by Peter Telep
And so they were together, the wizened man with the shock of long, snow-white hair that whipped like ivory flames in the stray breeze, and Christopher. Orvin was good with the needle, despite the condition of his hands. He had only pinched Christopher twice, and now applied cool mud over the stitches running across Christopher’s calf. When he was done, Orvin pulled back to admire his work.
Christopher studied the rays of light filtering through the cloud cover in the west. He tried to see the specterlike forms of his mother, father, and Baines floating slowly, gracefully, through the light and van ishing into the clouds. But there was only the light.
“It’s all up there. All of it. In the sky. I can see it.
Can you?”
Christopher faced Orvin. The old knight’s gaze was upon the azure wash, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, obtaining an almost unnatural sat isfaction, savoring the breath as though it were to be his last. “See what?” Christopher asked.
Orvin directed his attention to Christopher, and the boy noted the light in the man’s soft, gray eyes. It was a strange light, one which sprang from within the old man, one which Christopher found both odd and interesting. “What will be,” Orvin said simply, then repeated for effect, “What will be.”
It was becoming clear why Orvin wanted to attend to Christopher himself. Who else but a boy would be willing to sit and listen to a stoop-shouldered prophet of fancy? Once a great knight, he was now reduced to telling stories of magic to Christopher. But there was something comforting about Orvin, as if indeed he did possess some bit of magic over the hearts of men, and if it gave pleasure to him, Christopher didn’t mind being the man’s audience. “If you are a soothsayer, what is the future then?”
Orvin bowed his head, closed his. eyes. A moment went by, and Christopher watched for something to happen, a puff of smoke like that he’d seen come from a performer at a festival, something that would indicate magic working.
But there was nothing. Christopher wondered if Orvin had fallen asleep, and so he nudged the ancient man. Abruptly, Orvin snapped his neck back and his eyelids flung open like shutters that had been pushed too hard.
“Sorry,” Christopher said.
“I see nothing yet,” Orvin said. “But the past is vivid.” Orvin shifted his body closer and put an arm around Christopher. He held the boy and Christopher felt a little awkward at this-but he understood. The memories of his parents and Baines were fresh, the sounds of their voices still echoing in his ears, their smells, their touches, all of his senses still aware, still experiencing the details of them. The sympathy from Orvin, a man he had just met, was good. He needed a shoulder and had found one.
A shadow passed over old man and boy. Christopher looked up, and the urgent desire to stand passed from his head and into his legs. He began the maneuver, but a strong hand rested on his shoulder and eased him back down.
Lord Hasdale stood before them, framed by the tableau they had stared at and the monolithic gray walls of the keep below. “How is your leg?”
Christopher had never spoken directly to the lord before, had only listened to him, and though his vocal cords worked, he suddenly forgot how to use them, in the face of such an important man. He nodded, swal lowed, swallowed again, then finally managed, “Better.” The word came through a parched mouth, one that only seconds before had been moist.
Hasdale hunkered down so that his eyes were level with Christopher’s. “Tonight we hold a mass in the chapel for those lost. Your father was a fine craftsman and friend. And your mother was a strong woman, one whom Fiona admired. I share deeply in your loss.” The lord turned his gaze to Orvin. “If you haven’t already heard, Baines met his fate.”
Orvin shook his head and pursed his lips. “He was the best squire I ever trained. He would’ve been a great knight banneret.”
Hasdale rose. “His body will be burned as a knight’s.”
Orvin brought a hand to his head, massaged his temples with his fingers. “Where is the importance of life, when it is so fragile and regarded with such frivolity?”
Christopher was struck by those words. It was their world, and everyone knew violence was the way, but no one liked it. Yet no one did anything to change it. Killing was a means, it was an act to demonstrate power, to communicate something to another. But there was such finality, such pain attached to it. His parents were gone forever; his friend was gone forever. “Here I am under the sun,” Hasdale said. “And it is the darkest day of my !ife. I have seen my village lost, some of my best fighters lost, one of my squires lost,and my son … my son killed.”
