped off his knee, which cracked under all the exertion. He sounded like an overloaded armorer’s cart on a rocky road, everything rattling-including his nerves.
Maybe I should have crawled the fifty yards . …
Christopher knew it was too late to turn back and try it over. He was already halfway there. Only twenty-five, twenty, fifteen, ten …
He fell in love with the widest, nearest oak and darted for her cover. Behind the tree, he sank to his knees and waited for his heavy breathing to subside. He felt for his gear, the bow, quiver, blade, and hauberk; all were accounted for. He tossed a look right, then left, then, sensing it was clear, he stood. He took a few steps forward, annoyed at how loud his sandals were on the bed of dead leaves left over from last fall. He held his weapons as steady as he could so that they would not rattle and attempted to measure his steps from tree to tree. Five, perhaps six to the next. He stepped as widely as he could, the fewer steps, the less noise.
Was it pure luck that no guards had spotted him thus far? Christopher didn’t want to believe that. What he liked to think was that it was, indeed, St. Christopher who carried him home. But even if St. Christopher was busy and not helping him, then it was God who kept the eternal vigil. Luck was for the gaming man, not the fighter. There were, however, some things that would have to be, like the sentries in the towers of the castle. There was no way out of contending with them. They would be there and would have to be eliminated, or at least stalled until he made it to the moat.
A thin beech tree stood between Christopher and the practice field. It was over two hundred yards to the last wood at the bottom of the rocky rampart.
Once he reached that forest, he would parallel the mountain path up to the castle, all the while keeping within the forest, staying out of the clearings. Once up on the rampart, he would have no problem getting to the north side of the castle. Once there, the fun would begin.
The plan to cross the practice field was simple, and was born of an accident he had had while a squire in training. This part of the field was dotted with grass covered ditches, some shallow, some as wide as three feet across and equally deep. Christopher had been riding hard and fast, trying to keep up with Lord Hasdale. The knight had been trying to get a sense of Christopher’s riding ability. Christopher had not seen a ditch until it had been too late, and he had taken a hard fall. That fall stayed close to him. Even now he could feel his leg scream. It was good that the pain had returned. It reminded him of the ditches.
He would hide in them.
He jogged out of the wood, spotted an oval shadow in the grass, and ran to it. He felt his footing go and knelt in the first ditch. Excellent. He paused, scanning for the next shadowed hole. There it was, barely visible under the starlight, twenty yards ahead. Run and fall, run and fall. That was the rhythm he would keep. As he got closer to the last forest he looked up and saw the illuminated castle. Flickering candle and torchlights fled through the cruciform loopholes and rectangular windows, drawing long shadows across the deep gray ashlar walls. Though it was small com pared to Uryens’s or Nolan’s castle, Christopher always thought it superior. It was not only a completely functional fortress, but it somehow belonged up there. It was as natural a part of the landscape as the rampart or the field. There was nothing obtrusive about it. It existed harmoniously with the earth. Somehow, Christopher knew the castle would always be there. The Saxons might change it, and the siege might ruin a lot of it, but it would never go away. That warmed him. Home would always be home. No one could ever take it away.
He thought himself a cat as he moved, entering the last forest and slipping by a guard that he spotted only a few trees away. He had been right about the guards. They were as numb as ever.
Christopher had ridden up the mountain path countless times, but never had he tried to do it from within the adjoining forest. Briar bushes were every where, and their tiny thorns dragged across his legs. He felt blood leak from a few of the tiny cuts across his ankles and lower calves, but did not bother to stop and examine the wounds. The feeling of resolution was all-encompassing. He would make it to the top of the rampart. He would arrive on the north side of the castle.