Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  Christopher slipped from the alcove, hugged the wall to his right, and moved toward the torch. He slid it out of its iron holder and let it lead the way toward the back of the room.

  As the dim glow brought the supplies into better view, Christopher gasped.

  The entire wall to his left was obscured, stacked three deep from floor to ceiling with barrels of either cider or ale. Perhaps tenscore barrels in all, easily enough drink to take the Saxons through the winter. He turned left, and there were the telltale sacks of grain, they, too, stocked three deep. As Christopher tilted his head up to see the tops of the piles of grain sacks, noting they were only a mere yard from the ceiling, he spied something else. A network of wooden beams had been constructed, running paral­ lel to each other from north to south, and from these beams hung sack after sack of what Christopher guessed were salted meats and fruit, apples probably. There were at least twenty beams with at least as many sacks hanging from each. Christopher lowered his head and glanced ahead to the rear wall of the storeroom. Wooden crates were arranged from cor­ ner to comer and rose up at least twice as high as Christopher. As he neared them, he could smell the strong scent of garlic and, through the slots in a few of the crates, saw the cloves. He also spotted carrots, potatoes, beets, and onions within the crates. Never in his life had he seen so much food gathered in one place. The previous lords of the castle, Hasdale and Woodward, had never fortified the room so heavily. It was disturbing but important news.

  Feeling a pang of hunger, Christopher leaned over and slid out a carrot from between the slots of a crate; he bit down hard and chewed hungrily on it as he turned around and stepped lightly toward the archway. A trio of partially armored sentries, their halberds resting back on their shoulders, moved suddenly through the archway; they chatted casually, and one of them chuckled loudly over something Christopher hadn’t heard.

  He slammed himself against the barrels to his right and fumbled with the torch, tipping it down and trying to smother it on the stone floor. But sparks and ashes floated up from the burning stick; they, how­ ever, weren’t what the sentries noticed. Christopher heard one of them comment on how it had become strangely dark on their side of the room, the Saxons having grown accustomed to the torch burning on the wall-the torch Christopher held.

  And one of them looked in Christopher’s direction. “Ho! Who’s there?”

  There wasn’t a second to think, and Christopher was thankful for that. With the torch still burning, he rushed forward toward the three Saxons, who stood some fifteen yards away. Knowing he came from the shadows, knowing that surprise was his, he let out a wild howl in the hope he would be mistaken for some dangerous, drooling, sharp-toothed beast, which he pictured himself as in his mind’s eye.

  As the torch began to illuminate the invaders’ faces, Christopher noted to his satisfaction that they looked scared. He drove on, the torch pointed out, its fiery tip spearheading his escape. Once he came upon the men, he simultaneously thrust the torch into the face of the Saxon to his right and reached out with his free hand to lock it around the halberd of the Saxon to his left. The force of his momentum carried him straight on through the Saxon in front of him, the man flattened by the rushing beast that was Christopher. The burned Saxon shrieked and fell onto his side, clutching his face. The Saxon whom Christopher had disarmed grabbed the back of Christopher’s tunic, but was dragged into his fallen comrade only to trip and go down himself.

  The engagement was certainly heard by Neil, but Christopher shouted to his friend anyway: “Neil! Start running!”

  Halberd in hand, torch in the other, Christopher stormed into the alcove and mounted the stairs. He looked up to see Neil disappear around the bend.

  Then Neil came running down toward him, nearly knocking him over. “Guards coming down!” he shouted.

  Christopher turned around, only to see two of the sentries he had driven past stomping into the alcove and brandishing the sharp tips of their pole arms.

  “Can’t go up! Can’t go down!” He shouted back to Neil. “How many coming up there?”

  “Two,” Neil answered nervously. “Armed with?”

  “Spathas.”

  “Here.” Christopher tossed Neil the halberd. “We’re going up. You first. I’ll bum and disarm the other.”

  “I hate when you tell me what you’re going to do,” Neil said, turning and stepping slowly up the stairs. “It means something else is going to happen … “

  “Move and die!” one of the sentries ordered from below.

