Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  But there was no way to stop Brenna’s tears. Or his own. He wept, wept for the love lost, the memories, the simple looks she would toss his way, the tone in which she uttered his name, the softness of her hair and smoothness of her skin, the sweet honey of her lips, the way her body fitted so neatly against his when they stood embracing, as if they were truly two parts of a whole.

  Her half of him was gone.

  It had to be. It had to be.

  She slid off of him, wiped her reddening cheeks clear of tears, sniffied, then stood. “Cry, Christopher. You should. I don’t know what to say now. I guess farewell.”

  He swallowed, then rubbed knuckles over his own tearful eyes. “Wait.”

  “What more is there?”

  He heard the question and realized there wasn’t anything more. But he didn’t want her to go. He felt too miserable. He wanted somehow to atone for what he’d done. What could he say? What could he do? He didn’t just want her to leave, a sort of “sorry, I don’t love you anymore … good-bye” ending to it all.

  Was there an easy way, a gentle way to part?

  He knew there would be nothing harder on his heart than to see her tum and leave, knowing he had just taken her love for him, thrown it on the ground, and stomped it into dust. The guilt of that was oppressive.

  Who am I fooling? There’s nothing more. There’s no easy way. I am not gentle now. I am full of gu.ilt and regret, but true to what I must do.

  I will have to live with this. It is not unbearable, thought it seems so now. Let her go. From this tent. From your heart.

  “There’s, um-” he stammered, “I-I guess you are right.”

  Christopher closed his eyes, not wanting to watch her go. He thought sparing himself the very last image of her would make it a little easier. He listened to her feet over the smooth earth, heard her pull the tent flaps back and move past them.

  He kept his eyes closed, and his mind wandered back to a frozen lake, to a cool winter’s eve, to a mittened hand in his own, to a shivery voice full of promise and hope and love. “I’ll wait for you, Christopher.”

  I’m sorry, Brenna.

  ‘‘I’ll never find anyone like you!” I’m sorry!

  “How could you do this to me?”

  I’m sorry!

  “You make me feel like a fool!” I’m sorry!

  “What else is there?”

  “I guess … you are right. “

  She’s gone. She’s gone … I hurt her. God and all the saints above, forgive me.

  He knew the suffering of the battlefield, had heard the last gasps of bloodied and mangled friends, touched the blood of his own fiery wounds, and dreaded the loss of his kinsman as much as he feared for his own life. But the pain he felt now was immeasurable, and the battlefield was a sanctuary compared to its black wrath.

  It never felt worse to be home.

  12

  Soon after Brenna left, Neil returned to Christopher’s tent. He questioned his friend about why Orvin had not come. Neil quoted the old knight: ‘“The young saint’s eyes are clear, the vision of his future unobstructed now.”’ And with that, Orvin had turned and left, bound for his tent somewhere in the eastern wood.

  Orvin had deliberately left Christopher on his own to deal with Brenna. At first, Christopher was hurt and insulted that his master did not offer any guidance, but then he realized that by leaving him alone, Orvin had forced him to call upon his own inner strength to shape a small part of is own destiny. With that realization came peace, and though his sleep was troubled by his beaten body, his mind surrendered to the night.

  The growing warmth of the tent advised him it was daybreak, and·he lay there awake for some time lis­tening to the pipits and larks proclaiming what must be a clear sky, a radiant sun, and a gentle, friendly breeze.

  The rattle of armor drew near, and sunlight wedged into the tent. A bronze-armored figured low­ered his head and stepped inside, and when he straightened, Christopher saw it was the king.

  Immediately, Christopher rolled off his side and pushed himself up, about to stand. A night’s rest had done little to alleviate the pain of his wounds, and the movement caused a flash of agony to darken his view. The ground tilted down a moment, then rose level. The dizziness passed.

