by Peter Telep
Garrett had had misgivings about sending him, suspecting faults in Kenneth’s loyalty. But Garrett had no other choice. Besides his natural Celtic looks, Kenneth had practiced the language until he had mastered it. He was perfect for the mission.
Kenneth hustled inside the connecting tower, taking a spiral staircase down to the outer bailey. He ran by the armorer’s hut, which teemed with garri son men being fitted with arms by squires who scrambled to meet the clamorous orders of their masters. Stone-throwing mangonels were being lined up along the perimeter walls, as were the trebuchets, their slings pulled taut, ready to fire a rock at a moment’s notice. All was chaos and excitement and anxiety.
The drawbridge in front of the keep was rising and Kenneth caught it just in time. He staggered down the planks as the floor behind him moved up. He made it to the stairs of the forebuilding in seconds and took them two at a time.
As he entered the stone housing, Hasdale’s men readied the murder holes in the floor and ceiling, pointing crossbows into them to shoot up or down at the attackers.
Kenneth found his way to the great hall and rushed across it toward the lord’s solar, knowing it was there that Fiona-and her child-would be.
It was too easy. No one stopped him. They assumed he sought refuge in the keep. He was a sim ple messenger, but his death would not sit well with Sir Lincoln-the ghost, ha!-and so he would be amply protected. He belonged in the keep, close to the child. As Kenneth set foot on the stairs leading to the solar, he chided his leader Garrett. You thought I would betray your plans- well I haven’t thus far!
A gray-haired maid huddled over the child’s crib in the solar. Fiona was at the window, staring at the long string of men pushing out of the bailey onto the drawbridge. Homs blew, filling the air and the spirits of those around the castle with a sense of strength, the ability to meet the challenge and return holding one’s shield, not on it.
Kenneth heard the horns, but his spirit was already filled with something else. He felt his back for the dagger tucked behind the waist string of his breeches.
The heads of the women turned as Kenneth stepped fully into the room.
“Kenneth? I thought you’d be with the steward,”
Fiona said.
The maid gave Kenneth a passing nod, then returned to feeding the child.
“Are we the only ones here?” he asked. “My other maids have fled to the cellar.”
Kenneth visibly shivered. “My lady, I … I fear for my life.”
Fiona stepped from the window and put a comfort ing arm around Kenneth. “My husband would not allow anything to happen to you. Besides, we’re safe here. Stay with me. I enjoy the company of a man from a distant land. Tell me a story to take my mind off of death.”
Kenneth pulled slowly away from Fiona and went up behind the maid. “I’m afraid I can’t,” he said, and in one fluid stroke withdrew the dagger, brought it around the maid, and buried it in her heart. The maid’s head fell back on Kenneth’s shoulder as Fiona screamed. Kenneth saw the maid’s eyes roll back in her head and couldn’t believe how warm and wet the woman’s blood was as a wave of it broke over his hand. Then Kenneth cocked his head. Fiona started for the door.
Kenneth let the old woman drop to the floor. The child began crying. Kenneth seized Fiona by the arm and threw her deeper inside the solar. Then he went to the iron-studded double doors and pulled them closed, just as sentries tried to pry them back open. He hefted one of the drawbars in place, securing Fiona and himself inside. He turned his attention back on Hasdale’s wife.
“Shut that child up!” he ordered.
Fiona went to the baby, a boy with azure eyes that were now full of tears. She tried to shush the infant. Her hands shook so much that she could not touch the baby, could only whisper softly to him, “There now, easy, go back to sleep, there … ” Her voice cracked.
For the past moon Kenneth had lusted for Fiona, but the timing had not been right. He wanted her more than ever. But now? He was to escape-some how-with the child. Or perhaps not escape and hold wife and child hostage in the castle. Either way, rap ing Fiona was not in the plan.
But what reward would Garrett give him for deliv ering the child? A pat on the back?
Fiona would be his reward and he would enjoy her now.
