by Peter Telep
“Stop them!” the tall Saxon yelled to the other. Christopher fumbled with the door latch-locked,of course. He’d learned an old trick from Regan about opening locked chamber doors. You shoved a piece of leather cord into the keyhole, applied upward force to the door handle, gave a little shove, and like magic it would open.
No time for magic.
The archer who had volunteered to help them turned on Christopher and Neil just as quickly. He came from behind Christopher, slid an arm over Christopher’s shoulder, and proceeded to choke him. A second later, Christopher heard a short moan, and suddenly the pressure on his neck was gone, followed by the crumpling sound of the Saxon. Christopher whirled to see the now-whimpering man lying prone on the floor. Neil yanked the bloody tip of his hal berd from the Saxon’s shoulder blade.
“Throw down your weapons!” The tall Saxon was at full tilt now, and Christopher was shocked at how fast he could manipulate his giant frame.
“Onto the door. Now!” he ordered Neil.
“I thought you knew how to get by the lock?” Neil said frantically.
“I do!” Christopher said, rushing to the opposite side of the hall to get a running start at the door. “With me and you! Ready?”
Neil threw down his halberd and joined Christopher. This was one moment in his life that Christopher wished he’d been heavier. If not for Neil’s presence, ramming the door would most assuredly not work.
“Okay,” Christopher gasped, dropping his spatha.
He started for the door.
Neil threw his stocky frame sideways onto the door with a force that Christopher guessed broke the lock instantly. Christopher turned his body and hit a fraction of a second later, but reasoned his assault was simply a good intention, that the real work had already been done.
The door swung open and both archer and squire collapsed onto the stone floor. Straw rushes dappled the chamber floor and aided Christopher’s slide into the leg of the nearest of the three trestle beds. His forearm hit the leg with tremendous force, snapping the support where it met the frame. He barely man aged to lower his head so that it missed the bed frame, but as it moved under the bed, his ear was snapped back by the edge of the frame and dragged under the hard wood. Once he stopped, Christopher lowered his head. His ear flipped back into position. It felt as if it was on fire. He let out a moan, tried to reach up and rub the pain away, but realized he was pinned under the bed. Then, hands clutched his ankles and he felt himself being dragged into the open.
“Doyle, quick, the door!” Neil shouted.
It was Neil pulling him out, and though Christopher couldn’t see Doyle, he heard his friend’s quick footsteps as he crossed to the door. Christopher rolled onto his back and sat up-in time to see Doyle begin to slam the chamber door in the Saxon bowman’s face.
The crossbowman dropped his weapon and slapped his palms onto the door, applying increasing pressure. Doyle struggled but couldn’t secure the door; there was still a hand’s-length gap between jamb and thick oak.
“Neil! Help me!” Doyle gritted out.
Neil crossed to the door and slammed his hands onto the wood. His added pressure decreased the opening only scant inches.
And then something was jammed at boot height into the opening between jamb and door-the Saxon’s crossbow. Ear and forearm stinging, Christopher rose, scrambled to the jamb, got down on his hands and knees and tried to shove the weapon back out into the hall. Yes, he tried. But the Saxon was too clever. He had jammed the crossbow through, flipped it so that its T-shape was perpendicular with the floor, and then rested a foot on the fir ing end to secure it. The bow would not budge. Christopher even tried to pull it through into the chamber, but the Saxon must have hooked his boot onto it.
Three young men and one incensed Saxon, and only a door between them. Why is this so hard?
“I’ve an idea,” Christopher said, standing to join his friends as they pushed on the door.
“Don’t listen to him, Doyle,” Neil said. “Unless, of course, you subscribe to lunacy-which is what all of this is!”
Doyle bared his teeth like a rabid dog, the muscles in his left arm bulging as he drove against the door. He kept his bandaged hand close to his belly, and Christopher could tell he wanted terribly to employ it, but knew the pain would be too great. He brought it up to the door once, twice, then pulled the hand back, swearing aloud. “What’s your idea, blood brother?”