Christopher had heard of the birth of Hasdale’s son, but news of the child’s death was a surprise. He wanted to know-but was afraid to ask.
Tears slipped in short spurts from Orvin’s eyes. The old man bit his thumbnail and his head shook no, ever so slightly. His gaze was nowhere and Christopher watched, becoming more melancholy himself. If he stayed where he was any longer, he, too, would break down. He didn’t want to do that in front of the lord. He wanted to be in control, be as much a man as he was capable of being.
Christopher stood, shifting his weight to his good leg. He addressed the lord, though Hasdale’s back was to him. “May I rest inside now, lord?”
Hasdale turned around, studied Christopher for a long time. Christopher was unsure what Hasdale thought, and felt unnerved under his gaze. There was desire in the lord’s expression, longing, something. “I’m sorry. I see things in you that make me happy but also give me great pain.”
Christopher was at a loss. All he could think of to say was, “I’m sorry, my lord. I wish only to serve you.” Hasdale stepped close to Christopher,gazed directly into the youth’s eyes, and his voice came as a soft whisper. “We will all live through this.”
From behind them, Orvin hauled up his creaky frame, releasing a soft moan in the process. He brushed the tears from leathery cheeks, the wrinkles out of his long tunic, then came unsteadily over to his son and Christopher. “What’s to become of the young patron saint of travelers? His future is unseen by my watery eyes.”
“His father told me on more than one occasion that he is already a master craftsman, an expert saddle maker.”
“At thirteen?” Orvin challenged. “That’s what he said.”
No, this wasn’t happening. Christopher could not remain silent and let the lord sentence him to the bench for the rest of his !ife. He had to say something. He had to open his heart to these men and speak the truth. But in speaking the truth, wouldn’t he betray the memory of his parents? His father wanted him to become a sad dler, and his mother had stood like stone behind Sanborn. Christopher would be abandoning the family trade. But wouldn’t they want him to be happy? That had to be most important. Forgive me Father and Mother, and please try to understand.
“We’ll have to put him to the test,” Orvin said.
Say it! Tell them you want to be a squire!
“True,” Hasdale replied, “but you know, the men who found him told me he and Baines attacked five saxons on their own, and Christopher here downed one himself. Great courage from a boy.”
Orvin’s eyes drifted over Christopher, as if trying to see the capability of such an act somewhere within a saddler’s lean son. Christopher almost felt Orvin’s probe, but concerned himself more with the positive direction in which Hasdale took the conversation. “It it is true, lord. And I need … I beg of you not to place me at the saddler’s bench.”
“But isn’t that where your talents lie?”
“You said yourself, lord, that-that I showed great courage. 1-1 wish to become a squire and serve a knight, lord. I’ve wished it since the very first time I set eyes on one of your men.”
Hasdale’s face filled with consideration. He looked at his father, who shrugged. The lord rubbed a thoughtful hand over his chin.
Christopher’s stomach fluttered and chills climbed a winding staircase up his back.
The lord stretched out his arm and point
ed his index finger at Christopher. “You have your chance.” Dream and reality met in Christopher’s mind. Yes! “But-” Hasdale added, “if you fail, you will serve me with the skill you were born with. Now go. Sleep.
When your leg has healed you will join my other trainees on the practice field.”
Christopher limped past the men, looking over his right shoulder at the knights, who seemed to be for ever practicing on the exercise field. He’d seen them many times before, since his first visit to the castle, but now the image of himself on that field was clear, reflected as if by the Cam, undistorted by the fleeting waves of past desires. He would be trained. The words had come from the lord himself. He kept rolling the idea, for the meaning of those words still did not completely register within him.
I am going to become a squire? Yes!
