Squire's Blood

by Peter Telep

  His friend moved toward him. Christopher dropped the bow. Their embrace came hard, and as he felt Doyle squeeze his body, he returned the squeeze, damning to hell the stitches on his chest.

  Doyle broke the embrace and gathered his things from the ground. He slung the riding bag over his shoulder and, for a moment, Christopher thought he saw a tear in the archer’s eye, but couldn’t be sure. Doyle would not look at him.

  The archer started off without another word. Christopher hobbled toward the cart with the long­ bow and quiver, repeatedly repressing the desire to glance back at his friend. To look back was to hang on, and he had to let go. He closed his eyes and asked Saints Michael, George-and especially Christopher­ to watch over his friend.

  EPILOGUE

  Injured, and relieved of his duty as squire of the body, Christopher saw no point in staying in Shores even a day longer. Immediately upon his return from saying good-bye to Doyle he sought Orvin, wanting to ask his master if he would like to accompany him back to Merlin’s cave. It was time to be reunited with his family. In fact, he needed Orvin to escort him; he could not remember the exact way back. The first time he had traveled to the cave he had been forced into black sleep by Orvin. And he had fled the cave so abruptly the details of the trek were vague, a forest here, a crag there; how the landmarks related to each other had been forgotten. Once on the canyon road, Christopher knew he would be all right. But he would never find that road without the old knight.

  Orvin sat on a dusty, warped cider barrel outside his tent, nibbling on a handful of wild berries. His gaze was fixed on nothing in particular, as he was hard in thought-most likely contemplating the taste of the berries. He scarcely looked up as Christopher hitched near. “Oh, the saint. Splendid.”

  “Orvin, I’m upset with you.”

  “Are you ready to leave now?” he asked after swal­ lowing a berry.

  How do you know I want to leave? “Uh, yes. But-” “I’ve managed a courser, believe it or not. Your courser, the one you rode into battle. And a mule for myself. Our riding bags are filled and strapped. Now,if you’ll help me up.”

  “Wait a moment. Why didn’t you come to see me? I’ve been here two, no three days. And I’ve been unable to find you.”

  “When I’m needed, I am to be found. Otherwise-” “I did need you.”

  “No, you did not. But now you do. Would you like one of these?” He extended a cupped hand filled with berries.

  “No, I’ve learned to hate those. Now, please answer my question.”

  “Back to making demands, are we?”

  Christopher softened. “I’m sorry. I meant no disre­spect. I just thought-”

  “You still need me for guidance, young saint. But there are things you must do alone.” He nodded over his own words, a self-agreement. “But I believe you already know that, don’t you?” He smiled, his gapped, yellow teeth stained purple from the berries.

  “Can you help me now? Can you make it easier for me to go back and face Marigween after I ran out on her and our son?” Christopher took another step toward Orvin, close enough so that he could put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. In a tone that exposed his des­peration, he added, “Tell me you can make it easier.”

  “I can make it easier.” Christopher sighed. “Good.”

  “Now, if you want an answer to your question-” “I thought you just answered it!”

  “I did not. I repeated what you wanted me to say.”

  Christopher huffed. “No games, Orvin. Can you help me?”

  “No.” He raised a bony index finger. “But I am marvelous company for the ride-and you do need me to navigate our way to the cave. So help me up.” He lowered the finger and proffered the hand.

  Brooding, Christopher helped his master to his feet, hearing the old knight’s bones crack once, twice, a third time. “Was that you?”

  Orvin pushed the rest of his berries into his mouth then wiped his callused palm on his breeches. Chewing, he replied, “With the passing of each win­ter, I find my body acquires another creak or crack. I feel in due time my bones will rattle even louder than my armor used to.”

  “I believe they already do.”

  “That makes me feel wonderful,” Orvin chided with a smile, “you young snake.”

  “Where are our mounts?” “I’ll show you.”

