Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  Christopher grinned. And then he winked. “Home.”

  Doyle’s distant gaze and narrowed eyes told Christopher he was contemplating the plan, having already guessed their route to the moat.

  “Home?” Neil repeated. “I don’t follow you. We go up to the wall-walk and then go home?” Neil’s brow suddenly lifted, and then his mouth yawned opened. “Oh. Oh, no. No. No. I won’t do it!”

  “The walls are not that high!”

  “They’re high enough!” Neil cried. “We’re jumping from the wall-walk of the keep, remember! Not the curtain walls! They’re twice as high, probably twenty times as tall as me!”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Doyle told Neil. “Christopher’s right. We get up there and jump into the moat. Then swim to shore.”

  “Do you know how many arrows are going to come our way?” Neil asked. “We’ll be shot as we jump!”

  Doyle didn’t bother answering. He shifted past Neil and Christopher and started around the bend toward the staircase that led back up.

  “Let’s go, Neil,” Christopher said. “You didn’t want to stand here anyway.”

  “If we make it out of here, I’m never speaking to either one of you again!” Neil’s face was flush. He stormed past Christopher in pursuit of Doyle.

  If we don’t make it out of here, you won’t be talk­ ing to us anyway, Neil. Death tends to quiet a person.

  8

  Descending the spiral staircase was far easier than ascending it, Christopher quickly discovered­ especially after his fall. He even had trouble keeping up with Neil, and Doyle had long since disappeared around the stone bend. There was a stiff, vising pain that wouldn’t let go of his shoulder, and if his right knee could talk, it would beg for rest, for every time Christopher’s weight came down on it, it gave way a little more. Better to listen to the knee, treat it right and it might repay the favor.

  Christopher paused a moment, put a hand to the wall, then shifted his weight to his left leg. He looked up. The stairs looked eternal, twisting into the flick­ ering shadows of torchlight that were, like the path, unceasing.

  “Christopher, are you back there?” Neil called, his footsteps betraying his unseen position.

  “Don’t stop. I just need a moment. I’ll catch up.” “All right.”

  The echoing thump of Neil’s footsteps fell off slowly into emptiness. It felt very good to just lean against the wall, to work his lungs and let his knee recuperate. They were between the third and fourth floors, having made it thus far without being accosted by a single Saxon. They had encountered an enslaved mat weaver and his two sons. The trio had joined them in the stairwell and had climbed with them. Christopher, Doyle, and Neil had winked and had put their fingers to their lips-as Christopher and Neil had with the chambermaid. Though brief, it had been a heartfelt encounter, as the weaver, upon seeing them and realizing who they were, had cried. Christopher had assured the man that the suffering would end soon, and he had embraced him, telling him to pray to St. Michael and St. George for the safety and victory of the king’s army.

  There were too many like the mat weaver who had become indentured by Kenric. They had, in the past, loved their lords. Hasdale, Devin, and Woodward were all fair, generous men who gave back as much as they took. They taxed fairly, and on holy days, held feasts in the great hall that were rivaled by no other lord in all of Britain. Christopher had seen men come from all over to serve those three men in any way they could. Hostlers of Queen’s Camel came; armorers from Gore; chambermaids from as far away as Glastonbury. It seemed that all lords who resided in the castle of Shores were just and fair-all those except Kenric. Was it simply a coincidence that Hasdale, Devin, and Woodward were exceedingly unselfish? Or was it something about the castle itself, something contained within its walls that infected those who inhabited it? If that were the case, then Kemic would eventually recon­sider his taking of the castle. He might give it back. The castle would demand it.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Christopher! All right. It is a crazy idea, but I am allowed to think it!

  He wished he had lived in the days before the Saxons had invaded. Oh, how different his life would be. Oh, how splendidly boring it would be! But then again, he would probably be a dreaded saddlemaker. Even though the magic of squiring had worn thin, and nearly always turned into a life-and-death struggle, there was no other post he could think of that he would rather hold. He wanted peace. But he also wanted excitement. Somehow those were opposing forces. One day he would discover a way to have both. He pushed off the wall and mounted the next step.

