by Peter Telep
Montague sighed, and before he even spoke, Doyle knew a plea was forming. “I doubt they’ll see it, let’s spark up a fire. I’ve got to get some warm drink in me to settle this bum.”
Doyle turned fully toward the highwayman, then slowly shook his head. “No, Monte. We’re going back up this hill and staying undercover with the horses this evening. Those sentries down there will be moving farther and farther out, maybe even into these foothills. I don’t want your cure for an upset stomach turning into an invitation for them. I still have a lot of cider left. Drink it cold. And stop moaning.”
Montague’s pout was so immature that Doyle trembled with the desire to smack it off his cherubic face. He huffed away his anger and strode past Montague, sidestepping over the large spine of an oak root that rose above the earth.
All he wanted to do was get to Blytheheart and put his life back into some kind of remote order. Why did they have to run into a Saxon army? Wasn’t being banished penance enough? Wasn’t having Montague as a companion punishment enough?
Doyle paused, hitting a mental roadblock in the path of their future. He turned back to the fat man. “What if the Saxons control the port?”
Montague belched, sighed, groaned softly, caught his breath, then began to trace Doyle’s path back up the hill. His gait was carefully measured in an obvious attempt to keep his delicate, fat belly from being jarred by the rocks, weeds, and roots that littered the ground. He walked as if barefoot on broken glass. “If you’ll show a little compassion for me, I’ll tell you.”
“All right. All right,” Doyle said, “I’m, oh well, I guess I’m sorry for, for that.”
Montague smiled, the hairs of his mustache curling. “That’s my laddie. Now, don’t you know the Saxons don’t need control of Blytheheart?”
Still waiting for the mountain of a man to catch up, Doyle dropped his weight to one leg in disgust. “Will you move?”
“Patience, laddie, please! Oh, there it goes again.” He stopped, palmed his too-swollen abdomen. “Lord, strike me down dead now—or cease this pain.”
Doyle swore aloud, went to the man, slung a giant arm over his shoulder, and began dragging the other up the foothill.
“Easy now, lad, easy. Yes, that’s it. That’s good. Here we go now. Here we go.”
“Take your mind off the pain,” Doyle ordered him,“and tell me why the Saxons don’t need control of Blytheheart.”
“Well,” Montague started between pants, “they’re already trading freely there under the condition that they will not use the port for military purposes.”
“What?” Doyle asked, even before the disbelief caused one side of his mouth to twitch.
“Aye. The abbot of Blytheheart negotiated an agreement with the Saxons moons ago.” Montague chuckled a bit. “He’s even allowed Pict cogs to dock and fill their holds with grain, and perhaps by now, even more.”
“Celts are trading with Saxons and Picts?”
“Not only trading, but secretly supplying their armies. The Jutes’ll be next.” He cocked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Those Saxons down there in the valley are probably dressed in wool and armor made by Celts, are riding horses bought from Celt hostlers, and are eating food grown, shipped, and sold by Celts. Doubt me? Take a look at one of the horseshoes in my pack. It bears the stamp of a Celt guild. True, the horses could’ve been stolen, but I wager they weren’t.”
Doyle stopped, and in a fierce, fluid motion whipped Montague’s arm off his shoulder. He backed away from the man as the newly formed, tight ball of anger bounced a few times within the pit of his stomach. “Those merchants … they’re traitors!—all of them.”
Montague pursed his lips, one of his chins lifting. His gaze dropped to a patch of sun-yellowed grass now gray in the half moonlight. “You call them traitors. I call them gifted.” He lifted his eyes to regard Doyle with an emphatic stare. “The Saxons, Picts, and others first came here because their lands were poor. We called them barbarians, but they learned our ways. Now they’ve employed our land better than we ever have. They’ve brought ideas from the Orient and from those strange holy lands, and now they have capital and a burgeoning trade. They’re not going anywhere. They won’t be driven out. And when the war ends, it won’t be Arthur or that Kenric you spoke of who’s victorious. The merchants gifted with foresight will be the ones wearing the crowns.” He paused for effect. “Us.”