  “Do not get up, Christopher,” Arthur said. “My liege, I did not expect-”

  “There is a battle going on outside, but there has also been a small one waging in my heart.” Arthur tightened his lips and stroked his beard. “I have already passed judgment on your friends Doyle and Neil, and now I must do so on you.” He stepped closer and leaned over, the armor constricting him from lowering himself too far. “It’s a lonely life, Christopher, truly it is. There is no companionship in the decision-making of a king. One decides and hands down-and is judged by-one’s decisions. Oftentimes I tum to others ·for guidance, only to hear what I already know: that the decision is mine and I know what I must do.”

  Christopher understood all too well what Arthur spoke of; his evening with Brenna involved just that kind of decision-making, the most painful sort of all: decisions that involve the ones you love.

  He wanted to ask Arthur what the fate of his friends was, but was too scared to do so. He found himself intent on his own punishment. Arthur’s tone led him to believe the worst.

  “What must you do with me, then, my lord?” he asked, feeling his heartbeat steadily increase and a shiver, sparked by a mind picture of a gallows tree, rip across his shoulders.

  “You have won and failed all in the same day. And you have loved and lost, so I’ve heard. Not only that, but Sir Orvin tells me of a child-a child that is yours, a bastard son not unlike me. It seems you have a great many more responsibilities and prob.. lems than being in trouble with the king. But … I cannot ignore what you did. Yes, the information your friend Doyle told me you discovered is valu­able. Had you not been inside to see the Saxons’ sup­ plies and estimate their numbers, I doubt very much we would have found them out on our own. And for that, I thank you. But for disobeying me, I break you. You are no longer squire of the body. I am going to give you to Woodward. You will serve him now.”

  “But lord, how am I to explain my-”

  “Chamber doors have been opened and closed, new paths beaten while old ones were discarded. You will remain in Woodward’s service. I have chosen another squire of the body to replace you-until you earn back my trust. Once worthy of the title, I believe you will be squire of the body again-in time.”

  Christopher lowered his gaze, dejected, stripped of honor. “Yes, lord.” Then he added, “Who is to be the new squire?”

  “Robert of Queen’s Camel.”

  “Robert?” Christopher strained to remember who the boy was. Perhaps a newcomer. He must be. But whatdid he do to deserve such an honor? Christopher planned to find out.

  Arthur nodded. “Yes. He shall become my squire of the body.”

  Christopher could not dampen his pout. “As you wish. May I ask, what of my friend Doyle?”

  “He instructed me not to inform you of my judg­ ment-he wanted to do so himself.”

  “Lord, if there is anything-”

  “Before you beg for mercy for you r friend, speak to him.” He stretched a bit, flinching under the weight of the armor. “Heal yourself. Then go to your son. I only wish I could have known my own father. Make sure your son knows his.” In a clatter, Arthur turned and exited the tent.

  “But, lord! How am I to tell Woodward about Marigween … and my son?”

  How am I to tell anyone about them?

  13

  Two days passed before word came to Christopher that Doyle wanted to speak to him. No one had seen or heard from the archer since. The message came from Neil, who rushed into the tent and spoke in a voice made ragged by his recent run.

  “Where is he?” Christopher asked.

  “He’s down near the Cam. I’ve borrowed a supply cart and can take you there.”

  “Let’s go.”

&nb
sp; Christopher limped out of the tent, smack into the brilliance of midmorning sun. He squinted as Neil helped him up onto the flatbed. A single rounsey was hitched to the cart, and by the looks of the animal, it had not been fed or groomed in several days.

  “Are you sure this beast will get us down there?” “He will,” Neil called back. “Or I shall steal another!” “I thought you said you borrowed this cart?”

  Christopher asked.

  “That’s right. That’s what I said.”

  They took the long path around the ramparts of the castle, the one which gradually descended to the sun­ browned grass of the tourney field. The dirt road was beset by potholes, many of them . caused by the vast numbers of men who had recently moved through the area. Christopher had a far too intimate relationship with each and every one of those ditches, for the vibrations caused by them sent unseen awls through his injured leg and chest.

