by Peter Telep
The beautiful white mare, the moonlit mare of King Arthur, plunged with its legs still beating in a gallop toward a blanket of darkness. Then she disappeared into the gloom. Christopher winced as he heard her make impact with what was probably a rocky ravine beyond the shadows. He strained to hear more over the insect hum, but was accosted by another sound, a rush of air from behind him. He turned as scores and scores of bats came at him. The first few pairs knocked him onto his rump. The beating of their wings created a ghastly breath. He rolled to his side, tucked his legs into his chest and palmed his face for protection. They came and came, but didn’t pause to attack him. In a handful of seconds they were gone.
Christopher loosened his muscles, sat up, then rose. He brushed pine needles and earth from his hair, elbows, and buttocks, then stared past the sheer rock to the last point he’d seen the horse, a dismal point that hung eternally in midair.
He heard Brenna come up from behind and slowly turned his head to regard her. “You all right?”
“I’m all right,” she said, her rattled tone conveying she spoke only of her flesh, not her nerves. “Hallam’s mount scratched herself on a tree back there. I guess you didn’t—”
Christopher shook his head no. “Should we go down after my pack?”
“I don’t want to go,” she said, then sniffled and grimaced. “That poor mare. I don’t want to see her.”
Christopher flinched as his mind painted a picture of the mangled horse. “I guess it’ll be too hard to get down there anyway. And it’s dark. And we’re running out of time.”
Brenna wiped away an escaped tear, then raked fingers through her disheveled hair. She tried to get the mane out of her eyes once, twice, but on the third time she gave up with a snort; yet it was that snort which blew the strands up so that they stuck at her temples. “Out of time? We know everyone crossed the Parret River by way of that flatboat. They have to be here. I doubt anything happened to them in the foothills.”
“You don’t know that,” Christopher said sharply, perhaps too sharply. She didn’t deserve that. It wasn’t her fault he’d lost the mare. “It’s just,” he began, then gauged his tone more carefully, “I won’t rest easy until I’m sure they’re all right.”
He wasn’t lying. He’d barely slept during their entire trek to Blytheheart. When he wasn’t piked by nightmares, he tossed and turned and stared absently at the stars.
“All right,” Brenna agreed. “First help me make a poultice for my rounsey.” She leaned forward, examined the western cliffside. “It doesn’t look like there’s a way down from here. Let’s try the east side.”
As glum as Christopher felt, Brenna’s take charge attitude lifted his spirits—maybe only to ankle height—but he was, for the first time, glad she had come along. “Thanks.”
“For what?” she asked, fighting with her hair once again.
“For just … come on.” He turned away from her, and moved into the trees.
After they’d made the crude poultice from vinegary cider and mud, and applied it to the long, rather deep scrape on the rounsey’s right shoulder, Christopher told Brenna he wanted to sit a minute. His body had felt very heavy since they had ascended to the bluffs. He thought if he took the weight off his feet for a few moments he might feel better. He sat, nudged his back and head into the trunk of a pine tree, then let his arms fall onto his lap. It wasn’t a four-poster bed, but for the time being, it was a piece of heaven.
The last thing he remembered seeing was the grainy image of Brenna. She gently stroked the forelock of the rounsey and shushed the ailing horse. The last thing he remembered thinking was that he had to get up.
6
Doyle and Montague spent two nights at the Bove Street Inn. Montague pawned two of his precious gemstone rings to pay for their room and board. The fat man threw his sacrifice into Doyle’s face so many times that Doyle figured he was unrecognizable, for Montague’s martyrdom surely masked his features as efficiently as, say, dung would.