Doyle widened his eyes and stiffened. “If we’re going to do business with the Saxons, then I don’t want any part of it.” His right hand tingled with that accursed feeling, the feeling like he still had a right index finger and thumb.
Montague stepped toward Doyle, reached out to reassure him. “No, no, no,” he said as Doyle retreated a step, “this abbot of Blytheheart—he’s a very agreeable old man. I’ve been thinking about this during our ride. Listen. I want to propose a long-term contract with him, say seven years. He’ll pay us a cash sum in advance and a fixed annual payment. For that, we will purchase and or commission all of the articles and artwork for his abbey as well as the monastery, some to be on loan for the various feasts, some to become permanent fixtures. I know he’ll pay handsomely for our expertise. We’ll acquire merchandise for him from as far away as Wales, or maybe even sail like the Saxons to the Orient. He’ll pay our travel expenses and all the rest. I think that friend I told you about can get us a meeting with him.”
The idea softened Doyle’s temper a hair. They wouldn’t be trading with Saxons. Yet the abbot of Blytheheart seemed bound not by God and his laws, but by correct numbers. He had named his price, and the Saxons and Picts had paid it. As his port flourished, so did he. Doyle guessed the abbot would have to confess his sins hourly to be truly forgiven. His transgressions probably piled as high as the greatest peak in the Quantocks.
“So,” Montague said, finally close enough to rest his palm on Doyle’s shoulder. “What do you think?”
Doyle considered the question, realized it didn’t matter what he thought. They should figure out what to do once they reached Blytheheart. If they got there at all. He told Montague, “I think we should take turns sleep ing tonight. When you’re awake, concentrate on a route around the army. And we’re going to have to cross that river. We’ll probably have to swim for it.”
Montague drew back his head, repulsed by the idea. “I haven’t been—”
“Don’t worry about swimming. You’ll float, as much as that’s hard to believe. Now let’s go. I want to move before sunrise.”
“No,” Montague complained, “not before sunrise. And why is it hard to believe that—” he cut himself off. Doyle directed his attention to the top of the foothill and put his legs in motion for that destination, leaving Montague behind. “Live or die. Your choice,” he called back.
“Live or die, live or die,” he heard the fat man repeat under his breath. “If I were ten years younger and ten pounds lighter …”
“Make that one hundred pounds!” Doyle corrected. “Hey. Watch it, laddie. Just watch it. You need me to get that meeting with the abbot.”
“And you need me,” Doyle pointed out, “to get there at all.”
10
The knight lay on his back, his face exposed through his open bascinet. A javelin sprouted from his breastplate, and a gauntleted hand still clung to the pole. Marigween could see how the man’s skin had rotted to the bone. The knight’s beard seemed attached to his jaw without the aid of flesh to hold it there. With his lips gone he smiled forever, a perverted, toothy grin that sent shivers through her. Grass sprouted up around the knight, covered his legs almost completely. Had she been riding any faster, her horse would have tripped over the corpse; the fact that she hadn’t was the only thing to be thankful for right now. She finally knew where she was, all right, and the news was dreadful.
Five years had passed since she had gone with father to Bristol, and she remembered they had taken the northernmost route through the Mendip hills, a route that looked very much like the
one before her. Then there was the knight. Christopher had told her of his trek into the Mendips with Hasdale’s army. He had told her of a dead knight they had encountered. Marigween even remembered his name: Wells. He had betrayed Hasdale and was banished. All—of this really meant that somehow she had steered north of the five guards and wound up here, on ground Christopher had once trodden.
She was south of Bath, only a day’s ride away from the town. The temptation to rest there was strong, but a diversion would only mean delay and questions from curious innkeepers. If this dead knight was an omen, so be it. She would not stop now.
Marigween expected the temperature to drop at night, but she had not figured the elevation or the harsh, northern wind into her expectations. She knew that even in August the Mendips were cold—but would they get colder than this?