  “If we don’t move, we’re going to die,” Christopher shouted back, then followed Neil up.

  The spatha-wielding guards rounded the comer too quickly, and Neil exploited their speed, throwing himself against the wall and lowering the long pole of his halberd to ankle height.

  As the guards tripped, Christopher drove his torch into the neck of one man while simultaneously rip­ ping the spatha from the Saxon’s grip. The other guard not only tripped over Neil’s halberd, but was sent airborne down the well-directly into the two sentries coming up. All three men went down in a pile. Christopher glimpsed the Saxons for a second, then faced Neil.

  “You see,” Christopher said, “I did bum and dis­ arm him.”

  “Thanks to me.” Calling Neil’s grin cocky was an understatement. The barbarian lifted up his halberd and commenced his ascent. Christopher held tight at the barbarian’s back, smiling at how Neil’s fear had turned completely into confidence.

  They came to the second floor landing, its alcove identical to the one on the first. Christopher heard men drawing water from the wellhead as they continued up the stairs. He also heard the busy racket of many more men. Another garrison of Saxons was there as well. He hadn’t figured out an exact number of those on the first floor for Arthur, but judging from the sounds on both floors, their numbers were surely greater than Arthur had anticipated.

  A heavy, buxom chambermaid, her gray hair pulled back tightly into a bun that was covered with a coif, nearly knocked them over as she waddled down the stairs.

  “Oh!” she said, poising, her jaw falling, her eyelids yawning wide. “Who are-”

  “Shhhh,” Neil ordered. “Not a word.”

  “Lady, your service to the Saxons will not last long, we can assure you,” Christopher said.

  “Thanks be to God you’re here. But you’re so … young. How many others are there?”

  “Sorry, we can’t talk,” Christopher said, ignoring her question. “Be silent. And go now.”

  “I’ll pray for you, boys,” she said, then resumed her steps downward. She looked back over her shoulder, nodded her head, then put an index finger to her lips in a show of compliance.

  Up and up they climbed, and Christopher’s feet felt as if they grew heavier with every step. His only solace was the light weight of the spatha. Had he been lugging along the Baines-given broadsword, he would look as out of breath as the barbarian did.

  “I have a silly question,” Neil said between huffs. “Do you know what floor Doyle’s chamber is on?”

  “Is it not the third?” Christopher asked.

  “I thought that’s where Seaver’s chamber was and we went down to see Doyle. But that would put us on the second floor, which would mean we already passed it.”

  “No, I think his chamber was on the fourth, wasn’t it?”

  Neil stopped. “I wasn’t paying much attention to where we were going. I was a little upset over being caught.”

  “What are you stopping for?” Christopher asked. “Come on, now, we’ll find it.”

  “So which is it? Third or fourth?” Neil demanded, his agitation fully hatched.

  “Third,” Christopher said with a feigned aplomb that didn’t last long. “I think.”

  “We did go down from Seaver’s didn’t we?” “Who cares! Let’s find out!”

  “So we’ll search the entire third floor of this keep, passing directly by the solar where the leader of all these Saxons is probably resting, and
hope we’re not spotted. And Doyle might not even be there!”

  “I’m almost positive it’s the third. Now if we don’t start moving, we’ll be caught right here.” Christopher took the flat side of his spatha and smacked Neil across the rump with it. “Go!”

  “Damn,” Neil cried in pain. “All right. All right.” They resumed their trek, but scarcely a minute later

  Christopher detected something on the extreme limits of his hearing. He grabbed Neil. “Stop,” he whispered.

  They both froze. And listened. Footsteps shuffled above, the sound echoing and spiraling down the well.

  Finally, the noise drifted away. They nodded to each other and moved on.

  Several minutes of rapid climbing brought them onto the third floor, the landing of which was well lit by a pair of blazing torches. With gingerly steps and furtive glances, they moved from the alcove of the stairwell into an intersection of three long, narrow halls. The sleeping chambers lay dead ahead, the hall jogging straight away from them for some thirty-odd yards, its rear wall illuminated by a simple cross­ shaped loophole. Unlike the other unmanned loop­ holes they had encountered in the stairwell, this one was attended by a crossbowman.

