by Peter Telep
“Just pray they don’t find any of us guilty,” Neil said. “Here for only two days and already going,” Brenna observed. “Do not forget where your home is.” “Never.”
11
Christopher set foot onto the Bove Street Inn’s stoop. Then he looked up, for the distinct and somehow familiar sound of a baby crying came from a second story window. He lowered his gaze and knocked on the door, mumbling under his breath for the child to stop its annoying whining. He was tired, had traveled all night, and wanted some rest and quiet. But the sound also reminded him of the way Baines used to cry, and it was too early in the morning to con front painful memories. The only thing he wanted to confront now was the staircase that would lead him to a trestle bed.
The door swung inward, and Morna, wearing a long night robe, her hair covered by a dark scarf wound around her head, appeared in the foyer. “Good morn ing,” she said softly.
“Early, I know, forgive me,” Christopher said. Moma stepped back and gestured for him to come inside. He did, and she dosed the door behind him. “Did you receive my message?”
She nodded. “Two days ago. We thought you would at least be another day. Did you take care of your mount?”
“The hostlers weren’t up, so I slipped her into a stall myself, if that’s all right?”
“Of course,” she said, then turned toward the hallway that led to the staircase. “I know the others are anxious to see you.”
“No, Moma. Don’t wake them. If you’ve got an open bed, I’d love to lie down for just a little while,” he said, fighting back a yawn.
“I’ve got an open bed, but I doubt you’ll get any rest, what with your son crying as he’s been all night.”
What did she say? M y son? “What”?
Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, they’re going to be upset with me.”
He grabbed her hand. “My son is here? Where is he?
Take me to him! Was that him I heard outside?”
“Yes, yes. Come on. I’m sure Jennifer is up.” She turned for the hallway, and he followed her toward the stairs.
During the climb, Christopher wanted to run over Morna and dart for the room where his son was, but he held back his anxiety, and by doing so, suddenly felt very much awake. They turned down another hallway, and Moma paused before the second door on the left and knocked. Jennifer answered and was about to say something, but when her gaze fell upon Christopher, she simply closed her mouth and fully opened the door.
He rushed into the room, and there, lying on a trestle bed in the far comer of the room, illuminated by the glow of the candles burning on two nightstands, was his son. He lifted the boy into his arms, marveled at how heavy the child had become, how dark and long his hair had grown, “Baines, Baines, you little knight. Where have you been? Did you go sailing like your father”?
He regarded Jennifer and Moma, who looked at him with the child in his arms, expressions of amazement locked on their faces. And it was only then that Christopher noticed that Baines was not crying, not making a sound, just lying contentedly in his arms.
“Everything is set, lads. Our passage has been booked, she’ll draw anchor on the morrow, and in three or four days we’ll be docking at Ivory Point. And don’t forget to thank Moma. She loaned us the money for this excursion.” Montague leaned forward in his chair at the dining table, shoveled another heaping spoonful of steaming porridge into his mouth, then swallowed loudly. Unfortunately the brigand’s aim was off-center, and a good part of his lower mustache was now covered with the gruel. The fat man was, of course,unaware of this, and it made his smile look all the more silly.
Doyle, who sat across from Montague, half grinned at Christopher. No, they would not tell Montague to wipe his mouth. Then his friend rose. “Are you ready?”
He nodded.
“Where are you going?” Montague asked.
“There’s someone he wants to thank,” Doyle answered, tipping his head toward Christopher.
They left the inn, and Doyle led him to the toft, all the while talking about how much Jennifer loved taking care of Baines, how excellent a job she did in every area except keeping the small boy quiet. It was a short and refreshing walk and they arrived in short order. He rapped on the door of the main house.
The old man answered and stepped outside. “Good day, young men.”
“Good day—Hayes is it?” Christopher asked. “That’s right. Who are you?”
“My friend brought me here because I wanted to thank you,” Christopher half explained.
The old man frowned. “For what? Who are you?” he asked again.