“No, don’t even tell him, Christopher, I beg of you!” Neil was drenched in sweat, the front of his tunic stained in a dark oval. That, and the urgent plea on his face, made him appear much more than desperate and scared. It made him look already defeated. “Enough, Neil! Do you want to get out of here alive? Even if we manage to close the door on this giant, what do we do then, eh?” Christopher didn’t give Neil a chance to answer before continuing: “I say we let him in.”
“Dear God … there! Don’t you see, Doyle? He’s mad, or possessed, I don’t know which!”
Doyle’s next remark came out with remarkable calm, if one didn’t know Doyle. “He’s right.” Doyle could talk casually about the tension of a bowstring in the face of death; it was his way with dealing with fear.
Neil’s jaw, if it could have, would have fallen off his face. Instead, it hung down as far as it would go. “What? What?”
“Get ready to invite him in,” Doyle said, then turned his grimace of exertion into a raised-brow question. “What’s wrong with you, Neil? A problem with your ears?”
“No, no. I’m not letting him in,” Neil cried.
“Get off the door and fetch a torch,” Christopher ordered.
The barbarian hesitated.
“NOW!” Christopher’s scream surprised even him self:
It certainly amazed Doyle, who gave Christopher a curious look as Neil complied. What was that look? Did his old friend think he had become a self appointed sovereign? Or was there some admiration in those eyes? Perhaps Christopher’s capacity for leader ship was truly coming to the fore, especially in their present situation. As he had considered, being paired with Neil left him no choice but to lead-and Doyle had always assumed that role. Now that command was Christopher’s, Doyle’s ego might be bruised-along with the rest of his body. Christopher could not help that. There was no time for tact or emotional considerations. There was life. And death. And act ing, not thinking. An ego was worth sacrificing to save a life.
“I’m leaving you alone for a second to fetch a torch of my own. Can you hold him?” Christopher asked Doyle.
Doyle nodded, then qualified: “For a second.”
Christopher released himself from the door and darted right to the wall opposite from Neil, arriving under the torch. He removed the flaming stick from its sconce and then directed Neil, with a wave of the torch, to a position approximately two-and-one-half yards back from the door. Archer and squire stood on either side and at the ready.
Neil panted. “I don’t know if I can do this … ” “Quit thinking about it!” Christopher said. If Neil continued to ponder what they were about to do, then it might make Christopher do the same-and when it came to killing, the more Christopher thought about it, the more he would hesitate, and that would lead to his death. The moment was, as much as he hated admitting it, a time to kill. The darkest hour. Black sleep come fully alive. Reality flooding into every sense with visions too awful to bear but ones that must be borne. The sight, the sound, the touch, the taste, and the smell of death would pervade the room and their memories.
“Here he comes,” Doyle said.
With that, Doyle rolled away toward the door hinges, putting himself behind the barrier of wood.
In came the Saxon with the same sudden momen tum that had carried Neil and Christopher into the room.
The bowman stumbled but caught himself. But that didn’t matter. He wouldn’t see the blinding flash of light and heat until it was too late.
Christopher thrust his torch into the Saxon’s face; skin immedia
tely smoked and sizzled. The invader wailed in horrific and sudden agony.
Neil simultaneously touched his torch to the back of the Saxon’s tunic, which was exposed beneath the leather straps that bound his breastplate to his chest. The tunic was instant fodder for the flames.
Shrieking, the Saxon bolted up and his hands went to his back in a desperate, awkward attempt to smother the flames. He stepped forward, then one hand drifted back to his melted nose, burned brown cheeks, and seared-shut eyelids. There were few things in the world that smelled worse than burning flesh, but at the moment, Christopher couldn’t think of any of them. The smell, as always, was a powerful emetic, and Neil was proof positive of that. Before the archer could put his torch to the Saxon again, he gagged, leaned forward, and began to vomit.
The Saxon’s back continued to burn as he fell first onto his knees, then onto his stomach, then rolled over. Smoke, embers, and bits of ignited straw wafted up around the writhing man. Christopher stepped to him, closed his eyes, silently asked God for forgiveness, then put his torch once again to the man’s face.
