Squire's Honor

by Peter Telep

  “North,” Jennifer said out of nowhere. “What?”

  “North.” Jennifer stopped. “North to Caledonia. It’s simple. That’s where he’s taking her. Why did I keep going south in my head?”

  “Caledonia?” Brenna asked. “I’ve never heard of it.” “It’s a land occupied by the Saxons. Many of their ships are built in the port towns along its coast. More than half of the customers at the back house come from there,” Jennifer noted with an edge. “Seaver is a Saxon. He’s going home.”

  After beginning to walk, Brenna’s stomach was punc­tured by a familiar and dreaded blade. Jennifer hurried up beside her. “I think I’m right. What do you think?”

  Brenna felt as if she bled from within. “Yes, you’re probably right. Christopher will find Marigween and defeat Seaver. The—nappy couple will be married and live in bliss until they are dead.” She increased her pace and dug her nails into her palms.

  Jennifer quickened her own step. “So now we learn why Brenna wants to help Christopher.”

  She came to a jarring halt, and all of it, all of the frustration and locked away love and pain rushed to Brenna’s eyes. She bit her lip and lowered her gaze at the rut ted street. The tears came. She closed her eyes. “I cannot help it. Oh, dear Lord, I love him,” she said in a voice so faint that she scarcely had heard it herself.

  “I’ve seen it, Brenna,” Jennifer said. “You can see it in my eyes when they find Doyle.”

  She sniffed. “He has a son. He will never leave her for me. She was once a princess. I have been nothing but a maid and a nurse.”

  Jennifer crossed in front of Brenna, then cradled Brenna’s chin in her thumb and forefinger, forcing Brenna to look into her eyes. “It’s obvious that he regards you as very special,” Jennifer said. “And perhaps there is something more there. But if you expected more from him, you shouldn’t have come along. He needs only friends now.”

  “I thought we could be friends. I truly did. I didn’t want to lose him and I thought I would be all right around him. But I’m not. And now he’s going to find her. And I’ll be cast aside again.” Brenna shifted her head, pulling herself out of Jennifer’s grasp. She closed her eyes and wiped her cheeks.

  “If it makes you feel better,” Jennifer said in a soft, consoling tone, “we might be wrong. The theft of those two horses could simply be a coincidence. Perhaps Seaver and Marigween are long gone by now. But all of that aside, you should not tempt Christopher. If he returns to your side, let it be his decision, not your lur­ ing that brings him.”

  Brenna opened her eyes. “I’m not luring him, am I?” “Your mere presence does that, I’m afraid.”

  “Then I should leave. And if he loves me, he’ll come back to me.”

  “At least then there will be no disputing the truth,” Jennifer answered.

  “And if he doesn’t return?” Brenna stared at Jennifer, waiting for a reply. Jennifer stood there, looking at her, a frown slowly coming over her face. Then Brenna real­ized the blond woman was not looking at her at all, but past her. Brenna craned her neck and saw two ragged-looking, sun-darkened longshoremen standing about a score of yards away. Both men gawked at them.

  “Let’s get to the other side of the street,” Jennifer sug­gested nervously.

  They moved slowly, crossing the street at an angle that would put them farther away from the young fools. But the fools did the same.

  Jennifer stopped, putting her back to the longshore­ men. Brenna did likewise. “We’re not playing a game with this filth.” And then she was at her leg, and the blade was suddenly in her hand. She whirled, bran­ dished the dagger, and then charged toward the long­ shoremen, shouting, “Brenna! Come on”!

  The two loaders were taken completely by surprise and fell sideways against a storefront wall. Brenna sprinted past the men and began to close the gap between herself and Jennifer. After a moment, she cocked her head back to see if the shoremen followed. She shivered as she noted they were no longer on the street. She ran a little farther and then stopped. The bouncing of her arm was now too painful to bear. She called to Jennifer. The other ceased her sprint, then bent down and tucked her blade back into its calf sheath.

  “This is no castle courtyard,” Brenna said, reaching her companion. “We’re simply not safe.”