  That was problem number one.

  As they ducked back behind one of the intersecting halls, and Christopher peered around the corner to espy the sleeping chamber hall, he considered prob­ lem number two; it was exceedingly more complex. He counted ten chamber doors on each side of the hall, all, for argument’s sake, locked. Even without Neil’s uttering a single word of skepticism, Christopher knew what they were about to attempt was well-nigh impossible. He would not be able to be open those doors bolted from the inside. Those locked from the outside, as Doyle’s would be, he could get through. But there wasn’t time to try every door, and there would be no way to do it without the crossbowman overhearing them. Besides that, who knew what lay behind those doors? An extremely angry, heavily armed Saxon battle lord, for instance. Trying every door would undoubtedly upset the chambers’ occupants.

  How far had we walked down this hall? Was it halfway? You have to remember, Christopher!

  He knew it was not at his end nor the far end of the hall, but definitely somewhere in between. Excluding the first four chambers on each end left them with six chambers to examine. Still too many.

  The fwit! of the crossbowman’s weapon echoed once throughout the hall. Christopher watched him pause to windlass his bow, then let another bolt fly through the loophole. Strangely, there was no varlet to assist the Saxon in his loading. Christopher knew the Saxons employed such boys, but now shrugged away the incongruity. Probably none available. One thing was good: the archer was alone and busy. Thank St. George for the siege outside. It kept the halls almost empty.

  A pair of horns blew, originating from somewhere below and inside the castle.

  “They’ve started their search,’’ Neil whispered, “and they won’t be coming in pairs but in dozens. And by the way, have you figured out a way for us to even get near any of those doors-and then get through them?” Just doing what he was doing was an incredible challenge, Christopher thought. But add to that Neil’s immutable doubt, and he knew that if he made it out of the castle alive, he would have truly accomplished something much more grand than he could have ever conceived. He would have survived alongside the prophet of doom!

  But if Neil hadn’t complained, Christopher would have experienced a very strange, even fearful feeling about their next move. As long as Neil remained dubious and voiced his concerns, things felt right.

  Go ahead, Neil, complain. Force me to ask myself those same questions. Push me to greater heights, you hairy ox!

  He turned to Neil and studied the apprehension chiseled into the bearded archer’s face, the eyes for­ ever glossed with a thick layer of dismay. It was inter­ estingbeingpartneredwithsuchafellow. Christopher had been used to the quiet reserve of Doyle, who only spoke of solutions to problems and never complained. Doyle was as much an advisor as a friend. Teamed with Neil, Christopher felt himself in the superior position, the barbarian looking to him for solutions, guidance, and assurance. Thankfully, a plan to goad the archer on had congealed in his mind. “We’re going to become friends with that bow man,” he told Neil softly.

  “I say we rush him and kill him!” Neil whispered tersely. “Why in the name of all the saints do we want to befriend him? And what if he doesn’t want to be our friend? Wait a minute. What am I talking about? You’ve got me thinking as madly as you!”

  “He’s going to tell us what room Doyle is in.”

  The horns from below resounded again, this time closer.

  “Then we’d better find that out now.”

  Christopher took a long look around the comer then ducked back to face Neil. “Follow my lead.” He shifted around the comer and began to sprint down the hall.

  Behind him he heard Neil mutter, “I’ve been fol­ lowing you ever since we’ve been here and look at what I have to show for it. You’re going to get me killed. I might as well start accepting that.”

  Chamber doors blurred by on either side as Christopher ran. His heartbeat thundered in his ears and he felt his lungs threaten to burst; both discom­ forts were more from anxiety than the labors of run­ ning. He held his spatha upright in his right hand, steadying the sword as his sandaled feet carried him closer and closer to the crossbowman.