An early evening fog rolled in off the eastern channel, and it soon became so thick that Doyle could barely see the peddlers’ tents from his window across the street. He’d been waiting for Montague for about an hour now. The fat man was finally off to meet the secret friend who he’d said had just returned to the port from a trip to Gore. Doyle rose from the hard wood of the window chair, crossed to one of the two trestle beds, and plopped onto his belly. He tore off the leather glove he’d been wearing since they had first come to the port and dropped it onto the floor. He’d bought the glove moons ago in Glastonbury and had stuffed the index finger and thumb with linen to hide the loss of his fingers. But the damned thing was uncomfortable, caused him to sweat, and, further, it was odd to be wearing a glove in the middle of the summer. People knew there was something wrong with his hand; they stared oddly at the glove—the same way Montague had when they’d first met. Still, an odd look was better than one of repulsion.
It was good to have the sweaty disguise off now. The fresh air cooled his hand. He rolled over onto his back, rested his palms on his shirt, and, staring at the ceiling braces, he wondered why Montague had not let him go along to meet his friend. They’d argued about it, but the brigand had explained something about the private aspect of his relationship with his friend, about protocol here in Blytheheart, about the tenuous nature of dealing with the abbot, about merchants being good diplomats. Doyle felt as if he’d been soaked in a washing trough by Montague, that there was much more going on here than came out of the fat man’s mouth.
A knock came at the door. He looked toward the sound; it came again. Doyle sat up, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Coming.” He stood, padded to the door, then gripped the latch firmly with his good hand. He wedged one foot at the base of the door to prevent someone from forcing it in the moment he slid the latch aside. “Who is it?”
“My name is Jennifer,” she answered gently. “Montague sent me.”
Doyle slid his foot back a little from the door’s base, then threw the latch. Tensing, he opened the door enough to peer behind it. She was alone. He relaxed and widened the gap in the door.
Jennifer was his age, perhaps a year or two older, with long golden hair that was parted in the middle and fell just below her shoulders. Her brown shift had a plunging neckline and was tented by her ample bosom. Doyle had never seen breasts so proudly displayed between columns of hair, and found his gaze locked on them. In his youth he had been taught that nudity was ugly, but both he and Christopher had agreed that a naked woman was something to marvel at.
“Can I come in?” she asked, her voice a musical instrument he found very much to his liking.
Embarrassed, he lifted his gaze from her chest. He became suddenly aware of the heat in his cheeks as he moved aside and gestured with an arm for her to enter. She did so, and as he lowered his arm, he remembered his hand. Doyle quickly shut the door, then crossed to the bed. He fetched the glove from where he’d tossed it and, keeping his back to Jennifer, slid it over his three fingers. Then he turned around, lowered the gloved hand to his side, then changed his mind and hid it behind his back. He tossed his weight from one leg to the other. The heat in his cheeks rose and tingled his forehead.
She looked to the chair. “May I?”
“Uh, sure.” Seventeen years alive in the realm, and it hit him like a crumbling curtain wall: he’d never, in all that time, been alone in a room with a woman this desirable.
He took a seat on the edge of his bed and tucked his gloved hand under his hip.
“I love foggy nights,” she said. “They make me feel so cozy. How about you?”
Doyle was about to get down to business with her, ask why she was here, why Montague had sent her, but now her smile tangled his thoughts. “I guess I like foggy nights, too.”·
“How about the ocean?” she asked, shifting her position so that she fully faced him. A smooth, remarkably fine-haired calf appeared from beneath her shift. “Do you like the ocean�
��?
He grew a touch more comfortable with her, and knew he’d permitted a frown to pass over his face. “Yes, but—”
“I know, I know,” she said. “You’re wondering what this madwoman is doing in your room talking about the weather and the ocean.”
Doyle’s sigh was internal, but released his tension. He nodded.
“I think we should talk first. I love to talk. I love to get to know people. Moma says it’s wrong, but I don’t care.”
“We should talk E::-st?” She nodded.
He stood. “Before what?”
“Montague sent me, like I said. He told me a little bit about you.” She smoothed her hair with a palm, then rose to meet his gaze.