  “There is no port that is safe for a woman,” she answered, and then smiled. “At least one who’s unarmed.”

  “They probably wouldn’t have bothered us if others were about.”

  “Don’t put that kind of boldness past them,” Jennifer corrected. “I could tell you a story or two of the shore­ men in Blytheheart.”

  “Tell me then,” Brenna said. “And help me stop think­ ing about him.”

  3

  “Not a soul saw them,” Doyle said as he stepped onto the gangplank, then let out a huff. “We either asked all the wrong people, or every one of them lied to us.”

  “They have no reason to lie,” Christopher said, fol­ lowing his friend up the steep board. He paused a moment to look back at the port. “He’s gone with her, all right. He’s not here.”

  “But where would he go?” Doyle asked.

  “North. To Caledonia, I suspect,” Jennifer called from above.

  Christopher hurried up the plank and crossed onto the deck. He moved around the main hatch to where Jennifer and Brenna stood near the starboard rail. “What makes you say that?”

  Brenna leapt into the conversation with an excited summary of a trip she and Jennifer had made to the sta­bles. The story’s impact was partially lost on Christopher, for he tensed over hearing that Brenna had—once again—failed to heed his words. No, she hadn’t kept herself safe, but had ventured into a dan­gerous port. Brenna finished her story and garnished it with a self-satisfied grin.

  Christopher leered her smile into a frown, then asked, “Brenna? Do you want to die”?

  She pushed herself off of the rail. “Sometimes.”

  He took a step toward her. “I let you come with me all the way from Shores.” He circled behind her, then leaned into her ear. “I couldn’t stop you. I should have known then that you wouldn’t listen to a single word of mine.” He stepped back in front of her, staring her down as if she were a squire in training. “I was not being overprotective in telling you to stay here at the cog. I was being wise.”

  Jennifer nudged herself between him and Brenna. “Let me ask you a question, Christopher. You and Doyle searched all day. What did you find?”

  “Nothing,” Doyle said from behind him.

  Christopher craned his neck to shoot a look at his blood brother, who leaned on the mast. “Thanks,” he said darkly.

  “Then you see,” Jennifer continued in a tone more urgent than before, “were it not for us you would not know about the two stolen horses.”

  “Two stolen horses may mean nothing,” Christopher argued.

  Brenna seized his shirt by the collar. “It’s not a coinci­dence, Christopher.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “We do not know for sure, but do as we have and place yourself in Seaver’s boots. You would not stay in Magdalene and you would need mounts to travel.”

  Christopher turned, and by doing so he tore Brenna’s hand off of his shirt. “To travel where? To Caledonia?” He walked toward the forecastle for no particular reason, trying to paint a mental picture of Seaver and Marigween cantering north. “And how can you be cer­tain—if he did, indeed, steal the horses—that he’s headed north? Why not south? Why not even back to Blytheheart? Why not east? Or northeast to the Savernake forest? Or to the Cotswold hills, or up the Severn to Gloucester? What makes you certain that he is headed to Caledonia?”

  Jennifer let out a small, but audible puff of air. “He is going home. Think about it, Christopher. What was he doing on the cog in the first place? You said yourself that you could not figure out why he was not back in Shores. Perhaps he’s running away from the war. Perhaps he’s running home.” She had placed exagger­at
ed emphasis on the word home, and it seemed to ring out like a Vespers’ bell and get carried on a wind that circled the ship.

  Home. How would he discover the truth? Were it only as simple as willing it into his mind …

  Christopher moved abruptly to the main hatch. He descended the ladder into the hold. To his astonish­ment, the vast cargo area was empty, and even the now­ lonely deck beams had been swept and mopped. He descended another ladder into the crew’s quarters, where he found Orvin seated on the floor and in the process of tying his long white hair into a ponytail with a short piece of leather cord.

  “I wanted to see you, but I assumed you were still out with Montague. And here you are,” Christopher said.

  “I am always to be found when I’m needed, young saint,“’ Orvin said, his voice edged with the effort of tying his hair. He fiddled with the knot on the cord once, twice, then huffed and slammed the cord into his lap.