  As Orvin led him around the tent, Christopher sked once again, “Are you sure you cannot tell me what to say to Marigween upon my return?”

  “Oh, of course I could tell you,” Orvin answered, “but I’m going to have too much fun seeing you sweat for three days over it!”

  “Orvin, you are supposed to teach, not taunt!”

  “I’ll tell you this. Open your heart to her. You are balanced now. Look very deeply into her eyes. The words will come.”

  They had spoken often of women, and Orvin had always warned him about not looking too deeply into a woman’s eyes; it was the undoing of a man. “Are you sure?”

  “I am certain of nothing, save for my faith in you.” “Then may your faith make things come to pass.” “Trust yourself, Christopher,” Orvin said. “Trust

  yourself, and God.”

  He surprised her when he stepped into the back of the cave. She was in the process of donning her shift. Their son slept soundly in the trestle bed, his tiny face a little fuller, a little rounder than Christopher remembered.

  “I’m sorry I-”

  “I don’t-”

  “I don’t know what to say either,” Christopher blurted out.

  Marigween tied the shift behind her back, smoothed the garment out over her waist and hips, then wrung her hands. “Merlin assured me you would return, but I doubted him.”

  “There is so much I want to say, I don’t know how to do it.”

  “It can wait a moment.” She stepped quickly toward him, her shift billowing behind her. She extended an arm, and he knew a long-awaited embrace was imminent.

  Then she drew back the arm and smacked him so hard across the face that the blow wrenched his head right, causing a muscle in his neck to painfully stretch and tighten.

  “Don’t ever leave me like that again,” she said. “This is our child. Ours. We are both responsible.”

  The image of a starry night was superimposed over Marigween’s face. A hand went reflexively to his cheek, to where the fire was. For a moment he thought about protesting the blow, but then he realized he had it com­ ing. Certainly he had much more coming for what he had done. Marigween, thus far, had been merciful.

  These are truly the days when we must all atone for our sins. Doyle, you are not alone.

  Something warm trickled onto Christopher’s upper lip, and his finger went to the warmth. Blood.

  Guilt swept over Marigween’s face. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean to-let me get a wet rag.” She turned from him and circled around the bed.

  Christopher pinched his unbleeding nostril with an index finger, tilted his head back, and inhaled deeply to keep the blood in. Then Marigween’s hands were upon his face, ministering to his nose.

  “Here, let me wipe it,” she said softly.

  Christopher removed his hand from his face. The rag Marigween used was cool and damp and felt very good. As she continued to wash him, he said, ‘Tm sorry.”

  “Don’t talk. You’ll bleed again.” “I deserve to bleed.”

  “You’ve bled enough already,” she said. “I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.” She lowered her rag.

  “I thought you were going to-”

  He was cut off by her kiss, and he fell so easily into her embrace he forgot all about his nose and his stitched chest and leg, and all there was in the world was her smooth body against his. And then the liquid warmth of his blood touched his lip and cheek once again.

  Marigween pulled away from him, a thin trickle of blood staining her cheek. She smiled, quickly wiped her own face, lifted Christopher’s chin with a finger, then began to clean him all over again. “I still don’t know if Iforgive y
ou yet,” she said.

  “Please do.”

  “I might … in time.”

  “I have time.”

  “We have time.”

  “I think it has stopped.” Christopher lowered his head and stopped breathing, waiting for the blood to come again; it didn’t. “There. I’m all right.” He directed his gaze to his son in the bed; the infant’s eyes were open and his fingers flexed slowly. “May I hold him?”

  Marigween nodded, crossed to the bed, and lifted the child. She cradled the boy in her arms and brought him to Christopher. “Here. Keep his head up.”

