by Peter Telep
Orvin handed Christopher another hunk of the loaf. “You will listen-and you will not interrupt. You will not ask questions, for in what I tell you all answers will be apparent, and if they are not, you will look harder for the implications of answers. Do you understand?”
Again, Christopher’s mouth was full of bread, but between chews he managed, “I think so.”
“What is a squire?” Orvin asked.
Christopher began to answer, but found another shard of bread pushed in front of his mouth.
Orvin continued, “He is a boy who desires to become a knight. And so he must learn to serve a knight before he can become one. It is a job that leads to a greater job. True?”
Christopher thought about answering, but knew his words would not be recognizable. Indeed, a mouthful of bread taught one how to be a good listener.
Orvin swatted a fly from his face, then forged on. “Obtaining greatness can only be done by mastering humility. To realize that every man is a servant. He is a servant to his heart, his mind, and to God. A squire is a servant-but so is a knight.”
Christopher had never thought about it that way. He never pictured a knight as a servant, though he knew all knights served their lords and all lords served their kings. A servant was a serf, a page, a leatherdresser. Not a knight wielding a broadsword. These were mental images he would have to cast away.
“A true servant’s spirit is not sullied and acts as one with mind and heart. This servant has found his place in the world, has acted to the best of his ability and employed his true talents.”
This started to sound like Orvin’s way of talking him out of becoming a squire. “True talents” meant making saddles.
I have to say something! Damned bread!
“You will discover within yourself what is fated for you, and when you know and accept that, you will truly be at peace. Now, I know you are at war within yourself, worried about the training, about being alone, about many things I also agonized over at your age. But put your fears aside and stand tall in the air of a new future for yourself.”
Big words, important words; they took on a scope that was so far removed from his workshop bench, the toft, Shores, that Christopher felt guilty about his new future, a future bought with the blood of his par ents.
But he would never forget them, always love them. Christopher finished chewing the bread, swallowed, rubbed his tongue around to dislodge any stubborn bits from his teeth, then cleared his throat. “May I speak?”
Orvin chuckled, and as he did he didn’t see the loaf on his knee slip off to the grassy yard. “You already have, boy.” Then the weathered man looked down. “Oh, clumsy, Orvin.”
“I need your help,” Christopher said.
“Of course you do,” Orvin said, retrieving the loaf, then brushing a bit of dirt off it; he continued to inspect it for more particles.
“I need you to help me build a pyre for my parents.”
Orvin looked at Christopher, and he saw the old man’s lips tighten as a sympathetic look that eased Christopher’s pain washed over Orvin’s face. Orvin nodded, then slid an arm around Christopher’s shoulder.
3
Christopher stared with a fierce sorrow at the pyre. It was a great conflagration, filling the desolate street that was once Leatherdressers’ Row with golden light. Orvin’s hand rested on his shoulder as both watched the fire tum the bodies of Sanborn and Cornelia darker than they already were, and then finally into ash and bones. The smell of burning flesh was thankfully masked by the thick, almost-sweet smoke of the blazing beech; Orvin had chosen the wood wisely.
The tongues of fire were hypnotic, licking at the air, dancing, and sending Christopher’s mind off in a dozen directions. He pondered what Orvin had told him earlier. He considered what the actual training would be like. He remembered killing the Saxon, how that had reminded him of the knight Airell. His head was filled with so many ideas, so many emotions, he wanted to let them all out and ride each free course for as far as it would take him. But the domi nant thought, the dominant feeling, was sorrow. Saying good-bye. Forever. To hold Mother and Father in mind’s eye, never in true eye. To remember would be to keep them alive in himself, but they would never be alive to others-unless he shared the stories of them with those he knew.
“My father was very strong,” Christopher told Orvin. “His hands were like tools themselves. And he used them so much that sometimes my mother would have to soak them in oil for him. She liked to do that, and I know he liked the way it felt. She used to play with his hair when she soaked his hands because she knew he couldn’t fight her off.” Christopher nodded wistfully. “I remember that.”
“I myself have ridden in a saddle your father made.
I have never felt one as comfortable.”
“You must ride a mule. An easy saddle job.” “Not for this body,” Orvin mused.
“Perhaps I will make you another in exchange for the training.”
Christopher suddenly realized he had assigned himself time to the bench. So be it. The training was worth a lot more than a single saddle and some lost time.
His gaze wandered from the flames to the street beyond. He had been right about the Saxon devastation. Every house was in rubble. It was odd being able to see so many backyards where once there had been gables blocking all view and casting long shadows over the road. Shores seemed much larger now, its charred flat lands broken only by the surviving stone chimneys that rose out of the ashes like soiled grave markers. It would be some time before the village of his childhood was populated again.
