Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  “Tell me how you escaped, and maybe I’ll let you die quickly by poison, instead of being hacked apart,” Seaver offered.

  “And I will hack you apart,” Ware added with a resolute nod.

  A salvo of epithets ignited in Christopher’s mind. Were he Lancelot, he would have, of course, voiced them. But a verbal foray with Seaver would not get him closer to the wall. He owed Seaver and Ware nothing, would give them nothing, save for a fight to preserve his own life. That was all that mattered. Marigween and his son were all that mattered. The universe narrowed to a single purpose: get off the wall-walk and get back to his family. Empty words were of no matter. The order of the day was freedom. Seaver stepped toward him, coming up behind Ware. Ware regarded his master with a quick look over his shoulder, then resumedhis gaze on Christopher.

  “Tell me,” Seaver said, a merchant’s persuasive tone temporarily waxing his voice, “and maybe I won’t even poison you. I’ll let you live.” He rounded Ware and moved just beyond the reach of Christopher’s spatha. “You and I were once friends. I taught you to blend, to seek, to find, and slip to away unnoticed. What happened to you, Kimball? The Celts have doused your fire. Poor Arthur. What a fool. His land is about to be ripped away from him­ because of his own stupidity. Is that the man you wish to serve? Squire to Arthur is it? Squire to a dolt, I say. You know we represent a new order in England. The Celts’ days are numbered. You pledged your allegiance to us once, be it under a Celt. You can do it again. Kenric is as fair and noble as Garrett was. And he is much smarter-and a lover of Celtic culture. You and he would get along magnificently. And all you have to do is tell me how you escaped. I know you did not do it alone. Save my life and I’ll save yours.” His lips curled into a patently feigned grin. “Join me.” Then the grin fell sharply. “Or die.” With a flagrant wave of his arm, he added, “Look around you. There is no escape.”

  Without thinking about it, Christopher complied. He glimpsed once again at the archers facing him from three sides of the wall, and then shot a gaze to the men in the towers; none of them were going away.

  He could take Seaver’s offer or make an attempt to fight and jump off the wall. He hated having a choice. Taking the offer would put him in bed with the Saxons all over again. With his past service to them well-known, he would be indelibly marked a traitor by Arthur and the rest of the army. So, taking the offer meant taking it for life, possibly giving up his family-or at least not seeing them for a long time. And what if Arthur won the war? Then, Christopher would spend the rest of his life in exile, or perhaps lose it altogether.

  What would Orvin think if he defected to the Saxons? His mentor, the old knight who had become not only his instructor but the only family he had had for a time, would be devastated. Christopher would betray everything Orvin had ever done for him. To willingly join the Saxons was to tum his back on the duties of a true servant; to tum his back on God.

  Why am I even considering the offer?

  Because you’re scared. Because there are so many of them with their arrows on you. Because Ware did not fall down a flight of stairs and is fresh and wants to kill you with your sword. Because you’re so afraid to die. So afraid of leaving Marigween and your baby son alone. It’s the fear that’s making you think this, Christopher.

  I’m shaking. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t give in to how I feel right now. I can’t! Blast fear! To the gallows tree with it!

  “Don’t you have anything at all to say?” Seaver asked.

  Ware turned to his master. “I believe we’ve fright­ ened him into silence.” Cocky was one word to describe Ware; another was foolhardy.

  Orvin, if you can hear me, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being so rude to you, for being so hard, for thinking I’m all grown-up already. I have so much to learn, so much I want to learn. I wish there was some way you could help me now. I need you. The sky holds no answers for me, only for you. If it has revealed my fate,and I’m to die now, then know I love you. And thank you for making me who I am this day. If there is a small part of you in me, then I have to call upon it now. I can act and not think, but I cannot help feeling the pain all over my body, and in my heart. I don’t think I can beat this swordsman. I don’t think I can do it. I shouldn’t have run away from the cave. I shouldn’t have come here in the first place. Perhaps my job is done. I have saved my friend.

