by Peter Telep
INVADERS!
Where the altar had been was rubble. On top of the rubble was the abbot. His nose was seared off and his belly provided the home for a Saxon spear. Other spears, axes, and crossbow bolts jutted at various angles from the corpses lying amid the debris.
"Why?" Christopher asked. "Why?"
Baines held him by the shoulders. "They want the land. They want what is ours." He picked up the sword. "Today we are both knights."
Christopher held up the battle-ax until it touched Baines's sword. "And may we send the animals who did this to their graves!"
Table of Contents
Cover
INVADERS!
Title
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR'S NOTE
PROLOGUE
PART ONE 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
PART TWO 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
PART THREE 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
PART FOUR 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My friend, best man, and agent Robert Drake provided criticism and encouragement, guiding me from outline to final draft. I know of no other agent who is as talented, timely, and hardworking. I am a better writer because of him.
I am indebted to my editor, the eponymous Christopher Schelling, for not only purchasing the Squire trilogy, but for his tenacity, his patience, his kindness, and support. Christopher boosted my confi dence and made my first experience with a profes sional editor a memorable one.
David Hamilton and Joan Vander Putten work shopped the manuscript, each offering critiques that were extremely helpful. David gave me many suggestions on how to solve plot problems. Joan provided grammatical help, a fresh point of view, and listened to my long-distance lamenting without hanging up. For all their help, I am grateful.
Vince Clemente, Harlan Ellison, George Lucas, Joel Rosenberg, Lucius Shepard, Sandra Watt, and Timothy Zahn all inspired me through their work or words.
Mom and Dad. Thanks for the obvious. And the obscure. And everything that lies between. I love you both.
Lastly, to Nancy, who, on August 21, 1993, made me the happiest man this side of Camelot.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Arthurian legend contains many anachronisms and contradictions that are maddening to writers who wish to be technically and historically accurate. While the military strategy, accouterments, and poli tics were carefully researched, some were borrowed from other time periods for dramatic effect. Indeed, the description of King Arthur as “a knight in shining armor” is a misnomer. In the 6th century, the time Arthur supposedly lived, he would have worn leather plates. Yet if one settles a suit of 14th-century armor on the son of Pendragon he is restored to his venerable image. That aside, lean back, quibble if you must, but most of all, I hope you enjoy the story.
PETER TELEP
PROLOGUE
Cornelia’s cry of labor was carried on a breeze which swept down Leatherdressers’ Row in the village of Shores, South Cadbury, England. It floated over the cobbled street past the densely built, gable-roofed houses with their backyard gardens. Inside one of these workshop tofts, Cornelia lay on a coarse woolen blanket spread out over a trestle bed. The stench of saddles from the nearby bench was tight in her nostrils, and one of the midwives hovering over her signaled for another of the unglazed windows to be thrown open, the last.
Sanborn, Cornelia’s husband, wiped perspiration from his hands onto his woad blue tunic, then complied.
Cornelia arched her back and moaned, this time louder and much longer.
Sanborn turned from the open window and stroked his beard with a hand as rough as the leather with which he worked. “Is she dying?” he demanded. The midwives, in their somber workaday kirtles, their hands covered with the ointment they rubbed on Cornelia’s belly to ease her travail, ignored him.
Finally, one answered, “No.” The hag was curt and kept her eyes focused on her task.
Sanborn was supposed to be excluded from the room, but insisted on being present, and this had annoyed the midwives; their rudeness was expected.
Another contraction made Cornelia call out, “Sanborn!”
He craned his head as his name escaped their house and village and floated on the wind toward the river Cam. ·
Not far from Shores, a group of knights stood before a moss-covered rock. Embedded in this rock was the perfect sword Excalibur. The legend was known throughout the land: Whosoever shall draw this sword from the stone is rightwise king of England.