Two horsemen of the garrison trotted by, acknowl edging Orvin and Christopher, as they set out to patrol the outskirts of Shores, and to see how the half dozen serfs salvaging what they could from Armorers’ Row were progressing. Normally the stew ard would be with them, but with yesterday’s attack, extra precautions were taken. Christopher could feel the tension within himself and see it in others.
Orvin’s attention had been on the fire a long time. He gestured hello with a wave to the soldiers, but never turned his head.
Christopher studied his profile, wondering what the man saw as he stared at the pyre. “You look hard into the flames.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but Christopher knew it would spark something within Orvin.
“Yes,” the old one said softly, gaze still locked on the pyre.
Perhaps he sees my future-and all he says is “yes.”
“See anything? I mean, do you see anything?”
“I sensed the first time we met that you doubted me,” Orvin said. “And now you ask if I see anything in the pyre? I see flames.”
“You look at them the same way you look at the sky,” Christopher observed.
“Indeed, I use the same eyes.”
Whether Orvin was a necromancer or not, he certainly had a natural talent to frustrate. And he had cast a spell on Christopher, one which made him need to be around the man-even though at the moment he wanted to choke an answer out of him. “Do you see anything else in the pyre, anything that is not there-but there?”
“Oh, I like that kind of talk,” Orvin said. His head turned away from the blazing mound and his gaze lowered to Christopher. ‘“Anything that is not there-but there.’ Oh, yes, that is good. You’re get ting the idea now.” Orvin closed his eyes. There was no odd look that crossed his face, no twisting or writhing of his body, no smoke or lightening or dark ening of the sky, simply an old man who, after a moment of silence punctuated by the crackling of burning wood, said, “There will be many more fires like these.”
That didn’t seem like much to Christopher. He wanted to know if he would become a great knight, loyal and true to his lord, winning many tournaments and achieving many victories on the battlefield. All he had received was the promise of more fires.
But not just any fires. Funeral pyres. And then Orvin’s words saddled themselves on Christopher’s mind. They meant death, more of it.
He had befriended the prophet of doo
m.
“Do you know who is going to die?” Christopher asked.
Orvin opened his eyes. He raised his eyebrows and bands of wrinkles rose on his forehead. The hint of a grin was on his lips as he revealed, “Yes.”
“Tell me,” Christopher said, dreading what he was about to hear. It was probably someone he knew, prob ably someone he liked. Maybe the lord. Maybe even Orvin; the lord’s father was beyond even middle age.
Orvin turned around and set his sandals in motion away from the pyre. Christopher followed. As the old knight led Christopher up Leatherdressers’ Row he said, “We’re all going to die, Christopher. All of us.”
Christopher shook his head as a smile curled his lips, then nudged Orvin in the ribs with his elbow. The old man let out a soft groan, then a dramatic fit of coughing. “You really are a prophet, Orvin.”
Gentle zephyrs tugged at their shoulders and blew the hair from their foreheads as they continued. Christopher considered Orvin’s words once more. Yes, we are all going to die, but Orvin had promised many more funeral pyres. How much more death would lie in the course ahead? Hadn’t there been enough already?
Slaying the enemy was not a part of the death Christopher considered. That was the function of a knight, and killing a Saxon was just that, killing a Saxon. Death meant pain; it meant losing someone close to you, someone you loved. Who was to bum on the pyres? Loved ones or enemies?
“Life is the journey,” Orvin said, “for I have already told you the destination.”
·“Death,” Christopher noted sadly. “Heaven is a better place.”
“So the abbot told me.” “You doubt him?”
“If I had a glimpse of that place … “
“But you already have,” Orvin said with surprise.
“I know I’ve seen Hell,” Christopher said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Shores, “but Heaven? Where?”
“You have seen it, and will see it again. The next time you will know.”
It was hard to become angry with Orvin; he was, after all, being Orvin. He wasn’t going to simply tell Christopher, and Christopher released his clenched fists and the anxiety from his heart. “If you’re with me, will you let me know when I am looking at it?”
“I will,” Orvin promised. “Indeed, I will.”
4
Christopher’s sleeping chamber was on the fourth floor of the keep. He stretched out on his wool-stuffed mattress and stared at the rafters; his eyes traced the cobwebs that spanned between them. He heard the footsteps of sentries on the wall-walk above, the only sound filling the lonely, dark room. Christopher had requested to sleep in the squires’ chambers in the outer bailey, but Hasdale insisted on this quieter, more comfortable room for recuperation. Christopher had heard the serving women gos siping about the special treatment he received. After all, he was only the son of a simple craftsman. Why was Hasdale regarding him with such importance, putting him up in a private chamber in the keep? Christopher knew the lord had taken a liking to him. But deep down he knew there was something else, revealed by the lord himself. Christopher brought him happiness and pain. Christopher had become a son without a father-and on the same day the lord had become a father without a son. There was the link, and Christopher hoped to add another bond to it, that of squire to knight.