“…and this is my squire, Christopher,” he said out loud as he set foot on the drawbridge of the keep. The sound was sweet, like the call of morning birds opening his sleepy eyes. He could listen to it over and over and never become tired of it, never become numb or absent to it. He was on the threshold of a new life, leaving the burning remnants behind, but taking all the memories and all the pain with him, for it was those that would fill him with the desire to succeed.
PART TWO
THE TRUE SERVANT
1
Twilight washed down the skies above the castle, and as the shadows grew, so did Lord Hasdale’s fear. Indeed, it had been a dark day; only one small light in a young boy’s face to carry him through.
He was filled with dread as he strode down the torchlit hall. He walked swiftly, and the breeze he created lifted the tapestry hanging on the wall to his right. Before the cloth settled, Hasdale turned down another dim corridor.
The door to Wells’s chamber was slightly ajar, and light wedged through the crack and illuminated Hasdale’s fist as the side of it made contact with the warped oak, pushing the door inward.
His knight was living well. One could have mis taken the chamber for the solar, though there were no windows. Wells had two open chests at the foot of his poster bed, one for clothes, one for documents, silver plates, and gold coins. Wells’s torches were mounted -in ornate stands, and a hooded fireplace warmed the stone floors.
Hasdale’s champion was living too well.
Two heads popped out from under the silk covers on the poster bed; one was Wells, the other a dusky skinned woman not his wife.
“Out of bed,” Hasdale ordered, the muscles in his jaw flaring.
Startled, Wells climbed from the bed and stood. He wore his shirt, but was naked from the waist down.
The nude damsel rushed to a chair across the chamber to retrieve her clothing. She dressed nervously as Hasdale scrutinized her.
Wells slid his breeches over his knees and asked, “What is it, lord?”
“Sloan and Condon searched their hearts and found where their loyalties lie. I have spared them.”
Wells tied his waist string and backed away from the bed, his body tensing, his eyes searching through the shifting light of the room for something.
Hasdale found the object of Wells’s desire: his broadsword. The blade was in its scabbard and rested across the arms of a chair near the door. Hasdale looked to the damsel. “Leave us.”
Like a scared doe, the young woman bolted out of the room, the torch flames leaning in her direction as she turned down the hall.
Hasdale picked up the sword, pulled it from its steel covering, and let it lead the way toward Wells. Each step he took was measured, drawing out more fear in the man before him. “I sent you to bargain with Garrett.”
“Search your heart, lord,” Wells shot back, his voice uneven. “You could not have made the decision yourself-but it was the right one. One life sacrificed for all we have here.”
Hasdale stepped closer to his knight, looked over the tip of the blade, saw the man shudder, and felt the familiar and comfortable power he held over Wells, a power that had once been impregnable, but now was breached by Wells’s faltering loyalty. “Perhaps I would have made the decision-but it was mine to make. Mine to make.”
“Lord, forgive me, but I know you. We would have sacrificed half the garrison in order to rescue the child. And if we failed, you might have succumbed to Garrett’s wishes and turned the castle over to him. There was doubt among your best, and we three agreed it was the only way. It was a show of strength-of your strength-not an act of betrayal. We offered you succor. See now how Garrett’s forces are already heading north. We have won.”
All the words in the world would not take the feel ing of loss away. Hasdale kept replaying the look on Fiona’s face when he told her the child was dead, how her eyes narrowed and her cheeks rose and her mouth formed a grimace. He went over all of it in his mind as he stood before Wells, hearing words that formed simple, logical sentences, courses of action which fulfilled the desires of the many, yet left him cold and empty. Was it the curse of being a lord? Was it his own attachment to his emotions, to the love of family and fellow man that made him a weak leader? Could he have made the decision to put his own son to death in order to preserve the castle? There were no answers, only anger.
Wells fell to his knees. “No more bloodshed. Please, lord. I ask for your forgiveness and for your mercy.”