Kenneth pulled the dagger out of the dead maid and set it on the floor near him. He slipped off his boots as Fiona regarded him with eyes that spoke her dread. She knew what would come, and that was all right with Kenneth. Better she conceded to the inevitable. He removed his shirt, then breeches. He picked up the dagger and stood naked before her. His erection beckoned for attention-and would get it. He padded toward Fiona. She fell away from the crib and toward the wall behind her. Kenneth followed, never letting the prey out of his sight. Fiona’s eyes darted from possible escape route to possible escape route. Finally, her back to the wall, she pushed along the cold stone until she reached a comer of the room. She slid down and tucked her knees into her chest.
Kenneth leaned down and grabbed Fiona by her thick, black mane, pulling her head up. Her fright ened gaze met his. He held the dagger firmly under her throat, then pushed his erection toward her lips. She cried as she took him in her mouth. Kenneth felt the warmth and wetness of her. He drifted into a soft moan which gradually became full, guttural, and throaty, ringing from his Saxon vocal cords like a battle cry. Her tongue sent minute bolts of lightning through his inner thighs, and the muscles in his stom ach and feet tensed. He went up on his toes as the exquisite moment approached, and when it did he felt his erection pulse as if his heart had left his chest and found a new home there.
11
Black sleep was a place of comfort com pared to this.
Death littered the landscape. In fact, it was the landscape. Christopher and Baines stared into the eyes of a dead armorer, whose body was charred from the neck down and whose face was also blackened but somewhat intact. The man was in front of his burning toft, and it appeared he had been rolling in the stone covered street trying to extinguish himself. Trying.
Armorers’ Row was a series of funeral pyres, the burning gables of house after house caving in and sending flurries of sparks twirling up into the smoky sky. There were villagers still inside many of the homes, men and women who had hidden from Garrett’s men only to die in their dark mouseholes. Their muted cries barely escaped through burning timbers.
Christopher’s eyes were teary from more than the smoke. He knew that by nightfall the entire street would be leveled. “Take me home,” he said tersely.
The Saxons were at the far end of Shores, finishing their job as Baines and Christopher forged onward toward Christopher’s toft, turning down a side road which would intersect Leatherdressers’ Row.
It was hard to find a toft which was not on fire. Christopher wanted badly to find one, perhaps small proof that some would be spared-perhaps, dear God, his.
They still had not seen a single Saxon, though they heard them in the distance. Strangely, their shouts reminded Christopher of his own father; the days when Sanborn simply could not get a saddle right and would scream out in rage, take the saddle, and throw it out into the street, then march into the back yard, sit down near the garden, and bury his face in his knees. Those cries, of frustration in one case and battle in the other, seemed oddly similar. Both tapped into the darkness and trepidation inside Christopher, both made him want to rush to his loft, jump into bed, and bury his head underneath the pillow.
Christopher’s mouth opened and he took in air quickly as their mount rounded the comer and came onto Leatherdressers’ Row. Then he closed his burn ing eyes and coughed. He composed himself and slowly, almost not wanting to, took in the view.
Something in his stomach gave way, as if he had been punched.
Where was home? It couldn’t be here, in these flames, in these two rows of fire flickering and attenuating, then roaring as the tofts that were their fuel fell in on themselves.
Who we
re these people lying in the road, these black people with thin trails of smoke wafting from their scorched bodies? They were not the residents of Shores. Those people were healthy, vibrant crafts men, shrewd businessmen who could get double for leatherwork when the need called. They were not black statues strewn about on stone with arms that groped for nothingness.
“Take me home,” Christopher said once more. “We’re here,” Baines shouted back. “Dear St.
Michael, we’re here.”
“No.” The tears fell freely now, lumbered over Christopher’s cheeks and dropped into his lap. His grip on the sword’s hilt tightened, his knuckles became white, and his arm stiffened, ready to deliver blows of retribution.
Where had the fear gone? Oh, it was still there, in his throat now, the terrible lump that wanted to escape past Christopher’s lips.
They cantered down the Row, eyeing the whole horrible scene before them. Besides being burned, some leatherdressers had met their fates by sword, or by the sharpened hook of a halberd, or by battle-ax, or, as they had seen, by mace.