  No! M y duty as a father and husband has not even started. If there is anything that should inspire me, it is that task and those people who need me more than anything in the realm. I’m man enough to know what I must do, but not sure if I can do it.

  A memory’ of Marigween cradling his son in her arms coalesced in his mind-and this time he was clearly aware of it, and welcomed it with a love that filled and warmed him. The image was far more detailed than any thus far. In one reality, he stared at Ware, but his gaze was possessed by another reality, the landscape of his mind, a panorama filled by soft, ivory skin and luxuriously long red hair; by a tender smile from full, thick lips; by eyes flecked with won­ der and joy as they stared upon the gift of life so close; by the tiny, helpless form that looked back at those joyous eyes with wide eyes of its own, reaching up with tiny fingers and smiling as she played with those fingers, the fingers of her son. And then she looked up from her son to him, an aura of light encompassing her body. When she spoke, her words came softly, gently, but carried with them a meaning more powerful than anything Christopher had ever heard in his short life. “Come home, Christopher,” she said. “Come home.”

  Squire, blood brother, father, and future husband.

  He was all of those things and would remain true to each of them. If he died, he would die loyal. To himself.

  He lifted his sword a little higher-closer to his fate.

  “So it’s to be a fight!” Ware said excitedly.

  Christopher rocked back and forth, preparing to make his first thrust.

  “I guess you are a fool after all,” Seaver said dis­ gustedly. “I let myself hope. That was wrong. You do belong with Arthur. You are birds of the same feather-a pale yellow.” Seaver spun around and stepped back toward the alcove, calling back, “Take him down in pieces, Ware.”

  “Right!” Ware screamed back, then to Christopher: “Woden awaits you!” He stepped forward, put his back to the nearest gap in the battlement, lifted his broadsword high over his right shoulder, and then brought it down toward Christopher.

  One-handing his spatha, Christopher whipped the blade right.

  Wishhh! Klang!

  He parried Ware’s thrust, but not without feeling a dreadful lurch in his shoulder.

  With timing honed to a thought’s breadth, Ware slipped his blade from beneath Christopher’s and, taking another step toward his prey, counterparried with a horizontal swipe toward Christopher’s chest.

  Christopher jumped back to avoid the sharp tip of the blade, but his reflexes were too slow. His linen shirt was sliced open across his chest, just below his nipples. He didn’t feel any pain, and wondered if the blade had actually pierced his skin. Then his chest felt warm and wet. He averted his gaze. The wound was not deep, but as he flexed his torso, he felt the tom skin pop and fold, and the pain came and dizzied him for a second. He slammed his forearm onto his shirt so that it would soak up the blood and act as a meager bandage, then he readied to face Ware once more.

  Despite his unfamiliarity with a blade as heavy as Christopher’s, Ware had already done an exceedingly good job and, of course, needed to declare that to Christopher: “Your blade has good action for steel over copper; it’s balanced well and keeps me light of foot­ most unusual for a broadsword, wouldn’t you say?”

  Christopher had developed a tolerance for men like Ware. There were some, he knew, who loved to talk during combat. These swordsmen tried to draw their opponent’s mind away from the action at hand and make him think angry thoughts that would impair his judgment and slow his reactions. Christopher ignored the words; he heard them, yes, but they had no effect; they only
made him compare Ware to the many other unsuccessful combatants he’d seen employ the same trickery.

  “What’s the matter?” Ware asked. I cut your chest just now-not your tongue!”

  Ware tilted his blade at a forty-five-degree angle toward Christopher, balancing the weapon evenly with both hands; he was quickly becoming more and more adept with the sword, bad news indeed.

  There was no opening for Christopher to exploit, but he opted to strike offensively anyway. If nothing else, it might busy Ware so much that he would be unable to speak.

  Christopher lifted his left hand to his spatha and gripped the balled hilt of the blade to add extra power to the blow. He swung the blade back to his left and brought it down sharply toward Ware, aim­ ing for Ware’s exposed forearm.