  His knee felt better, but was far from healed. To his delight, it was only a dozen steps until he reached the fourth floor landing. Though he truly wanted to pause again, he continued on up to the landing that would lead onto the wall-walk and the battlements.

  As he trudged closer to the landing, telling himself, one more, one more, just another step, one more, he heard the whispering of his friends. Five more steps revealed the archers, huddled just inside the oval archway that led outside, the framework of stone concealing them perfectly. Raw sunlight drew an even rectangle across the landing, and Christopher stumbled into one of its blinding, ninety-degree cor­ ners. He squinted, having been in the dim torchlight and resulting shadows for too long.

  From outside came an angry shout to halt firing. The command came from a sergeant or lieutenant, Christopher assumed, a man much too close to the archway for comfort.

  “Get over here,” Doyle called to him.

  Crossing from the light to the shade paralleling the right wall, he moved up behind Doyle and Neil, then got down on his haunches.

  “How does it look?” he asked Doyle.

  Neil offered his darkly sarcastic evaluation first. “This is where it ends. This is where you get me killed.”

  “It’s really not that severe,” Doyle said. “The sergeant’s right here, just beyond doorway. He’s got two longbowmen on either side of him, facing west. You were right about the king’s army. They’re mounting their attack from the south and east.”

  Christopher nodded. “Arthur would be a fool to attack from the west or the north. Too little land between the ramparts and the castle. We’d have our backs against a cliff.”

  Neil craned his head toward Christopher and smirked. “You’re quite a military scholar for a squire. That’s the most obvious thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Will you please?” Doyle asked Neil, in an effort to silence the barbarian. “Why do you have to be mad about dying? If it happens, it happens!”

  “You can say that,” Neil retorted. “You came here wanting to die. And if you do, you won’t have to face Arthur.”

  “Both of you stopper your mouths,” Christopher ordered. “Neil, we have to know what we’re going to do before we go out there, and we have to know what’s out there. You’ve taken a peek. I haven’t. I want to know.” Christopher looked at Doyle. “Speak.” Then at Neil. “And you don’t interrupt him. That is, if you want to live.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Neil asked, his expres­sion screwed into tight incredulity.

  “Not at all,” Christopher answered, “but I suspect the bowmen outside are.” Then, to Doyle, “How many are there?”

  “Two on the west wall with the sergeant, as I said. There are, I think, ten on the east wall and south walls, with another four in the southwest battlement, and another five or six in the southeast battlement.”

  “What about the battlement above us? And the northeast one?” Christopher asked.

  Doyle shrugged. “If they have five or six in the southeast tower, it’s safe to assume they have about the same in the northern one. As for the battlement above us, do you want to go up and find out?”

  Doyle’s question made Christopher realize he’d been foolish to ask about the battlement above them; one way to gain that information would be to ascend the staircase to the very top and greet the men there, not exactly a covert way of doing things. The other way would be to move into th
e open, tum, and look up. Once outside, they didn’t plan on pausing for a sec­ ond. It would be straight to the wall and into the air.

  Christopher shook his head no. “It doesn’t matter anyway. What about the north wall?”

  Doyle smiled-and it was the most welcoming smile Christopher had seen in a long time. It was that smile Doyle made that reminded Christopher so much of Baines. It was Baines who had originated thatplayful,I-have-an-idea-that’s-going-to-be-fun grin that was now, be it unconsciously, kept alive by Doyle. Besides the grin, Baines was usually at Christopher’s side in the form of the broadsword he had given Christopher. Though lost now, Christopher was confident the blade would turn up; it was some­ where in the castle.

  “All right,” Christopher told Doyle, “I know that smile.”

  “Good news on the north wall. Not only is it the wall we’re going to jump off of, but there isn’t a sin­ gle bowman on it! It seems the patron saint is with us this day in more ways than one.” Doyle sneered at Neil. “Despite those who do not believe.”

  Neil twisted a clump of his beard between his thumb and index finger, then his hand darted for his belly, as if he’d been hit by a sudden pain. “It’s not that I don’t believe. You hear that? That’s my belly grumbling! I need to eat! Soon! No, it’s not that I don’t believe, it’s that as soon as we get onto the northern wall-walk, the archers in the battlement above us will look down, see us, and-”

  “They’ll order us to halt first,” Christopher broke in.