Lord Uryens of Gore, surrounded by a feeble, wiry abbot and the other kings of this Easter day tournament, locked his hands onto the hilt of Excalibur and heaved, murmuring for St. Michael and St. George to give him the potence to pull this sword into the open air, where all might see and recognize him as king, wielder of Excalibur, of power. Tremors developed in Uryens’s arms, then woke into violent shakes. A bellow formed at the back of his throat; it exploded from his lips with such force it startled the abbot, who fell backward onto the damp grass. The cry weaved its way through bark and gorse shrubs toward the calm waters of the Cam.
Uryens released his grip on Excalibur, stood back, and drew in a deep breath.
“Enough of this game, Uryens!” shouted Lot of Lowthean as he stepped up before the rock. “Behold the true king of England.”
Lot was much younger than Uryens, his beard sparse, his hazel eyes wide and determined. What escaped his lips were not murmurous prayers to saints, but a growing bawl, which evolved to a great crescendo as he tugged.
The abbot was back on his feet and asking God to grant them a king for this divided, dying land.
A final roar blew out of Lot as he fell away in failure. Disillusioned, the lords halfheartedly cntinuetheir tournament for the right at another chance to pull Excalibur from the stone.
Nearby, a young squire searched in vain for his brother’s sword, but discovered it stolen. There was no time to find another. Innocently enough, he approached Excalibur. The squire’s hands were drawn to the hilt. There was a force unknown to the natural world between his flesh and the metal. His fingers touched the sword, and a surge, as if from the core of the earth, rose through Excalibur and into the squire.
One of the midwives cried, “The child is coming.”
Sanborn stepped closer, cast his shadow over his wife and the soaked blanket. The nearest hag pushed him away as a broken sigh came forth from Cornelia’s lips.
The squire tightened his grip on the sword with only the simple notion to withdraw it to supply his need. He lifted, and as he did, the head o
f Cornelia’s baby freed itself from her womb. Then, as easily as the sword slipped from its stone prison, the rest of the child’s body entered the world. The newborn took his first breath and exhaled a cry.
Those near the knoll turned to see the squire with the sword impossibly raised in his hands, and they too cried out-in disbelief. The abbot approached, then fell to his knees. Lot followed, ripping off his helmet as his jaw went slack. Uryens, accompanied by others, stared on, astonished.
Inside the workshop, the heavier of the midwives tied the baby’s umbilical cord and cut it at four fin gers’ length. She washed the boy and rubbed him all over with salt, then gently cleansed his palate and gums with honey, to give him an appetite. She dried him in fine linen and wrapped him tightly in swad dling bands.
The pain gone, Cornelia’s expression was soft as she received her son. For a newborn he was strangely peaceful in her arms, entering his new world with certainty, and imminence.
PART ONE
CHRISTOPHER OF SHORES
1
Sir Hasdale, lord of the castle of Shores, rode down Leatherdressers’ Row under sunbeams flickering with dust motes, some of the beams playing off his short, golden locks and olive-tinged armor. He stopped before the toft of Sanborn and Cornelia. From within the small house, Sanborn heard the lord’s approach and came out to greet the knight as he dismounted from his courser. Their embrace was long, nurtured by a lifetime of business and friendship.
Hasdale pulled back. “The abbot tells me you have a son.” Sanborn nodded proudly. Hasdale continued, “I have another saddle order for you, and if the work is fine, I’ll pay you double.”
Sanborn grinned. “Lord, you know. the work is always fine.”
“Yes,” Hasdale said, “I do.”
“Thank you.” Sanborn knew the money was for the newborn. Hasdale would not make an open donation, for Sanborn would have rejected it. Thus was the little game Hasdale played. Sanborn felt better about taking the money this way. He gestured to the door way. “Cornelia has warm pottage and beer.”
“I can’t. More orders to place. And as my sister begs, a wife to find.”
The men chuckled. Hasdale climbed back up on his war-horse, adjusted his feet in the stirrups. “My regards to Cornelia and your son. Have you named him?”
“Christopher,” Sanborn answered.
“The patron saint of travelers. I could use him.” Hasdale waved as he trotted off.