“I am Christopher of Shores. And that child you turned over to the monks? He’s mine. I just wanted to—”
“Oh, now I see,” Hayes said, his tone suddenly grow ing dark. “Forget it. Were it my son you found, I would hope you would’ve done the same. Is that all?”
Hayes’ curt behavior left a sour taste in Christopher’s mouth, but Christopher understood it. “Uh, yes. Thank you. Again.”
Hayes nodded abruptly, then turned back toward the door.
“And I’m very sorry about your wife,” he quickly added. Hayes paused. He answered without turning around. “She’s the one you should thank. She thought your son would save her life. Perhaps he did … for a while.”
With that, he pushed in his door and shuffled behind it. “What did he mean by that?” Doyle asked.
Christopher shrugged.
Doyle pursed his lips and shook his head. “Ah, the old ones. Will we ever become as strange as them”?
Christopher started away from the main house. “If we do, we’ll probably never know it.”
12
Ivory Point’s trade fell somewhere in between that of the ports of Blytheheart and Magdalene.
As for weather, its summers were cooler and more windy than those of the other ports, pleasant actually, but its summers were wholly misleading. Christopher had experienced a little of the region’s winter, and though he had never made it all the way to the port, he’d seen enough to know that Ivory Point was a fitting name for what became a white wasteland for at least four moons out of every year.
The Pict-Saxon alliance was found everywhere, on the signposts, the merchants’ shingles, and in the conversations that often contained both languages or a variation of each. The captain of the Celt cog had instructed Christopher to speak only in Saxon, and for Doyle and Montague to remain quiet, that way they would avoid unnecessary questions. Celts were merely tolerated at Ivory Point, treated very much the same way Saxons and Picts were at Blytheheart.
The sailors that Doyle had questioned said they had seen Seaver and Marigween at the coastline, but that did not necessarily mean they had taken up residence nearby. Instead of scouring the entire port as they had attempted to do back at Magdalene, Christopher opted to ask a few merchants that had probably already done business with Seaver and Marigween. While describing the short man and red-haired woman to a baker who was pulling loaves out of his brick oven, they were overheard by one of the patrons, a sun-wrinkled woman in a coarse woolen shift who told them she believed those two lived up on the northeast slopes, on a toft that had once belonged to the short man’s mother.
As a token of his thanks for the information, Christopher paid for the woman’s loaves. They left the shop and headed for the tof t.
“I’ve sharpened my dagger for him,” Doyle said quietly as they walked up a narrow street that led to the outskirts of the port. “And when I see him, I intend to use it.”
“We’re not here for revenge,” Christopher fired back. “We’re here for Marigween.”
A group of three men, who appeared to be construction laborers, ambled down the street toward them.
“Shut your mouths, lads,” Montague said in a hushed but firm tone.
The men moved by them, nodded, and were gone without incident.
By late afternoon they believed they had found the toft. Furtively, they circled around the unfenced farm and moved i
nto the tall pine trees that stretched up the slopes to the rear. There was a main house, two small barns, a well, and a small, single-story mill. The land was divided into three separate fields, two of which bore the green gridwork of cultivation, the other lying fallow. “I still think we’re dolts for waiting up here,” Doyle complained. “I say we should go down there, bust in the door, slice his throat, and take Marigween.”
“Suppose we go down there, bust in the door and dis cover we’re in the wrong toft? What then?” Christopher asked.
The answer was all too obvious to Doyle. “Then we apologize and ask where we may find the right one.”
“So we can bust that door in.” Christopher shook his head. “We’re not doing that. We’re not doing anything until we’re sure.”
“I think we’re sure,” Montague called back. The fat man stood behind a pine trunk a few yards below them. “Come see for yourselves.”
Christopher hurried down to the tree and joined Montague. Covering his brow, he squinted at the toft and saw a figure moving from the main house toward the well. He could not see her face, but her hair told him all he needed to know.