  Neil snickered over Christopher’s assumption. “What if they don’t?”

  “Let’s not give them time,” Doyle said. “We run from here, slip in between a parapet, and launch our­ selves into the air.” The fire of the future, the very close future, flushed Doyle’s face and widened his eyes.

  “Lord, if we just had some shields to strap on our backs,” Neil said wistfully. “Then at least if they fired at us we might stand a chance of living. Now we run from here as you say and launch ourselves into the air-all at their mercy.”

  Christopher sat down, stretched his legs out, shook them a little to work the kinks out, then realized that was a mistake since the bruises stung. “Neil, we can sit here and bicker for the rest of the day and eventu­ ally be caught and all of this discussion would have been for nothing. And the longer we sit here and talk, the more you’re going to talk · yourself out of this. Let’s go. At least you’ll know if you’re right.”

  “About what?” the barbarian asked.

  “If this is where I get you killed.”

  As Christopher pushed himself up to his feet, the pounding, chaotic beat of many footsteps rose in the stairwell behind them.

  “Alert the herald, the cupbearer, and the chef,” Doyle said. “We have guests for dinner.”

  “Don’t jest now!” Neil whispered loudly to Doyle. “All right,” Christopher said, feeling his breath

  suddenly go short as he inspected his friends. “Doyle, you’re loaded up and you have your blade. Good. Neil, you have your spatha and I have mine.”

  “All the good they’re going to do,” Neil said bleakly.

  “Ready?” Doyle asked, a near-maniacal grin splitting his hairy face wide open. He loved this. Too much.

  Neil looked about to cry. He would not nod in response to Doyle’s question.

  “Go,” Christopher said with a shudder.

  Doyle broke for the archway and jogged into the sunlight of the north wall-walk, his crossbow up and scanning from side to side.

  Neil hesitated for a second, but Christopher shoved his shoulders and forced the archer out of the alcove. Once outside, Neil could do nothing else but follow Doyle. He seemed too afraid to come back.

  Christopher lingered a second in the doorway, looking to see what the reactions of the archers would be. He should be close on the heels of his friends, but not knowing if an arrow was about to be sent into his back was too much; it drove him mad.

  Now he knew. It was perfect. No one noticed Doyle and Neil as they charged toward the north parapets. He adjusted his grip on his spatha and­ “Kimball !”

  Christopher cocked his head, and his gaze at once filled with the image of a young Saxon lunging at him, a broadsword clutched in both of the demon’s hands. Over the Saxon’s shoulder, at the entrance to the landing, stood Seaver. Christopher had second­ guessed Seaver, and the short Saxon had done the same-with a little help. At Seaver’s side stood the mat weaver, a blade held to his throat by a squat sen­ try.

  “One of the boys said too much,” the weaver yelled. “He didn’t mean it! An accident!”

  Christopher heard the man’s plea for forgiveness, but had no time to consider it. His gaze flicked back to the oncoming Saxon. In the last possible second, his spatha came up to meet the Saxon’s now familiar­ looking broadsword, and the fighter’s blow was increased substantially by his driving pace. Christopher was slammed out past the archway and onto the wall-walk. Metal ground on metal, and the muscles in Christopher’s forearms bulged with exer-tion. It was hard to maintain balance. The Saxon did not drive steadily into him, but with unexpected bursts of force. His sandals scuffed over the stone, slipped, found purchase, then slipped again.

  “Christopher!”

  He heard Doyle’s call behind him, but he could not chance a look at his friend. While holding his blade fast to the Saxon’s, he yelled back, “Just go! Go!”

  Seaver stepped onto the wall-walk and called up to the archers in the northwest battlement, “Hurry! Shoot them!” Grimacing, as though the movement pained him, Seaver pivoted and pointed to his left, toward the parapets behind Christopher where Neil and Doyle were about to leap off.

  Up to that moment, it had been a good plan, a sound plan, a plan that was admittedly haphazardly conceived, but one which had served them well. Christopher was proud of his newfound capacity to think on his feet. Unfortunately, all of that meant nothing now, absolutely nothing. He stood, blade locked with a Saxon, and was more angry at himself than anyone in the world-including Seaver and Kenric. And the anger, he knew, weakened him. But he could not quell the feeling. He had to stop punish­ ing himself and start punishing the swordsman.