  “Can you slow us a little?” Christopher asked, above the rustling and creaking of the cart and the thumping of the rounsey’s hooves.

  “Why?”

  “The road is wreaking havoc with my wounds!” “He won’t wait long,” Neil cried.

  “What do you mean? Where’s he going?” “Blast! I’ve gone and done it again!”

  “What?” Christopher asked, growing more anxious. “Don’t tell him I told you, please!” Neil said with more than a little fervor.

  “He’s going away, then?” But even as he voiced the question, Christopher had already guessed the answer. “Arthur banished him.”

  “And a lenient sentence it is,” Neil replied.

  Christopher sighed to himself. “Thank God.”

  “He’ll live. But I doubt we’ll ever see him again. This is your last chance. Does it justify me stealing this cart so you wouldn’t have to hobble down to the river?”

  Christopher sullenly nodded.

  Neil forgot to slow the cart, but Christopher paid the fault no heed. He was focused so far away from his wounds that they could tear open and he might not notice.

  Good-bye, Doyle.

  Why? Why did you have to do it? Don’t tell me it’s not your fault!

  You could have risen to the challenge of your prob­ lems instead of drowning them in drink!

  And why did you have to kill? Why, Doyle? Why? Don’t tell me you didn’t know what you were doing! You did! You took out all of your anger on those two boys. Even though a dark side of me feels Innis deserved to die, it was not right. Leslie was an innocent. An innocent you killed. Your brother Baines was the one who gave me my first training, the first person to die in battle with me, the only per­ son to gift me with a great sword. Doyle, you were the one who was supposed to carry on the tradition of Baines, but you failed your brother’s memory. And you failed me.

  You never gave me a chance to help you, Doyle. You kept everything inside. You should have let me try. But no, I turn and I find you with Innis’s blood on your hands. You should have let me help.

  But I love you, blood brother. And I forgive you. But my forgiveness will not keep you in Shores. There may be a day we run into each other again. But things will never, ever be the same.

  Christopher heard the loud buzzing of several dragonflies, looked up, then realized they were already approaching the shoreline of the Cam.

  In the distance, beyond the river, the rolling hillocks were wrapped in the still-lingering morning mist, the color in the beech and oak trees washed away to silhouette. The water seemed unusually peaceful, and the tall grasses and reeds rooted in the banks were reflected perfectly, not a single ripple dis­torting their shafts. Except for the hum of insects and call of distant birds, the only other sounds were made by the hooves of the rounsey and the steady iron-and­ timber rattle of the cart.

  A figure rose from beneath a beech tree a few yards away from the Cam. Christopher squinted and saw a white bandage on one of the figure’s hands.

  Doyle met Christopher and Neil with a closed­ lipped grin, striding toward the cart in a new pair of brown breeches, new riding boots, and a clean linen shirt, the drawstring untied. His hair and beard were slick from sweat or a recent bath.

  Neil slowed the rounsey to a stop as Doyle circled around the cart and offered his good hand to help Christopher down. As he did, he said, “Thanks for coming.”

  There was mist in the air, yes, but the tension and awkwardness were far thicker. Christopher would try to put an end to that immediately. Saying good-bye was hard enough; the moment did not have to be stiff. “Did you think I wouldn’t come?’’ Christopher replied, setting his good foot upon the spongy ground, following ever-so-gingerly with his wounded one. “I’m your blood brother.”

  “This won’t take long,” Doyle said.

  “If you want me to remain here-” Neil began. “That’s fine, Neil,” Doyle said. “We’re going over by the tree.” For a second, Doyle regarded the graz­ ing rounsey hitched to the cart. “And by the way, where did you get that filthy beast?”

  “A blind man does not question the succor he receives from the sighted,” Neil said in the tone of an irked monk.

  “Indeed,” Christopher chipped in. “Nor does a thief the booty he takes from the innocent.”

  At that, Neil averted his gaze.