After pulling the hood of her cloak over her head, she slid Baines’s blanket over his shoulders. She wished she had a little woolen cap the child could wear, but wishes did nothing to fight the cold. How much farther would she ride until settling for the night? The present land scape seemed dangerous and offered no respite from the elements. The only thing she could do was look for an oasis of timber somewhere, get out of this vulnerable grassland. Even the smallest stand of trees would break the wind and provide a bit of cover. She had to decide whether to head north or southwest in search of a camp, for each of those directions represented a different course to Blytheheart.
She could go north over the route she was slightly familiar with, arrive at the coastline, and follow it down to Blytheheart.
If she chose the southwestern path, she would traverse the foothills of the Mendips, parallel the main hills until she got to the Parret River. Once across the water she would ride the northern ridge of the Quantocks into Blytheheart.
The second route was shorter, the terrain easier. But she was unfamiliar with the landscape, and could get lost again. However, she wouldn’t have to cross a river.
If she rode north she would have to contend with the cold, sometimes rocky hills of the Mendips.
Baines coughed, followed it with a soft gurgle. Marigween reached down and felt his nose; it was very cold and running. The child was bound to get sick from subjection to the extremes of heat and cold. She had to get him to Blytheheart, to steady warmth, as soon as possible.
She would ride southwest. It was the shortest route. Surely there was a toll crossing over the Parret River.
The moon was low on the horizon and the silhouette of a mountain peak shaved off the bottom of the half disk. She turned her horse away from it and kept the hills to her right, the northern wind at her back.
Less than a score of yards away from the fallen knight, she heard barks from what sounded like a pair of wolves. Her rounsey neighed, bucked, and snorted in alarm. She stopped the horse, reined him around, and cantered back to the knight. There, she twisted and tugged the javelin free from the knight’s chest, tightened her grip on the cold, sanded wood of the shaft. She coaxed the rounsey into a trot; he bucked again as more wolves announced their presence.
Marigween could not pinpoint the location of the wolves, but even as her gaze fought into the gloom to catch a glimpse of them, her mind had already placed her in the chilling center of a small pack of the snarling, drooling, beasts, gleams firing in their yellow and gray eyes as they caught the scent of the tender child strapped to her chest.
11
When Christopher returned to his tent he learned that Clive, the junior squire under him, had loaned Christopher’s courser to Sir Bors, whose horse was ill. Bors needed Christopher’s mount to lead a lance of scouts north to the Cotswold hills. A Pict army was said to be gathering there.
Christopher threw Clive to the ground, leapt on him, and then pinned him. “You fool!”
“I’m sorry, Christopher. I thought, 1-1 thought it would be all right.”
After catching his breath, Christopher swallowed the drool that had gathered in his mouth. He held the scared, blond twelve-year-old another moment, let out a sigh of disgust, then released him. “Clive, I do not … it’s just … I apologize. I acted with my heart—not my head.”
Clive sat up and brushed the dirt from his shoulders. “No, it was my mistake, Christopher. You need not apologize.”
He explained to Clive why he needed his horse so badly, and while the junior squire set about hunting down a replacement mount, Christopher packed for his journey. In about an hour his preparations were complete, and he stood tapping a boot restlessly outside his tent. Riding bags, leather backpack, and two new sheathed spathas lay on the ground next to him. He was successful in acquiring some apples, raisins, and pears, cider, pork, and a small sack of oatmeal. The pork was fresh and would have to be eaten within the next two days. After that, he’d be living on the fruit and oatmeal and whatever game he could acquire.
Despite being ready for the trip, there were two things he lacked. First, the broadsword Baines had given him. When he had fallen off the wall-walk and plunged with Ware into the moat, he had lost the sword. The siege on the castle made it impossible for him to retrieve the weapon from the bottom of the moat. Once he had taken Baines with him to fight the Saxons; then Baines had died and he had taken the boy’s sword with him, for strength and luck; now all he had was a longing for the sword and a clouded vision of the boy in his mind. He had named his son after the youth who had inspired him to become a squire, and that was where the memory of Baines was reborn and would live on.