  Klang!

  The Saxon was too agile. Christopher’s advance was met by a powerful parry that not only rendered it futile, but drove him back several steps and made him lose his balance.

  Ware moved in, taking full advantage of Christopher’s staggering frame. The Saxon’s first riposte came out of nowhere, a strike from left to right that missed Christopher’s chin by inches. Had he not been tripping backward, part of his face would already be lying on the ground.

  The alcove of the northeast tower drew closer. He could not let Ware drive him back any further. He must remain on the wall-walk and make a break for a gap in the battlements.

  But Ware knew that was his plan, for the Saxon blockaded the wall with his body, stepping deliber­ ately in the way when Christopher got too close to it. Down below, to Christopher’s left, was the pair of triangular roofs that made up the ceiling of the fourth floor sleeping quarters. If he got too close to the inner edge of the wall-walk, he would fall onto the wooden shingles and slide down the valley, only to be trapped there. There might as well be an endless void centering the square walkway. If he fell into the cen­ter he would be doomed. The fall would probably leave him badly hurt so that Ware could finish him at his leisure. Or, Seaver could simply give the order to the archers.

  But I’m not going to fall in. I’m going to escape.

  I’m going to go home!

  “Enough play!” Ware shouted. “We’re fighting with swords-not quarterstaffs, squire!”

  Christopher swallowed as Ware drew back once again with the broadsword. The flurry of blows that commenced from the Saxon were swifter and harder than any Christopher had parried thus far.

  He reached up and met each of Ware’s strokes with weakening arms, and by the fourth thrust, he felt the spatha slipping from his sweaty hands.

  With his sword about to fall, Christopher withdrew and tried something he had never done before in hand-to-hand combat, a move of desperation that was as humiliating as it was risky.

  Christopher threw his spatha between Ware’s legs; it hit the giant wall stones and skittered across them behind Ware. He lunged toward Ware, seized both of Ware’s sword-wielding hands in his own, brought his head down, and bit the tender flesh on the back of one of Ware’s hands. He felt the warmth and salty tang of blood enter his mouth as the Saxon screamed and shoved Christopher away.

  Christopher fell back toward the roofs centering the wall-walk, but whirled and let himself fall behind Ware. He scrambled toward his fallen spatha, the sweat on his palms drying as he used them to pull his body along the stone. His hand met the hilt of the blade and latched onto it. He rolled onto his back just as-

  -the Saxon launched himself into the air and dropped toward him, a bloodcurdling war cry erupt­ ing from his lips.

  It was a small· gift of fate that their weapons crossed as their bodies collided; at least one sword should have pierced flesh, but neither did. On impact Christopher closed his eyes and then snapped them open as Ware, grappling on top of him, applied pres­ sure to the broadsword.

  The collision knocked Christopher onto his back, where new bruises would form alongside old ones.

  With both swords coming closer to his face, the blade end of his own in perfect slicing position, he reached up and snapped his left hand onto his right to help drive Ware back.

  He tapped into the reserves of his energy, but knew there was not enough strength there to liberate himself from Ware. This is where it would end. Seaver coaxed Ware on in the background, a mad coach with an unwavering bloodlust. The little man was joined by the occasional hoots and rising cheers of the archers. Somewhere, very far down below, Christopher heard the shouts of Celts, lone voices now, but very good ones to hear. Simple reminders of home in a dire hour. A summer gust whipped over the battlements and chilled his limbs as a low grumble formed in his throat. He pushed and pushed, drove up and up, try­ ing to get Ware away, trying again, failing again. There was always another move that came to him in situations likes this, a trip, the use of a knee or foot, or even a bit of spittle in an opponent’s eyes. But Ware’s knees pinned his own. The blades blocked his mouth. His hands were too busy to do anything else but ward off Ware, bracing and driving up his sword.