He stared at her a minute longer. He did not want to believe the conclusion he’d already reached. She appeared so pure, a golden dove. He tried to see some taint in her eyes, some line on her face that gave away what she really was; but all he saw was a beauty that at once enamored and disappointed him. He turned and rubbed a sore muscle on his neck. “You’re a whore.”
“Yes I am,” she said plainly, taking no offense. He felt her hand come to rest on his and push it from the nape of his neck. Her fingers began to knead the muscle. “Do you hate whores?”
He made a crooked smile, then turned his head a little. Her massage felt good, very good. “No.”
“The way you said that, I thought—”
“I’m not anyone to judge,” he said, not meaning to cut her off.
“Neither am I.”
“I don’t know what Montague was thinking when he asked you to come here. Well, I do know, but I don’t have any money.”
“I’ve been paid,” she said, and he felt her breath on the back of his ear.
“Did Montague pay you?”
“I work for Morna; he paid her.”
Jennifer’s hand was past his neck, massaging the back of his head. He leaned into her touch and a soft groan passed from his lips before he realized it had. He heard the lute players begin a tune that wafted from across the street and in through the open window. As he listened, he fell deeper into the trance her hand created. He pondered where Montague had acquired the money, and then something else she’d said woke another question. “What did Montague tell you about me?”
“He told me you were very handsome, but just as shy. He told me you were going to become a great merchant someday. He told me you were very lonely.” A trace of sadness edged her voice.
He pulled away from her, turned around and held up his gloved hand. “He tell you about this?”
She stepped to him, close enough so that he no longer had to guess about the color of her eyes: gray-green. She gripped the wrist of his bad hand and began to remove his glove with her free one.
“No.” He pulled back, but she held on.
She shushed him, moaned with exertion, then man aged to rip the glove off before he could free his arm.
He reflexively drew the hand into his chest. Between gasps from the struggle, he asked, “Why did you do that”? Then his rage, a thousandscore of imprisoned devils, smashed free. “You want to see it? You want to? Here!” He thrust the three-fingered hand into her face.
She recoiled as her eyes grew wide. But then she recovered as quickly and came forward. She grabbed his hand in both of hers, flashed her gaze to him, then lowered it to his fingers.
She kissed his pinky.
She kissed his ring finger.
As she kissed his middle finger, Doyle’s chest began to tremble. Tears spewed from his eyes. He yanked his hand from her grip and turned to collapse facedown onto the bed. He cried into the blanket.
“Doyle. It’s all right.” He felt her try to push him over, but he was too heavy for her.
He rolled onto his back and hid his face with his hands. He felt weak before her. It had been a long time since he’d openly cried. He’d been able to take pain and barely shed a tear. That, he knew, was what he had always done. What was it about Jennifer that made him release his emotions so freely? Was it the mere fact that she was a beautiful woman that made it so? Or was it something more? All he knew now was that he cried, cried over feeling so ugly before such beauty, cried over not feeling normal, feeling like half a man. But at the same time there was another feeling that seemed to lift, if only a little, the feeling that he was no longer alone in his pain.
“It’s all right,” Jennifer repeated.
“No, it’s not all right,” he said, his voice muffled by his hands. “You don’t know what it’s like having this. It’ll never be all right.”
She climbed on top of him, grabbed his wrists then wrenched his hands away from his face. He held his eyes shut. “Look at me,” she ordered him. “Look at me.”
He opened his eyes and felt fresh tears slide down his cheeks. He relaxed the tension in his arms after realizing he could not be more embarrassed than he already was. He surrendered to her will.
She sat up on his belly, slipped one arm up through the neckline of her dress and then followed with the other. She lowered the garment to expose her breasts, the small pink nipples hard as arrow tips. She leaned forward and wiped the tears from both his eyes.
Then Jennifer took his wounded hand, placed it gingerly on her left breast, rubbed the fingers over her nipple. She pursed her lips and moaned behind them.