  There was magic in the realm, and all of it was contained within Christopher at the moment he accepted his son. All of his black emotions were winked away. There was no fear in his heart, only a brimming love that poured forth with an intensity that could span lifetimes. The eyes of the boy, the face, were his. And he was so proud to be the father of this child. This was his blood, a part of him he could never, ever escape from-nor did he want to anymore. He thought of the future, how he would teach his son to be a man, even as he learned to become one himself. He would teach the boy to make saddles, in honor of Sanborn, and teach him to squire, in honor of Orvin, Hasdale, and even Garrett. And he would tell him about Baines and Doyle, and all of the other boys who served so proudly in the Celt armies with him. Beaming, he would tell his friends, “See there, that’s my son!” And finally, he would teach the boy, as Orvin had taught him, how to become a true servant: to his heart, his mind, and to God.

  “He hasn’t a name,” Marigween said, her gaze trained on the child. “I waited for you.”

  “You know,” Christopher said, “I never asked my parents why they named me Christopher. I knew they named me after the patron saint of travelers, but I never asked where they got the idea.”

  “Would you like to name him after a saint?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. We could name him after your father, Devin.”

  “Or after Orvin,” Marigween suggested. “I know how much he means to you-and I’m sure he would be more than flattered.”

  “There are two brothers who mean a lot to me as well,” Christopher added. “Doyle and Baines. What do you think of those names?”

  “They are strong, fine names. You know, we could name him after you … “

  “Oh, no,” Christopher said. “I don’t want our son to have to suffer through Orvin’s ‘young patron saint’ this, and ‘young patron saint’ that. That is my sen­tence, and my sentence alone,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Then what is his name?” Marigween threw up her hands in frustration.

  “I still do not know. But hear this, I will not do to this boy what is done by the fathers of so many. I will teach him saddlemaking and squiring, but if he wishes to do something else, then so be it. It would be nice if his name could reflect the freedom I want him to have.” “Were we bards, we could think of such a name!”

  Marigween said.

  Christopher furrowed his brow in thought. “There is another thing to consider. It will be known, no matter how hard we try to conceal it, that he was born a bastard. Arthur’s influence over the church is not strong right now, and they will condemn us, whether we marry or not.”

  Marigween looked her question.

  “I will ask you to marry me, Marigween. But I want the moment to be right. It will be soon.”

  She closed her eyes and nodded.

  Christopher continued: “Our son will need a very, very strong name, if, for nothing else, to carry him through the scoffing and chides he will receive. He will grow up to become a gallant man, of that I am sure. A strong name will prove a vital shield.”

  A voice from the far end of the cave chimed in: “Strong deeds make a man strong, young saint. A name means nothing if not backed by valor, honor, courage, compassion, and faith.”

  Christopher craned his head and saw Orvin stand­ ing in the shadowed entrance. “Have you an idea what we should name this boy?”

  “As I said, there are some things you must do alone. I think you can manage naming your own son!” With a laugh, Orvin turned and shuffled away toward the light outside.

  “Are we making this too hard?” Christopher asked. Marigween nodded. “Let’s name him after one of your friends. Baines has passed, and you spoke so often about him. Let our son carry his name.” “Are you sure?”

  She nodded.

  Christopher gently rocked the bundle in his arms. “Do you like your name?” he asked his son. “Baines. It is a fine name, short and strong. You will wear it as well as my old friend did.”

  He handed his son back to Marigween and watched as she parted the neckline of her shift and exposed one of her breasts. Baines took to it immedi­ ately, a thirsty little fellow, Christopher thought. He dragged himself to the bed and sat down. Then col­ lapsed onto his back and yawned contentedly.

  Time spent in the cave would be a much-needed holiday to heal himself, and he would savor every moment of it, for he knew the day would come too soon when he would return to Shores and rejoin the siege on the castle. Not only would he face the Saxons again, but a new banner knight, Woodward. He and that lord would have much to talk about… .

  Christopher drove the dire thought from his mind. He would fret over that meeting when the time came. He lifted his head as Marigween sat down on the bed beside him. He watched mother and child, absorbed by the beauty and warmth o them, his family.