  Christopher already knew the struggle would not go on for much longer; he would be the first to con­ cede-but this was no tournament. There was no mercy here.

  Bleeding, plagued by multiple bruises, muscles and sinews tom and tired, he could only call on the mind picture of his family for more energy. He closed his eyes and concentrated on them, and try as he might, he felt the swords slip another fingernail’s length toward him.

  All I need is just one hearty shove. One heartyshove that catches him off guard. Marigween, tell me how to do it. Tell me how to come home. …

  Ware growled, then sent more of his weight down to the broadsword. “That’s right, squire, close your eyes. I, like Seaver, have a conscience. Maybe I’ll slit your throat and wait until enough blood has left you to hack you apart. Or maybe I won’t.”

  Please, M arigween. what do I do? There is no training of Orvin’s that can help me now. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to leave you and our son as I did before. I want to come home! I want to! But I’m so tired. I want so badly to go to sleep. But it will be an eternal sleep, one without you. Is it time for me to go? Tell me?

  She looked up from the child, her face radiating with the brilliance of all the stars collected into one. “Come home, Christopher,” she said. “Come home.”

  Christopher felt his body quake. Tremors, as if he were intensely cold, began and grew in intensity. His sword, pressed onto Ware’s blade, shook much more than it had from the previous exertion. No thought process had occurred that was responsible for this. It was as if his body had taken over in its own fight to preserve its life—or had it?

  No. It was them. They were inside him, a much deeper part of his being than they had ever been before. Their presence made him realize he had made a mistake. He had sought physical strength from them, one hearty shove, when that was not what would truly help him. He needed to harness the strongest part of himself there was: his love.

  It was love that rocked his being to the core, that wanted more than ever to burst from him, aid him, rekindle his tired limbs. He could not give up. He let himself go to his love.

  Finding new strength he fought back, fought back with everything he was, everything he believed in, and everything he cared for. Love blighted his pain, his fear, and his desperation, and it charged him with purpose and power. His mouth opened:

  “AHHHHHHHHHH!”

  He threw Ware right, and suddenly he was free, the pressure off his knees and blade.

  He flipped onto his hands and knees, dropped his spatha, stood, then tottered toward the battlement.

  “Don’t let him get away!” Seaver cried.

  The archers in the northwest tower screamed and argued amongst themselves over whether or not to fire. Had Seaver given the order-or was he speaking to Ware?

  Having longed for this moment for too long, Christopher could not believe it was actually happen­ ing. He threw himself up into one of the stone gaps in the battlement, landed on his belly, then hoisted himsel
f up onto the wall. At the shuffling of feet, he looked over his shoulder.

  Ware dived forward, reaching with one hand to grab Christopher’s foot, making use of his other to jab the broadsword forward.

  Exhaling in surprise, Christopher recoiled quickly, but Ware kept on coming. He tossed a quick glance behind him to view the moat below:

  At least a score of Celt mantlets were scattered along the shoreline, with probably twice as many archers behind the wooden shields. Perfect. He could exit the moat and dive for their cover, as he hoped Doyle and Neil already had. His gaze dipped the slightest bit lower to the moat itself, and that was a big mistake. Neil’s trepidation had not been unwar­ranted; the distance from battlement to moat was enough to make his heart stand still. And for a sec­ ond, he thought it had. Another sudden summer breeze raked the hair off his forehead and howled through the parapets, leaving him chilled inside and out.

  Ware reached out in another attempt to grab him while trying to pull himself into the gap.

  Christopher looked at Ware, then back over the side of the wall. A running leap with one’s eyes closed was a neat and painless way to meet the chal­ lenge. That was the method Doyle and Neil had most likely used.

  Christopher felt Ware’s hand grab his shirt and tug him back toward the wall-walk. He wrenched back, but in doing so pulled Ware up and into the gap.

  “Ware’s going to lose him! Fire! Archers! Fire!” Seaver shrieked.

  Ware let go of Christopher’s shirt. He turned around, crying, “Noooooo!”