The Saxon gasped, and Christopher drove his torch down hard, into where he thought the Saxon’s mouth was. He must have made contact with it, for the ago nizing crossbowman was stifled.
Christopher felt a warm touch on his neck. He opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder: it was Doyle.
“Come on,” Doyle said firmly, urgently. “And don’t look down.”
Christopher released the torch from his grip, and though the desire to inspect what he had done flick ered across his mind, he wisely ignored it. He did not want to end up like Neil. The fetid air had already made him cross the border into nausea.
As Doyle raced ahead to fetch the crossbow lying on the floor, Christopher crossed to the barbarian, who now stood wiping his mouth and nose free of his disgorge.
“Are you all right?”
Neil winced, then shook his head no. “I hadn’t eaten enough to begin with. Now my stomach is not only knotted but it’s empty, too.”
Christopher draped an arm over Neil’s shoulders and escorted him toward the door. “When we get back, I’ll personally make sure you get a pork dinner the likes of which you have never seen!”
“Either that,” Neil answered, “or you’ll see to it that an arrow fills my belly-due to your wild schemes.”
“You’ll be full-nonetheless,” Christopher quipped. “Or dead.”
At least Neil had spoken with a smile.
They found Doyle out in the hallway, standing near the Saxon Neil had gored with his halberd. Doyle had a quiver of bolts slung under his right arm, the cross bow held in his good hand. “There’s a spatha. And a halberd,” he said, referring to their abandoned weapons lying on the stone floor.
“They were ours,” Neil said, then turned to Christopher,. adding, “Gifts-from the Saxons.”
“Well grab your gifts,” Doyle suggested with an overobvious nod. Then he frowned, apparently think ing about what Neil had just said.
Christopher picked up his spatha, and as he tight ened his grip on the hilt of the weapon, he realized he had fetched the blade because Doyle had ordered it. It was natural to hear Doyle give a command and then to obey it; Christopher took it as comfortably as an order from the king.
Twist of fate. Was it to be Christopher’s ego that would be bruised now? He had worn the gauntlets of command all the way into the castle. Could he hand them over to Doyle? Or should he fight to maintain them?
Orvin, dear old Orvin, had said something long ago that returned to Christopher’s thoughts. The graying knight had taught that a good leader is a good listener. An even better leader knows when to step back and let his champion do the work for him. The greatest leader of all is the one who can do both, and still retain his pride, his ego not bruised but strengthened by the brothers-in-arms who surround him. A leader is but one man, built on a foundation of many. Without his men he is nothing. Without their leader they will fall into disarray.
Doyle and Christopher were both leaders. In the past, Doyle had ascended gracefully into the domi nant role. Now Christopher was coming into his own, yet he had to be man enough to admit that Doyle had always given the orders, and would continue to do so in the future. That part of their relationship would never change. It had evolved too naturally, and to tamper with it would be to tamper with the friend ship. Christopher knew he had to heed Orvin’s words; it wouldn’t be easy.
But it would make him the best possible leader, and build within him a powerful trust, a wisdom born of humility, and a sense of uncompromising honor. Few men possessed all of those qualities. Arthur, though he certainly had his faults, came very close in Christopher’s mind.
“I’ll never fire a longbow again,” Doyle said, gesturing with the crossbow, “but I think I can one-hand one of these. Though one of you will have to windlass it for me.”
Christopher nodded.
“Which way do we go?” Neil asked. “I wager the stairwell is crawling with garrison.”
Doyle chortled. “That’s what I love about you, Neil. You stand here in the bowels of a Saxon-occupied castle and you wager the stairwell is crawling with Saxons. I wager we’re surrounded by Saxons!”
Neil tsked . “You know what I mean.”
“Let’s not stand here and debate it,” Christopher said. “We’ve got to get down to the dungeon. We took the northeast stairwell. Let’s try the northwest. No matter what, we must go down.”