  “I know I am missing something here,” Doyle said, “but never mind.” He gestured with his head for Christopher to follow him toward the tree.

  Christopher was not used to limping, and found there was an art to it, though it was an art he would never master. For the first time in a long while he envied something about Doyle: his unimpeded stride. Out of breath, he made it to the tree and threw a hand up to lean upon it. He looked down at the mod­ est pile that was Doyle’s gear: a filled and fastened riding bag; a woolen cap; an arrow-filled quiver; a longbow; and … a leather flagon.

  “What are you drinking today?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual, but there was no mistaking why he queried.

  “Spiced cider,” Doyle said curtly. “So why did you want to talk here?”

  “You already know. Neil, I assume, told you?”

  Christopher could not help smiling. “You know the barbarian too well.”

  “We both do.” Doyle sighed, gazing up into the gnarled tree limbs. “How to do this … I don’t know.” He closed his eyes. “Christopher, I’m sorry.”

  He thought of saying something that would let Doyle off the hook, but he felt if he interrupted his friend, Doyle might never open up, and he wanted so badly for his friend to do it now-possibly their very last time together.

  Doyle opened his eyes, but did not continue. He bent down and picked up his longbow, stepped around the pile of gear, then pushed the bow toward Christopher. “I never gave you a birthday present back in the spring, when we were up on the Mendips.”

  Christopher accepted the weapon, his mouth sud­ denly as dry and rough as the wooden bow in his hands. “Don’t think I’m giving this to you because I don’t need it anymore, although that’s true. That’s my best bow, and I spent many nights waxing its string. And remember, it did save your life. I know you’ll always remember my brother by the sword he gave you. Remember me by my bow. It is … what I was. What we were. We’re all brothers, and I guess we think alike. I fretted over something more original to give,but I don’t have much.”

  There was no sheen in Doyle’s eyes, no rift in his voice, no nervous twitch in any part of his body. All of the pain Christopher knew he must be feeling at the moment was surrounded and kept at bay by Doyle’s uncompromising will. There was a struggle going on within the archer, for his calm demeanor was too calm, his words too steady, his body too still. He acted the part of Doyle, but was not living it. His emotions were frozen.

  But that was all right. That was Doyle. To ask any­ thing more would be asking too much. Christopher abandoned the idea of Doyle pouring out his emo­tions and would accept whatever his friend did.

  Perhaps that was just as well. The departure of Brenna from his !ife still ravaged his
system; to suffer through another scene like that with Doyle would be too much. Yet he knew, even before coming to the tree, that that would not be the case. As Doyle had said, this would not take long.

  A friendship. Blood brothers. Many moons to forge the union. One moment to end it. There was some­ thing unjust about that; it was an unwritten law, a law inherent, a law that stretched back to the day the world was born. And there was no changing it.

  Relationships are more fragile than anything else in the realm. …

  “Where will you go?” Christopher asked.

  “The Saxons moved through Falls, but word has it they’re rebuilding with the help of Nolan’s army. There’ll be a lot of traders passing through. I was raised a jewelry merchant. Maybe I can form a part­ nership with one, go to the coast, perhaps Bristol or Bath.”

  Christopher began to weep inside. Doyle had described the miserable life of a drifter, scavenging one meal to the next. And the chances he would be able to form a partnership with a merchant were slim. They brought their sons into the trade; they did not need outsiders, and those who were loners were alone for a reason-they preferred it that way.

  “I know I’m not in the position to ask,” Doyle added, “but do me one last service.”

  “Anything.”

  “When your son is old enough to understand, tell him about me. Tell him how we fought gloriously together. Tell him we were blood brothers. And most of all, tell him there is nothing more important in the world than your mother and your father. No matter what happens, they will always be there for you. Never deny yourself their love, and your own for them.”

  “That is no favor, Doyle. My son will come to know you … through me.” Christopher hated the way he sounded; he knew his voice revealed his sorrow.