He burst from behind the tree and sprinted down the slope. “Marigween!” The wind whipped through his hair, and his eyes burned, but he would not remove his gaze from her. He drew closer, and her features came into focus. She looked up, then dropped the wooden pail in her hand and, for a reason that he could not fathom, she ran back toward the main house. “Marigween! Stop! It’s me! It’s Christopher!”
But she ignored him, rounded a comer of the house, and was gone. He barely felt the yellowed grass and dirt below his boots, barely felt the muscles working in his legs as he came closer to the thatch-roofed structure. He rounded the same comer she had, looked to his right, and there, there was the main door. He froze before it, and, panting, pulled the latch: locked. He pounded on the door. “Marigween! Open up! It’s me! It’s Christopher!”
Her reply was muffled by the door. “Go away!”
He continued beating his fists upon the wood. “No! Open up! It’s me!”
And then the desire, which was a hammer that beat inside his head and heart, was too much to take. He jogged back a few yards, then made a running start. He turned to one side and slammed shoulder first into the door. The latch gave—
—and he found himself crashing into a wide room with a stone hearth directly ahead of him. His momentum brought him toward the hearth, but his foot was caught by something and he was tripped to the wooden floor, collapsing just a finger’s length shy of the hearth’s hard stone.
“No! It cannot be! It is you!” Marigween cried.
He ro1led onto his back and sat up. Then, ignoring the pain of the fall, he rose to his feet. “I came for you, Marigween! I’ve been looking for so long!” He stepped toward her with his arms outstretched.
She took a step back.
Then came the sound of the shuffle of feet, and Montague and Doyle arrived in the doorway, both grip ping daggers. “Where’s Seaver?” Doyle asked, in what had to be his most threatening tone.
From another room came the cry of a baby.
Marigween turned away and strode into a narrow hall. Christopher held an index finger up to his friends: wait here, then he followed her. They moved into a small room, where, in a tiny, hand-carved cradle, lay an infant. Marigween lifted the baby into her arms and put its head over her shoulder. Then she patted its back. “There now, Devin. Don’t cry. Shush. I’m here.”
Doyle stepped into the doorway, and once again repeated his question. “Where’s Seaver?”
Christopher tossed him a hard look.
Marigween’s gaze favored Doyle … “Why should I tell you? So you can kill him?”
At the moment, Christopher could care less where Seaver happened to be. The child sparked a serious question. “Is this child yours?”
“Yes, he is,” she answered defensively. “His father was Jobark, the captain of that Saxon cog.”
Christopher turned his gaze away from her. “Dear Lord,” he uttered grimly.
“I knew you’d feel that way,” she said bitterly. He looked at her, then felt somehow incriminated by her scowl. “Get out!” she suddenly screamed. “All of you! Get out of this house!”
Doyle snorted. “I do not believe this!”
Christopher crossed to the doorway. “Wait outside,” he ordered his friend, in his most threatening tone. “He might be coming back.”
As Doyle resignedly turned away, he mumbled, “We come all the way here to save her, and what does she do? Throw us out.”
After watching his friend leave, Christopher moved back inside the room. He took a now-cautious step toward Marigween, whose cheeks were stained with tear lines.
Once again, she retreated from his advance. “Marigween. What happened to you?”
She pulled her baby closer to her. “What do you think happened to me? I was kidnapped: I was raped. You haven’t figured that out?”
He had never heard nor felt the ice that was in her now. “I mean you,” he corrected himself emphatically.
“I’ve a new life now, Christopher. I’ve a new son,” she said, widening her eyes.
He stepped toward her, and she backed off. He kept coming, and backed her into the wall. “What did he do to you? What lies did he tell you?”
“He did nothing!” she retorted, her voice already hoarse from yelling. “I grew ill on the way up here and he saved me. He saved me from that Saxon crew. His mother midwifed my child! He’s taken care of me.” She paused to sniffle. “And he loves me.”
Christopher found himself taking a step away from her, as if she had contracted something evil. “How could he love you? He’s a barbarian.”