The smell of Cornelia’s mud oven at the back of the house beckoned to Sanborn. He went inside, walked through the hall, and put a loving hand on his wife’s shoulder. She turned from her stove and kissed him. The pottage was-not yet ready, so he moved into the yard behind the house. He checked the garden, then the pegged-out tanned hides from which he made his saddlery. He fed the chickens and the sow, then returned inside. Christopher lay quiet in the crib Sanborn had made for him.
“I tell you, Cornelia, that child is a watcher.”
“He’ll be a great craftsman someday. An apprentice is a watcher, yes?” Cornelia asked.
“I feel like he’s studying me already.”
After breakfast Sanborn took off his tunic and settled down at his bench with a hammer. He smoothed the leather covering of a saddle peak over its wooden frame, which was held firm in a vise. He grumbled a bit about the shape of the frame that the joiner had made for him. Though Sanborn called himself a saddler, and was a member of the saddler’s guild, he did not make the complete article from start to finish at his own bench. It would be a seri ous breach of the municipal bylaws, as well as a crime shocking to all right-thinking persons, for a craftsman to stray beyond his own craft. With the poor work this joiner does, I’ve mind to, Sanborn thought.
A completely furnished jousting saddle, such as the one Sir Hasdale had ordered from Sanborn, called for the cooperation of four different crafts. First the joiner made the wooden frame. Then Sanborn would cover it with leather and do all the tooling and stamping called for by the design. A painter would display the personal arms of the customer on the sad dle. Finally, a loriner would provide anything made from steel that went with the saddle, such as the bit and stirrups. Sanborn had had many a shouting match with sloppy painters and loriners, although the joiner was the headache this morning.
Silently, Christopher watched as his father mum bled to himself and worked.
2
By the time he was in his fifth year, Christopher had examined every inch of the work shop, explored every mousehole, leather scrap, and window comer. Next he covered the backyard, occa sionally trampling the vegetable garden and hearing his father cry out in that voice which. sounded as if it came from the sky. That voice struck fear in him, but he was forever. lured to the garden-forever lasting about a month.
On one particular sun-soaked afternoon, Christopher stood in the road.
The road! What a place. Visions of silvery men, visiting with great animals whose feet were as big as he. Sounds of hawkers and laughs, compliments, and arguments. Smells of fresh-killed rabbit hung over the backs of horses. Things happened in the road. Different every day. He had to be out there. Had to.
“Christopher! Get out of the road!” he heard his mother shout as she came through the front door to fetch him. As always, she pulled him inside by the shirtsleeve. When his mother returned to spinning with her distaff, Christopher slipped outside again.
In the distance he heard the clomping of a horse, and the shouts of people as they hustled out of the way. It was a black mare running wild through the streets, saddleless, its origin a mystery. The steed was well up the road and Christopher moved over the stone to the middle for a better look at her. The animal was perfect as she came toward him. He was the only one in the road, squaring off with the horse, small, fee ble, in his little tunic and breeches, smiling innocently at the fiery eyes of the dark charger. He heard his front door open, turned to see his mother cry out to him, then he looked back at the steed.
The horse was less than fifty yards away, thirty, twenty, ten. In his mind’s eye Christopher saw the animal leap high in the sky, blocking out the sun as it passed over him. He remained in the road, thinking it would happen.
But the animal stopped dead in the street before him as voices around Christopher hushed. It was as if the horse had somehow known that it was not Christopher’s time to die and could not trample him.
He saw his mother bite her lip as she came, scooped him up in her arms. The horse drifted on, and Christopher kept his gaze locked on it as long as he could before Cornelia shut the door, and they were inside.
Christopher didn’t know why, but after his mother wiped away her tears, she gazed upon him a long time, an odd look clouding her face.
Later, he ambled into the backyard garden, sat down, and yanked out some turnips.
3
The old Roman fortress stood, waiting for Christopher.
A great banquet was to be held at the castle of Sir Hasdale, a celebration of his marriage to Madam Fiona, daughter of Conway, a great knight banneret in Hasdale’s army. All inhabitants of the village were invited to attend. The thought of visiting the castle for the first time struck Christopher like lightning, causing his eyes to gleam like sunlit gems.