  “Here, Christopher said, crossing past the man and dropping to his knees behind him.” “Let me do it.”

  Orvin passed him the cord. “Donella used to do this for me. She always said my hair was too long, even after she would cut it for me.”

  As Christopher gathered Orvin’s thin, coarse locks into a tail, he asked, “What happened to the cargo”?

  “That bloated pig made some kind of reckless and lawless deal with the customs master, and I believe he bribed the marshal as well. If he comes back at all, it will be with a sack full of shillings—a sack which might cost us our heads.”

  Christopher thought that if Doyle was in the room, the former archer would, at the moment, be shaking his head over the impudence of the brigand. Since Doyle was not present, Christopher did the headshaking for his blood brother. “I had a feeling he’d find some way to profit from this whole affair.”

  “Our cause was noble, young saint. But our methods were not. I fear to show my face in Blytheheart now. Marigween’s Uncle Robert and I will be blamed for tak­ing the cog. And if I’m caught, the abbot might even tum me over to the Picts. But the more I think about it, the more I do not care.” He laughed. “What would they do with an old man? I’m on the wall-walk between life and death already. They will simply give me a push. That is all.”

  Christopher finished tying Orvin’s hair and adjusted the cord. He rose and moved to face his mentor. “I’m sorry, Orvin. I did not mean for any of this to happen. When I think of all we’ve done to come after Marigween, I become ill. And it may have all been for nothing.”

  Orvin tapped his palm on the floor. “These decks are fairly solid and thick. But the hatches were open, and I heard what Jennifer said. Listen to her.”

  He squatted to level his gaze with Orvin’s. “Do you know something, Orvin? Have you seen something? Is she correct? Has Seaver gone north to Caledonia? Are you sure?”

  “The scrolls of the sky are rolled and sealed for now. Why, I cannot tell you. I only know that were I you, I would go north, for every time that I did not heed a woman’s words I plunged into trouble. They know, Christopher.” He offered his leathery hand. “Now, help me up. I’ve a cold, but delicious stew to prepare.”

  Christopher almost considered leaving his mentor on the floor, for he knew all too well the horror of one of Orvin’s stews, but perhaps a cold one would somehow taste better. As he lifted Orvin to his feet, he said a small but fervent prayer for God to guide the old man in his cooking, for he knew all aboard were surely very hungry.

  And, as it turned out later, the stew was thick and meaty and sweet. Montague returned to the ship in the middle of the meal. The brigand sat himself down on the floor opposite Christopher and was handed a bowl of stew by Jennifer before he even asked for it.

  Prior to the fat man’s appearance, the conversation had been dominated by Christopher, who had announced that he and he alone would go north to look for Marigween. Doyle had had a full quiver of reasons why he should go along, and it had taken the archer many shots before Christopher finally succumbed to his friend’s fiery persuasion. What had been odd was that Brenna had not spoken. She had appeared as if about to say something, but had exchanged a look with Jennifer and then had kept strangely silent.

  “All right, lads and lasses,” Montague said, as he was wont to do when beginning one of his speeches about what their next plan of action would be—as decided by him, of course, “I’ve been paid for our cargo, and have already employed a few good craftsmen to make us a new sail so that we’re not mistaken for Picts anymore. They assure me the sail will be ready by morning—and for what we’re paying for it, it had better be. All we need to know now is where we’re going.”

  Doyle regarded his partner. “Christopher and I are headed north to Caledonia, Monte. We believe Seaver and Marigween are up there. We’ll need provisions and mounts.”

  “I’ll purchase three horses for us immediately, laddie. We’ve easily enough for them and the provisions.” The fat man turned to Merlin. “We’ll need you to sail—”

  “Thank you, Montague,” Christopher said, cutting off the brigand before his thoughts went any further, “but we need you to get everyone back to Blytheheart. And then, if you would, sir, escort Orvin, Merlin, and Brenna back to Shores. I’ll pay you for it … somehow. If we’ve shares of the money from the cargo, then you can have mine.”

  “And you can have mine,” Brenna said.