Doyle’s breath quickened. He sniffled as he reached out and touched Jennifer’s other breast with his good hand. She fell forward, pressed her lips against his, and slid her tongue forward to touch his. He adjusted his lips, unleashed his own tongue in response, and made it dance with hers. He had never kissed a woman like this, but she made it seem like he had been doing it all of his life.
Soon she climbed off of him and slipped out of her dress. She twirled the garment into a rope that she snaked over her body. Her eyes bore a light that no liv ing man could ignore. Doyle rose from the bed, fumbled with the drawstrings of his shirt and breeches, threw the clothes off, then hastened beneath the covers. She slipped into the bed, and his palms found a wondrous collection of warm, soft curves.
Jennifer did things to Doyle that caused him to make sounds he had never made before. She put her lips and tongue where he’d thought no woman would dare go. It was awkward when he was on top of her, but in that soft music that was her voice he listened, and learned, and experienced something too wonderful to be real.
Perhaps the only dent in the whole encounter was the creaky trestle bed.
Afterward, he lay on his side next to her. The candle on his nightstand tossed a gentle radiance over their naked bodies. He apologized for his outburst.
“What Montague said about you was right,” she said, then sniffled and lowered her gaze. She closed her eyes and held them with her thumb and forefingers.
“What’s wrong?”
She took a long while to collect herself. Finally, she broke the silence with a laugh that had no humor behind it. She turned to him, dropped her fingers, and opened her tear-filled eyes. “I guess it’s my turn now.” She sounded as embarrassed as he’d been about crying.
“Did Montague say something else about me?” Doyle asked. He knew the fat sack was capable of telling her just about anything that might account for her present tears.
“No. I told you all he said. But I didn’t believe it. I guess I thought you really were some troubled archer with a butchered hand.” She placed a finger on his cheek. “But you’re not. I almost wish you were.”
He grimaced. “Why?”
She snuggled up to him, placed her hand fully on his cheek, and brought her lips close to his. “Because of this …” She kissed him as she had the first time, long and hard and wet. A kiss he sensed she meant. And he kissed her back with equal force, feeling guilty about how desperately he needed it, about how he suddenly wanted to cling to her for the rest of his life. Now he thought no other woman but she would want him.
Jennifer pulled back and rolled over. “I have to go now.”
They had t
urned the room into a great solar where the fantasies of kings and queens purged all fear and pain; now it was a room at an inn where a would-be merchant had just slept with a whore. The reality silenced his mouth, deafened his ears. He lay prone as he watched her dress. He dreaded her departure, and somehow felt betrayed. She said good-bye and quietly closed the door after her.
Doyle threw an arm over his eyes. He stayed that way for a long time. He thought only of her. He traced her face with a mental right hand that had five fingers, then let the hand fall down to her breasts, to her navel, then drift around her back and rest upon her small, tight but tocks. He shoved her close to him, dropped her head into the crook of his arm, and dived into her lips. Together they drifted on the breeze, high above Blytheheart. They soared and wheeled and loved.
Sometime later the door opened. He heard Montague’s voice. “What’s he got the door unlatched for, the fool.”
Doyle pulled his arm off his face, sat up, and blinked to clear his eyes. The candle on his nightstand said he’d been lying in bed for longer than he’d realized.
Montague came over to him, and the fat man wore perhaps the widest smile Doyle had ever seen split his face. “And how are you this evening, laddie?”
Doyle shook his head and tried to hide his smile. “I guess I should say thank you. But where did you get the money?”
“It’s all part of the deal I worked out with my friend.” Doyle had almost forgotten about Montague’s meet ing. “What happened? And now can you tell me who he is?”
Montague sat on his bed. The mattress buckled a whole lot under his mass. “She doesn’t want you to know, but I’ll tell you anyway. And you must never tell anyone about her relationship with the abbot.”
Something clicked when Montague mentioned that his friend was female. “Her name’s not Moma, is it?”
Montague looked surprised, then it hit him. “Jennifer told you?”