  The Saxon archer turned as Christopher neared him. It would only take a second to run the enemy soldier through, and for an instant Christopher con­sidered that, abandoning his plan to trick the man into showing them where Doyle was imprisoned.

  “Haven’t you heard, man?” Christopher screamed in Saxon, stopping short in front of the bowman. “Seaver has ordered that Celt archer out of his cham­ ber. He’s to be ransomed to the king! What have you been waiting for?”

  Christopher’s words were a bit choppy, he knew. All he could do was pray the man would attribute his broken Saxon speech to the fact that he was out of breath, and not discern that Christopher was a Celt. There was, however, another difficulty. This bowman was not the person in charge of fetching the prisoner; that was a duty for Seaver’s personal guards. Christopher words, despite being broken, were mili­tarily incorrect.

  Realizing that fault, Christopher added, ‘‘We’ve been sent by Seaver, and he’s promised death to any man who delays bringing the Celt out of his chamber.” The small mouth and deep-set eyes of the crossbow­ man made it hard for Christopher to read a reaction from the man. He lowered his empty bow and regarded Neil and Christopher with a look that could be curi­ous, could be measuring. Then, in voice that sounded like it was mixed with sand, he said, “So what is the delay? Fetch the Celt. What business is it of mine?” “We were told you would show us what chamber

  he is in,” Christopher said. All of this thinking on his feet wore on him considerably; Christopher knew a headache was in his near future.

  “Well, how should I know that? I’m a bowman with a duty to shoot arrows through that hole,” he said, gesturing to the loophole with a thumb over his shoulder. “I know not, nor do I care, where Lord Seaver keeps the Celt.”

  Christopher felt something pressing at his back, driving into the thin linen of his shirt. He glanced to his left and saw that Neil prodded him with the tip of his halberd. A knotted look on the barbarian’s face said: “Another great plan of yours crumbling like an undermined wall, squire!”

  Thoughts flitting like pipits from branch to branch, Christopher had the answer. “All right, then, man. If you don’t know where the Celt is, then help us look for him, for we’ll all hang from a gallows tree if he’s not in Seaver’s presence soon!”

  Christopher pitched a cocksure look to Neil, but Neil’s scowl didn’t flicker.

  “I’ll help you look, but how do we get in? I don’t have the keys. Do you?”

  “Ah, yes, yes we do,” Christopher lied, then turned and hurried over to the first cham ber door. He knocked twice on the thick oak
. “Hello, hello in there. Hello, Doyle? Are you in there?”

  The trouble with calling for Doyle was that Christopher did it in Saxon. The only thing Doyle would understand, if he listened from the other side, was his name. That, Christopher figured, would be enough.

  All Neil could do was knock on doors. Christopher was thankful the archer had been smart enough not to open his mouth and call out in Celt. Christopher, the Saxon archer, and Neil knocked on door after door, and as they neared the opposite end of the hall, having no luck after more than half of the doors had been rapped on, another Saxon archer appeared in front of the loophole behind them.

  “What are you doing?” he asked his comrade.

  Christopher watched the archer lower his hand from the door he was about to knock on, a door next to Christopher’s. “I’m helping Seaver’s guards locate the Celt prisoner. Seaver wants to see the Celt now.”

  That’s right, you dumb bowman!

  “Seaver has but one personal guard, and he is Ware. Who are these … boys!” This Saxon, who stood a full head taller than the other bowman, began to step quickly toward them.

  Christopher knocked on his door. “Doyle?” Nothing.

  He moved up to the door the first archer stood before, shoved him out of the way, and knocked ner­vously. “Doyle?”

  “Who is that?”

  The voice was thin, tiny even, nearly completely muffled by the door. But praise be to God it was there! Christopher stole a look at the approaching cross­ bowman and saw that the tall man was beyond being suspicious of them. The Saxon knew something was wrong; it was written on his face, a lean, gaunt glower that came rolling forward and augured imminent doom.

  “Neil! Get over here!” Christopher shouted. Damn, he’d spoken Celt.

  Another look to the tall Saxon. The man brought his bow to bear, its bolt waiting to fly.