Hasdale touched Wells’s breast with the blade tip. He could never forgive the man for what he had done. Never. He could kill Wells right now, but killing him wouldn’t bring back his son. Wells had been exceed ingly loyal over the years, and this was his first and only betrayal; in that fact Hasdale found mercy and lowered the sword. “I divest you of your knightly ser vices to this castle, and ban you from this land.” Hasdale could not bear the sight of Wells anymore, for looking at the man would always remind him of his dead child.
“I will not argue, lord. But do know I did it for you. As terrible as you may think it was, when we are both gray and near death you will thank me.”
Hasdale threw Wells’s sword at his feet, the klang as shrill to his ears as the dialogue in which he was engaged. “Never. Now make haste and begone before sunrise.”
Hasdale stepped into the hall, closing Wells’s door behind him. He fell back against the thick oak and sighed, his throat tight and his eyes heavy with tears. M y men doubt me. I’ve lost their confidence.
A young, dirty-faced page hurried down the hall, regarding the lord with curiosity, then, recognizing his master, scurried even faster until he rounded a comer and was gone, a field mouse into his hole.
Hasdale pushed himself off the door and started for his solar.
2
After staring at the pig turning round and round on the spit for several moments, Christopher began to dream about slicing a large portion of the meat off and chomping on it, letting the juice roll down his chin and onto his neck, enjoying the feeling and the taste, the utter barbarism of it all. Warriors ate hard and mean, and he would learn to dig in with his hands and his teeth, wipe his chin on his sleeve, and belch as they did. The glory of it …
Around him, the kitchen was a flurry of activity. At a low wooden table, a side of beef was sliced and placed in an iron cauldron by two gaunt-faced men who wore white aprons over their faded shirts. Near the beef was a pair of plucked geese, which would be placed on the spit when the pig was done. At another table, a cook with the features of a cherub made pas tries while a young boy at his side received a bag of spice from the wardrober. An old woman in white bonnet and red robe, her movements somewhat bird like, drew water from the square well sunk inside the stone walls. She brought the bucket over to the baker, a man built like the loaves he lined up, then returned to the cook’s table to help with the beef.
“Boy!”
Christopher turned from the fire toward the voice.
One of the lanky cooks at the table looked at him with disgust. “Keep the faggots going into that fire. Don’t stare at it! If you can’t do this job- then it’s off to the scullery with you.”
>
The other cook chipped in to his partner, “I don’t believe the boy was staring at the fire.”
The cook who had yelled at Christopher turned to his helper. “Who asked you, Lloyd? Always putting your nose in other people’s business and not minding your job. Look at how sloppy your cuts are. I’ve a mind to report you to the lord himself. You’ll be washing plates with the boy there.”
As the two cooks continued their banter, Christopher limped through the open kitchen door and emerged into the sunlight filling the inner bailey.
He had volunteered to help where he could, his leg permitting, and Hasdale had suggested help ing the overworked cooks in the kitchen. Though Christopher appreciated the wonderful sights and smells, the people were a bit harsh, though nothing compared to his own father. He had kept their fires hot all morning, but now simply wished to rest. He found one of the stone benches and lowered himself onto it.
A moment later, he spotted Orvin slipping from the kitchen doorway, a confiscated loaf of bread in one hand, the other bringing a piece to his mouth. The old man saw Christopher and raised the loaf in recognition, then shambled over. Christopher made room on the bench, and Orvin sat down with an umpff and a crack of his spine. This, of course, made the self-appointed prophet let out a moan.
“Hello, sir.”
“Tired of the kitchen, are you?”
Christopher shook his head, no. “Just resting.” Orvin proffered a piece of bread to him. Christopher took the piece and nibbled on it tentatively, then, find ing it to his liking, pushed the rest of the bread into his mouth and chewed.
“I’m glad we have a chance to chat today,” Orvin said. “We can even begin your training.”
“Now?” Christopher asked, though the word barely escaped through all the bread in his mouth.