“No more than you,” she shot back. “And you love him?”
She turned toward a window, flashing a defiant cheek. “I told you to leave.” She sighed. “I’m sorry you came all the way here. But this is my life now—and you are not welcome.”
“No,” Christopher replied, shaking his head. “No, no, it cannot be true.”
“It is.”
He looked away, and then he thought of their child. “What am I to tell Baines when he gets older?” he asked.
She huffed. “Don’t try to lure me away with lies. I know you haven’t found Baines. He’s dead.”
Christopher looked at her, but she would not return his gaze. “Marigween. Listen to me. An old farmer’s wife found him the night you were taken by the Saxons. She kept him. But then she died. Her husband brought him to the monks. He’s at the inn now. He’s waiting for his mother.”
Her free hand coiled into a fist which she shook as she spoke. “Don’t lie! I—I was just beginning to let him go—to let both of you go—and you had to come here.”
“I know it’s been a long time. But you couldn’t have changed that much,” he said.
She whirled and glowered at him. “Yes I have!” If her red eyes could, they would’ve flamed him to ashes. “Look at me! I’m filthy! I’m dirty! I have the child of a dead man in my arms! It’s too late for me. Now go.”
“It’s never too late. Never.” He raked a hand through his hair, and for the briefest of moments stood back in his mind to reflect on what was happening. How could he have ever suspected that she would want to remain with Seaver? Where had her feelings for him gone? To the Saxon? “Are you telling me you stopped loving me? Is that it?”
“I had to stop loving you,” she said. “Why?”
“Because of what happened to me!” “You shouldn’t have.”
“It’s already done. Are you going to leave?”
He wiped a hand across his cheek and blew out air. “I’ll go, I’ll go,” he said. “I—I just have to know why you want to stay here.”
“I’m accepted here, Christopher,” she replied quickly. “He knows everything that has happened to me. And nothing stops his feelings.”
“You think I won’t accept you? You think I won’t accept your child?”<
br />
“I do not think,” she replied slowly, “I know.”
Christopher sat cross-legged on a bed of pine needles, and he looked up through the natural lattice of boughs. The bellies of the cloud clusters were stained the pale orange of sunset. He studied the sky a moment, then said, “Perhaps it is you who have lied to me. Not you, God, but your sky. That room, that woman and child crying. What do they mean? Was it Marigween and her new child? Can they help me now”?
He dropped his gaze to the toft in the valley. All was still, save for the blades of the mill, which spun slowly, and the bucket hanging above the well, which rocked to and fro. Then he saw him, atop a rounsey, cantering toward the main house. He guided the horse around the building and dismounted before the smaller ham. He led the animal inside, appeared a moment later, then walked toward the main house.
“There he is,” Doyle said, standing behind Christopher. “I’ve been waiting far too long for this. Monte? Let’s go down and exact a bit of revenge.”
Looking up over his shoulder, Christopher gritted out, “You’ve no right to do anything.”
Doyle held up his bad hand and shook it with each word. “This gives me the right.”
Christopher rose and turned around, just as Montague came trudging up next to Doyle. The fat man chewed something, probably a bit of the dried pork from his pack.· Christopher looked back to Doyle. “I don’t know what he’s done to her—maybe nothing. But she wants to stay. Perhaps when he’s not around, I can talk her into leaving. If we go down there and kill him, then she’ll never forgive us—forgive me—for that.”
“What does that matter?” Doyle said. “If we kill him, then she’ll have to come with us. And eventually she’ll forget about him the way she forgot about you.”
Montague swallowed, then sighed. “No, laddie, that logic is as faulty as a rotted firkin. Christopher is right. If we kill him and take her, that makes us no better than the rogues who snatched her in the first place.”
Doyle snickered. “Then what are we supposed to do: sit around for days while we wait for him to leave so that Christopher can go down there and maybe talk her into leaving? And if he doesn’t, then am I supposed to walk around for the rest of my life with this hand—while that rat devil lives up here in bliss with a former princess?”