“Agreed,” Doyle said, then turned to Neil. “We don’t care what you think. You’re coming or you’re staying here, whichever you like … “
Then, with a slight grin, Doyle whirled around and strode toward the end of the hall.
Christopher looked at Neil. The barbarian muttered something unintelligable, but it was reasonable to assume it involved Doyle and contained expletives. Christopher tipped his head in Doyle’s direction. Neil pursed his lips over gritted teeth then started off. Christopher hurried alongside his friend.
No one met them at the end of the hallway. But as they turned right and jogged down another barren, tapestryless corridor with nothing to absorb the thud ding echo of their sandals on the stone, they began to hear the oncoming shouts of men.
“If you have any last requests to make of the Lord,” Doyle said quickly, “make them now.”
Neil made a noise: somewhere between a cry and a whimper.
Christopher felt every bit of air leave his lungs. An eyelid twitched-
-and then Doyle shouted, “To the wall!”
5
Seaver’s physical wounds were not as great as the mental ones he had recently sustained. The news of the Celts’ escape had made his temples throb, and he had tom himself out of bed so quickly that he ripped open the stitches in his back. The linen ban dage wrapped around his torso was stained a wine dark hue.
But that pain was nothing compared to the rage and sudden failure he felt. Ware stood next to him at the narrow window, waiting for a reply, waiting for him to say something, an order, anything. Seaver could not utter a word. He trembled. Then disbelief hit him. They were in the dungeon! How could they escape?
They had help! Yes, that must be it. But who?
Wait now. Seaver knew he had enemies, but would they actually aid the Celts?
They might. That would explain a lot. But if they hadn’t, then Christopher was far too clever a boy to be roaming around the castle. He and his two friends must be apprehended immediately-before word of the escape reached Kenric!
Or had it already? Ah, there was something to ask Ware. And so he did.
Upon hearing the question, Ware lowered his head. “Kenric knows. And that is why I am here. He wishes to see you in his solar.”
The dread bored into Seaver like an icicle, cold and hard, merciless, and once embedded, it took control of his entire body, freezing it instantly.
Without Ware’s help, Seaver could not have made it to Kenric’s solar. The stitches bled-but not
as badly as his failure. The prisoners-all of them-were under his care, and they were to be turned into pro ductive slaves, not into freed spies for the enemy!
The days of nibbling on clouds and resting his head on mountains and drinking lakes were gone. Once, Seaver’s feet had barely touched the ground; now the weight of his own small frame was almost too much to bear.
Ware would wait outside. With a simple nod, the young man suggested that Seaver enter through the solar door, which was already cracked open.
Nervously tying the drawstring on his tunic, Seaver slid past the door and stepped into the room.
Since they had taken the castle, Kenric had never once invited Seaver to his solar. It took this defeat for Seaver to finally see where his master bedded down for the eves.
Seaver could have lived without the knowledge of what the room looked like, if being summoned there meant discipline, which he guessed it did.
Yet, faced with the facts, he was in the solar. And as his gaze took in the room, he could not find Kenric. There was the four-poster bed, with a mattress so thick that it made the bed appear very high from the floor. The woad blue linen blanket covering the mattress had not a single wrinkle, and the pillows above the blanket were overstuffed with goose feathers and looked highly inviting. Seaver longed to cross to the bed, lie down, and rest his heavy head on one of those pillows.
To his left, he viewed the four trunks stacked near the window alcove; those he knew were filled with Kenric’s looted armor. Kenric’s collection had grown from a single plundered traveling trunk to four. Besides the extreme comfort of the bed, and the grow ing collection of armor, everything else about the solar also reflected the distinct tastes of a Celt. Kenric had changed the look of the room from the way Woodward had furnished it, but as Seaver knew, his master enjoyed the culture of the Celts even more than the Celts themselves did. There was a standing, wooden chessboard with a tessellated top of stone and glass, its playing pieces composed of solid bronze. Celtic pottery adorned the mantel of the hooded fire place, and above it hung a painting of a meadow, with birds circling overhead. For a fleeting moment, the landscape made Seaver feel serene, and warm.