  Doyle let out a cry that drifted away. Christopher guessed that his blood brother had launched himself from the parapet. A moment later and-Ka-thunk!­ he hit the moat.

  The shouts of many of the Saxon archers echoed Doyle’s fall into the water, and during them, another Ka-thunk! resounded. Christopher prayed that noise was made by Neil. It did sound a little louder than Doyle’s splash.

  The Saxon ripped his broadswordaway from Christopher’s spatha, and the action sent Christopher stumbling forward. He’d been tricked by this maneuver before, and though he fell prey to it once again, he was quick to reclaim a fighting stance.

  He was a polite fighter, this one, giving Christopher all the time he needed to regain his com­posure. The sword he used was-

  . No! It cannot be! He wields my sword!

  Seaver, you lout. Though I don’t subscribe to your ways, I will not let you dishonor me before your men. I will not die by my own sword. If I go, an arrow will take me.

  “Don’t fire at him! Don’t fire!” Seaver ordered the archers in the west and east battlements.

  Christopher pitched a look at those in the north­ west tower; there were five men pressed along the east wall of the battlement, their longbows drawn and trained on him.

  It was something that shouldn’t have crossed his mind but did, since the fight was paused, though be it only for a second. This moment, this speck of time that would pass and be gone and long forgotten, could very well be his last memory. And what he would remember of it was the fact that never before had his life strayed down such a perilous path. The chaos of the battlefield was just that; one could be killed and never see one’s killer. Fate seemed much more alive there. Here, if fate existed, it hid behind the long rafters of clouds that fettered the late afternoon sky. The elements of chance were gone. These men were close,
very much armed, and very much wanting to kill him. He was their only target, as was the swords­ man before him. And all of these opposing forces were not directed by fate, but by a little, wincing man in an ornate tunic with a flame in his heart and throat.

  Seaver shouted to him, “Go on, fight Ware. Fight him well. But tell me one thing before you cross swords and lose your life. How is it that you escaped?”

  Instead of addressing the little man gone awry, Christopher utilized the time to further deliberate his plight.

  He eyed the Saxon known as Ware and hated the way he handled the broadsword Baines had given him, hated the fact that the Saxon’s sweat was upon its intricately detailed hilt. He noted that the young man had trouble keeping the blade up, and swung it slower than he should. Ware was obviously unaccus­tomed to combat with a broadsword.

  He glanced at Seaver, whose expression told of his demands; he waited impatiently for an answer. No, Christopher would not betray Owen. Though he and Neil had become pawns in the political strife of the Saxons, and Owen had used that as his only reason for freeing them, deep down Christopher suspected Owen was glad to release him. Christopher and Owen shared one thing in common: both were will­ ing to risk their lives for their beliefs; in that they had found mutual admiration.

  Once again, Christopher spied the archers in the northwest tower, then craned his head ever so slightly to the south and the east to see that many of the archers along those walls had turned from the parapets to level their bows on him. If Seaver ordered them to fire, Christopher would be struck by over a score of arrows. He could only imagine with a swallow what that would feel like.

  There were a hundredscore better ways to die.

  He looked to his immediate right, to the north wall, a mere two yards away. It was slightly higher than his head, with the gaps in the battlements com­ ing down to about his waist. He couldn’t see much through the gaps. He wouldn’t even be able to esti­ mate the distance between the berm and the moat before leaping-if he. got the chance. He would have to draw Ware close to the wall, keep his back to it, then leap backward, land on his rump inside the gap and then tumble off the wall, all while trying to ignore the soreness of his stone-beaten body. He would have to remember to roll hard, in order to launch himself far enough away to hit the water and not the muddy bank just beyond the wall. He figured he would be able to do that if he pushed off as hard as he could; he doubted he had the strength to actu­ ally overshoot the moat. But that would be his luck, wouldn’t it? Well, not if St. Christopher had anything to say in the matter. Hopefully the patron would guide him toward the stagnant water.