Christopher also lacked the spirit of another friend. The longbow and quiver that had been given to him by Doyle were not packed for the journey. The bow was too large and cumbersome, and meant to be fired while standing, not mounted. Christopher wished there was some way to get around the how’s size, for he longed to carry it with him. The weapon represented Doyle’s past life, and his relationship with Christopher. Doyle gave up the bow, releasing a life, a relationship, a past. Christopher did not feel worthy of possessing the bow; loading an arrow was somehow an unholy or desecrating act. To fire it would seal Doyle’s fate forever, and, since receiving the weapon, Christopher had never done so. Perhaps it was for the best that the bow remain in his tent. Yet he couldn’t help feeling he should have both Baines’ broadsword and Doyle’s longbow with him. In that way he would not be journeying alone. The spathas he had were freshly forged and quite functional, but they were dead metal. They lacked life, spirit, history. There was no sweat of past engagements settled into their grips, no battle scars across their shafts. They were ordinary and somehow not ready for battle. They were untried, untested, and chancy. Yet his reluctance over the weapons would never be strong enough to stop him. It would take a far greater force to hold him back from saving Marigween, Orvin, Merlin, and Baines.
He stood outside his tent for eternity and a day, or at least it felt so. Twilight was long forgotten by the time Clive returned. The boy led, no—it couldn’t be.
“Christopher! I found you this mare.” Clive’s excitement was matched only by his naivete. “Look at how white she is, like a cloud, and judge her gaskins. Perfect, aren’t they?”
He grabbed Clive by his shirt collar and yanked him close. A familiar pale mask instantly gripped the boy’s face. “Do you know whose mare this is?”
“I’m sorry,” Clive squeaked back. “I thought you wouldn’t know.”
Christopher unhanded the squire. “I may not be serving King Arthur anymore, but I still know his stable of mounts.” He regarded the horse. “This is Llamrei, the new mare that Lord Uryens had been holding for him in Gore. She came with the men who brought the siege machines.” He cocked his brow. “I suppose you didn’t ask the king if you could take her, did you?”
Clive’s reluctance spanned a trio of heartbeats, then he ever-so-slightly shook his head, no.
Christopher tightened his brow. “How did you get by the hostlers?”
Clive’s self-satisfied grin had a strange, feline quality to it, and the faint mustache of his pubesce
nt upper lip added to the effect. “They’re not very watchful. They didn’t even see me kick open the corral. And while they were chasing down the other horses, I led Llamrei out.”
In truth, Christopher was not the one who had stolen Arthur’s horse. He had not told Clive to steal a mount to replace his rounsey. Christopher was, however, responsible for Clive, and if Clive committed a crime, then it was Christopher’s fault. Thus, in truth, he was guilty. The situation reminded him of a quip an old gravedigger had once told him: the first rule of holes—when you’re in one, stop digging.
Accepting this mount would bury Christopher a little deeper, but there wasn’t time for Clive to find another horse.
Christopher put some fire into his gaze and prepared to speak the way his old squire trainer Sloan had moons ago, when the scarred battle lord wanted to reinforce a point. “Clive, what you did was wrong. Never do it again. I have to take this horse. It’s wrong for me to do so, but the people I love most need me now.”
The boy lowered his head. “I understand.”
“If I can flee before anyone notices,” Christopher said as he began to stroke the mare, “they’ll think she ran away.”
Clive brightened. “Yes. You’re right.” Clive apparently liked that idea better than Christopher did.
“But that’s not the truth, correct?”
“If they ask, I will not tell them anything,” Clive assured him. “I’ll say I don’t know where you are and haven’t seen you.”
“If they ask, you tell them the truth. You tell them everything,” Christopher corrected. “Don’t worry about me.” He looked to his gear. “Now help me pack her up.” Llamrei was, by far, the most amazing mount Christopher had ever ridden. She took turns effortlessly, leapt with only the slightest bit of goading. He was able to take the south trail around the ramparts at full gallop. Though his journey had barely begun, the horse was already well lathered; he couldn’t push her this hard for too long.