When they reached Christopher’s house, they found it burning furiously. Angry snakes of smoke poured out of the broken and blackened windows.
Christopher handed the sword to Baines, hopped down from the rounsey, and rushed to the front door. He found the iron handle hot to the touch and swore as he withdrew his hand and nursed the tingling skin. Bainesdismountedand followedChristopher around to the back of the house where they found the rear door open and burning. There was a battle-ax sunk deeply into the wood of the door and Christopher eyed it with hatred. Baines pulled out the ax as he followed Christopher inside. “Mother! Father!” Christopher shouted.
No answer came through the smoke-laden air, that in a moment had the boys coughing.
“We have to get out!” Baines shouted. “No!”
Baines moved back toward the door as Christopher lingered. If Sanborn and Cornelia were in the loft, they were surely dead. He couldn’t see much through the smoke, but it seemed they were not down here. He knew if he stayed longer he would pass out, and then reminded himself they had been at the chapel. Yes! The chapel. Christopher followed Baines outside.
They took in precious air and coughed hard; their stomachs heaved and their mouths drooled.
When he felt somewhat recovered, Christopher managed, “They were at the chapel.”
Baines shot Christopher a downcast look and shook his head. “The chapel is the first place they bum. Attack their souls first and then their hearts. If your parents were there … “
“We’re going.” Christopher turned away from the house as a section of roof succumbed to the flames and fell with a loud cha-chump. More flames rose from the opening in the roof and Christopher felt their heat on the back of his neck.
“Christopher,” Baines called.
Christopher turned around. Baines tossed him the battle-ax, which Christopher deftly caught. Had he not been charged with so much anger he might have dropped the heavy weapon, but now, at the ripe old age of thirteen, he hoisted the ax and rested it over his shoulder, knowing he would return the weapon to its owner-blade first.
12
Fiona was nude and strapped to the four poster bed. Kenneth had tom his tunic and used the pieces to tie her arms and legs to the heavy oak posts. She was spread out for the taking. He stood there, still gripping the dagger, his eyes filled with all that was Fiona: her pert nipples, her long lithe legs, her tiny stomach, which had shrunk to near-perfect flat ness after pregnancy. Her hair was wild, and she reminded Kenneth of a woman he had taken in Sussex, a woman whose voice he would never forget. Something feline about it. She had purred and cooed at him and he wanted the same thing now.
“Have you ever had cats about the castle, my lady?”
Fiona regarded Kenneth with a look that said he was truly mad.
“Have you?” he asked again.
Fiona cleared her throat. “No. The lord does not find cats pleasing.”
“The lord is a fool!” Kenneth shot back.
Fiona struggled with her cloth bonds; they were tight-Kenneth had made sure of that.
“Do you know the sound a cat makes? The purring?
The rolling of the tongue that is so agreeable?” Fiona rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
“Make that sound.” “Why?”
Kenneth charged the bed and put the knife back home under Fiona’s throat. “No questions.”
Fiona’s throat worked under the edge of the blade, barely missing its razor-sharp edge. A deep swallow would draw blood. She opened her mouth and the sound came: “Purrrrrrrrrrrr . . . “
Kenneth pulled the blade back slightly to give her more breathing room. “Again,” he ordered.
“Purrrrrrrrrrrr …”
The throbbing in his groin increased, and Kenneth climbed onto the bed, carefully balancing the dagger over Fiona’s throat. He positioned himself above her, then reached down with his free hand to guide him self into her.
A sound at the window alcove alerted him. He cocked his head in time to see a burly sentry swing from a rope into the alcove.
Kenneth pulled away from Fiona.
The lady of the castle fought her bonds as violently as ever and shrieked, “Kill him! Kill. him!”
Kenneth turned and kneed himself off the bed, then sprang to face the sentry. The fat man was armed with a short spatha and smiled a yellow toothed smile under a thick beard and moustache. Kenneth knew his own death would please this loyal servant, but pleasure would only be granted to him self in this room.