  “And mine,” Jennifer added. “Though I think we’ll be protecting you more than you us. You’ve a wounded hand and shoulder to nurse.”

  “You can hold on to my share for me, Monte,” Doyle said. “Borrow from it if need be. But I want it.” Jennifer scowled at Doyle, who flashed her a wounded look. “I was going to spend it on you,” Doyle told her, then, under the heat of her continued stare, he corrected, “strike that, Monte. Keep my share as well.”

  Christopher set his stew bowl down, then unfolded his legs and rubbed the stiffness out of them. “It’s set­tled then. We leave on the morrow.”

  At sunrise, Christopher thanked and said his good-byes to Orvin and Merlin. Orvin gave him a long, tight hug, and told him he’d await his return back in Shores. Christopher left the cog with Montague, Doyle, Jennifer, and Brenna. While Montague and the ladies went off to purchase the supplies, Doyle and Christopher headed for the stable, where they found two strong, young rounseys, and fought over the black one, which Doyle said looked “nobler.”

  Christopher looked into the eyes of the brown roun­sey, who stared back dumbly. “You’ll not throw me, will you?” he asked the mount. “No, I guess not.” He let Doyle take the black mount. The hostler tending to them explained that bits, bridles and reins would not be a problem, as he had many to sell. Saddles, on the other hand, were hard to come by in the port and had to be ordered. Christopher knew the hostler’s dilemma well, being the son of a saddlemaker. Riding bareback would be uncomfortable and not exactly safe, but certainly eas­ier than stealing a Pict cog. Putting it into that per­spective made the lack of a saddle seem a minor inconvenience.

  “We’ll have to steal a couple of saddles,” Doyle whis­pered in his ear.

  Christopher shook his head slowly. “There’ll be no more stealing.”

  Doyle shrugged. “We could try to ride sidesaddle—without a saddle. But we’re going to fall off a lot.”

  They led the rounseys to the edge of the property encompassing the stable house, and while they were double-checking the shoes on their mounts, the others returned with two riding bags filled with provisions.

  “It won’t get you that far, lads, but at least it’s a start. You’ll find a purse in each to buy a trifle more food, but after that you’ll be on your own,” Montague said, then he noticed the mounts. “Where are your saddles?”

  “They have to be ordered,” Doyle said.

  “And we cannot wait for them,” Christopher finished. “We’ll see about that,” Montague said, then dropped the riding bags he’d been holding and marched past them.

  The fat man was a wonder to see. He managed
to talk the chief hostler out of two saddles for what Christopher considered to be a rather meager sum. If Montague had offered the man a ridiculous amount of money and had obtained the saddles, that would have been one thing, but the fact that he managed to strike a deal as lean as he did was, in short, a feat of bartering.

  While Doyle took Jennifer’s hand and led her behind the stable house to say a private good-bye, Christopher stood with Montague and Brenna, feeling like he should be taking Brenna off for an intimate farewell. But he knew that if he were alone with her, knowing he might not see her again for many moons, he might be tempted to touch her, to kiss her, for no one would know but them. But that betrayal of Marigween would sit too heavily on his heart. And it was not fair to Brenna either.

  He could barely make eye contact with the raven maid now, and she appeared to have the same trouble.

  “I’ll leave you now,” Montague said. “And wait across the street.”

  As the brigand left, Christopher gazed longingly at him, for his intimacy with Brenna was suddenly awk­ward. Christopher felt that if he opened his mouth to say something, Brenna would do exactly the same, and their words would clash against each other like shields. He wondered if she thought the same, for as he finally managed to look upon her, he saw that her lips were pursed and her gaze could still not find his. Then she did something that sent him back a few years. She began to twirl her index finger through her long, black curls. It was one of Brenna’s habits, and he had seen her do it many times, but the morning light that played over her now made her look much younger, as if she had stepped out of their first moon together and into quite possibly their last.

  “We’ve done this a few times, haven’t we?” she asked, turning a bit away from him.

  He smiled weakly. “I don’t like to think about the last time I bade you farewell,” he admitted. “But I remember the first time very clearly. Do you?”