The great castle climbed into the sky, as if provid ing a stone-piled path to the heavens. Christopher had only seen the wide gray walls from a distance, had only heard the wondrous tales of what was behind the stone, what magic, what miracles, what excitement.
Five years had passed since the idea of visiting the castle had first taken root in him. Now that Christopher was ten, the dream fruited into reality.
As he pulled on his finest tunic, he heard the voices of his father and mother from downstairs. Cornelia asked Sanborn how she looked. Sanborn only grunted his approval and Cornelia became agitated. Christopher hustled from the loft and down the stairs to meet them.
“I’m ready. Come on. Let’s go. Let’s go!” Christopher had trouble remaining in one sp
ot.
“You will behave yourself today,” his mother warned.
“You represent a young, future member of the sad dler’s guild, son. And you must act accordingly.”
“Can we go now?” Christopher pleaded.
They all left the house and were joined by the other leatherdressers, who were also donning their bright est, most ornate clothes. Knots of craftsmen talked and laughed in anticipation of the great feast. Christopher could already smell what must be pig cooking on a spit, its sweet scent luring him forward ahead of his parents and the others. He forgot about his feet, not feeling the ground under him as his eyes and nose seemed to lift him.
“Christopher. Don’t run!” Cornelia ordered.
Christopher didn’t see the large stone that cropped out from the road, waiting for his sandal.
And down he went.
Cornelia hurried through her friends and neighbors to her son.
Christopher rolled over on his side. There was a stinging sensation in his arm; he looked up at it. He’d ripped his tunic and scraped the skin beneath. It was not a serious injury, but the tunic …
Cornelia was flustered. “I told you not to run!” “I’m sorry. My tunic. Look at it.”
“Let’s go back. I’ll patch that arm and see what we can find for you to wear.”
Christopher felt relieved that the scolding would not continue, and a few moments later they were approaching the moat around the castle, Christopher feeling the itchy wool of his second-best tunic.
Everyone else from Shores was inside, which to Christopher was good. It was as if he would be mak ing some kind of entrance. The notion made him hold his head higher. As he gripped his mother’s hand and they set foot onto the large, worn timbers of the drawbridge, he studied the exterior of the castle close up for the first time.
The curtain walls were immensely thick, with four round comer turrets and small windows which, on the lower levels near him, were no more than slits for defense. Christopher thought he could see eyes blinking behind those slits but he couldn’t be sure. They passed under the two D-shaped towers that made up the gatehouse and emerged into the outer bailey, a wide, open courtyard. Here was a stone path which would lead them to the keep, that mas sive square tower in the rear of the castle, where the festivities were to be held. On their way toward the keep, Christopher watched knights practicing with wooden swords in the exercise yard, the scene caus ing splinters of awe to work their way under his skin. Throw me a sword and I’ll join you! he thought. He saw pigs and goats milling in the sta bles, saw an armorer outside his stone hut cleaning some rusted link-mail with sand and vinegar as two apprentices fitted a knight with a mended helmet and newly sharpened spatha. He watched as two old men dug weeds out of a long, narrow herb garden that was only a few yards away from the lord’s pre cious beehives. The men sang a song above the buzzing of bees, a tune that could also be heard escaping from the open windows of the keep ahead. Minstrels played along, and the anticipation reached a breaking point within Christopher. They drew closer to another, smaller moat which surrounded the keep, and mounted the drawbridge which would take them over it. He looked up. This was the tower he’d seen numerous times from his own backyard. But now it was very close. He nearly fell onto his back, dizzy with its ominous, overbearing presence. He shifted his gaze down as they passed through the stone tunnel that opened into the inner bailey. Here were the kitchen, granary, and a few other store rooms. For defense, the entrance to the keep was by a stone staircase leading to the second floor of a forebuilding on the side of the great tower. If an enemy entered the forebuilding, he would be assailed by warriors from above and below. Christopher played out a siege on the keep in his head, imagined himself leaping down on the barbarian attackers and drawing the blood of victory. Another image shattered the daydream.