The sentry tore off his bascinet, revealing a quilted hood covering his head, ears, and the back of his neck. He looked a little like the dad maid to Kenneth, with that headgear. He’d join her in a minute.
It was strange, fighting a man naked. It felt like the days when Kenneth was a boy, wearing arm rings and loincloths, learning how to dance the battle dances and spear food from the trees. There was something distant and natural and fierce about it.
The sentry jutted his blade forward, taking a few aggressive steps toward him. This amused Kenneth, for it was in this second that he grabbed the man’s spatha by its blade end and quickly yanked it from him.
Kenneth’s palm went crimson, but the wound was not deep. He tossed the spatha to the other side of the room and chuckled. The fat man was caught completely off guard by this maneuver, and suddenly found his hand empty. He fumbled about his waist belt for a short spatha, but Kenneth was upon him with the dagger. He drove the blade into the sentry’s ear and pushed it in all the way to the hilt, hearing an odd, crackling noise like tiny leaves rustling inside the man’s head. The loyal servant crumpled.
The sentry’s partner drifted into the alcove, released his grip on the rope, and hit the floor with a ka-chunk. Kenneth slipped the dagger out of the fat guard’s ear. He kept himself low, drove forward, and buried his dagger in the other sentry’s groin before the young man had time to react. Kenneth pushed the sentry to the window ledge and then·beyond, let the man drop to the berm below, a metal erection protruding from the guard’s breeches. After watching the man fall, Kenneth looked up, saw no other sentries advancing down the rope. He yanked his head inside, crossed the room, and fetched his breeches. He slipped them on, and then his boots. Bare chested, he picked up the tiny, cloth-wrapped baby from its crib and started for the window. The child squalled louder than ever, and Kenneth had to repress the desire to muffle the infant-muffle it for good.
“Don’t take my baby!” Fiona was a woman pos sessed; she arched her back, rolled her head from side to side, growled, and squealed again. She was a mother caught in a trap, watching as her young was taken from her. Fiona’s animal instincts visibly pulsed with life.
But so did Kenneth’s. “We’ll make a fine Saxon of him, my lady,” he said.
“Damn you to hell. To hell! Do you hear me?”
Kenneth gripped the rope with his good hand, the child with his bleeding one, then wrapped his boot around th
e rope for more support. “I hear you, my lady. I hear you.”
Kenneth drew in a deep breath, then started down the rope.
As the heat built up on his hand, a curious thought occurred to him. What was the real pleasure in doing what he had done? Yes, the sexual gratification was there, but that wasn’t entirely it. There was something else he couldn’t put his finger on at the moment, but he knew it had something to do with power. Power and control. He didn’t mind being hated as long as he had power and control. With power he could find those who would love him, and then control them. That feeling he got when others pleaded to him, begged him. It put him closer to what the Celts called God. He had heard of the evils of power, but it felt good to hear her plead with him, so good to hear her purr under his command, so good to be there and be the center of her universe, the axle of all she would say and do. To be in control. Of spirit. Of mind. Of body. That was larger than life.
13
The outer walls of the chapel, the ones Christopher had studied many times before, the ones with their wondrously strange carvings of beasts, had collapsed and were nothing more than black wood filled with glowing embers.
With every glance, all that Christopher had known in his life, all of the familiar surroundings and famil iar faces were disappearing. It was like a chess game, he the pawn and some great force removing all his friends from the board, and then the board itself, leaving him in a void. He felt as if he were dragging his heart behind him as he circled around the chapel with Baines. The two boys stepped over a portion of the fallen entrance and stepped into the still-hot remains. Immediately, their hands went to their faces as they were assaulted by the stench of burning flesh. Where the altar had been was rubble. On top of the rubble was the abbot, that jolly, red-nosed man, whose baritone voice would fill Christopher’s ears every Sunday. The abbot’s nose was seared off. His belly provided the home for a Saxon spear. He died before the fire and was left to bum with the rest of the congregation, they, too, having been killed before the flames.