The steady pace of footsteps was a beating heart, putting Christopher slowly and surely to sleep. He rolled over on his side, dug his head deeper into the goose-feather pillow, then glanced at the torch mounted on the wall near the door. He closed his eyes and was swallowed into the freckled darkness. Millions of minute points of light flashed over and over: the echoing image of the flame he had lingered on seconds before.
More footsteps. The sounds of his own breathing. The vague smell of incense from somewhere. And then … utter darkness.
“You-a mere boy-challenge me?”
Garrett sneered at Christopher, and Christopher tried to repel the Saxon leader’s cockiness from his thoughts. They stood in the middle of the great hall, surrounded by all the inhabitants of the castle, Lord Hasdale himself standing on top of the long dais table.
The armor hung heavily on Christopher’s shoul ders. Relief would come only with victory. He held his broadsword, the one Baines had given him at the Cam, steadying the great blade with both hands and shifting his weight from right foot to left foot, trying to hold himself back from lunging recklessly at his opponent. He was frightened, but the desire to kill grew, nurtured by the horror caused by this beast this Garrett.
“For the deaths of my parents and the death of my friend, and for all the pain you have caused those of Shores, by God, draw your sword and give me the chance to avenge what you have done.”
Garrett unsheathed the spatha bound at his waist. He gestured with his sword to the crowd around them. “So many witnesses to your death. Do you not wish to do this privately? I am a sporting man and will spare you the embarrassment of such a public display, such a public death.”
Christopher felt alone. Baines could not help him now. He had to tap farther into the anger, let it pulse not only through his legs, but through his head and heart. Yes, the desire to kill had grown, and he could feel it now in his jaw as the muscles tightened and his teeth ground into each other. Then his head throbbed and his heart threatened to rip through his chest and melt through his breastplate.
He sprang toward Garrett.
The Saxon deftly parried Christopher’s sword as the bejeweled blade came down toward Garrett’s head. Garrett then struck a hard riposte to Christopher’s shoulder. The impact rang like a church bell.
Pain shot through Christopher’s arm. He spun around as Garrett one-handed his sword and swiped horizontally, making contact with the steel protecting Christopher’s ribs. The armor sang; Christopher echoed it with a moan. He felt the desire to fall to his knees but fought it hard, biting back the bolt in his side.
“I offer you another chance for privacy, young one,” Garrett said.
Christopher sent a black look Garrett’s way, then straightened himself, gripped his sword with both hands, and drove forward. Garrett deflected the first blow, but Christopher kept going. Blow after blow his sword fought the Saxon steel that blocked it, and finally a single strike slipped through Garrett’s defense and made contact with the Saxon’s exposed Adam’s apple. Christopher pulled his blade back and saw blood spew onto the gorget that protected Garrett’s collar bone. One of the Saxon’s hands went to his throat and his gaze swept the room for someone to help him.
He had injured his opponent badly. Triumph was a hot meal filling his belly, bloating him with serenity and the promise of a good night’s rest afterward. Smiles were as abundant as cheers from the crowd, and Christopher drew them in, the fine wine of victory. He lowered his sword and stood, his breath slowing and his muscles loosening.
His gaze fell on a young maid, her deep, brown eyes as shiny as her long ebony hair. Her skin was clear and full of color, and white robes over an even whiter shift hid what Christopher knew must be a perfect figure. It was this whole image of beauty that controlled him, made him stand, rapt; the essence of this girl was a new reality.
He didn’t see Garrett charge toward him, a bleed ing animal shrieking and screaming and howling, his spatha held high over his head.
Christopher’s stare shifted from the girl in time to see the point of Garrett’s blade razor toward his head, come straight between his eyes-and suddenly he was lying awake in the chamber, clutching his head with both hands. The sweat poured off him even though the room was comfortably cool.
The nightmare had tom apart his system. He tried to find all of the pieces that were himself and put them together. He sat up in the bed, gulped back the lump in his throat, and wiped the dampness from his face. The footsteps above were good to hear, protective, reassuring. He remained there until his breath came slowly, and then he climbed out of the bed. Christopher got on his haunches, lifted the mattress, and pulled out a p
ackage wrapped in wool. He placed the package on the bed, untied the leather bindings, and folded back the wool t<;> reveal the sword.
It was all he had left of Baines. After he had explained to Hasdale how he had acquired the blade, the lord let him keep it. The blade had not failed him in the dream. He had failed. Christopher picked up the broadsword, stood, then held it out into the shad ows of the sleeping chamber. Abruptly, he pivoted and swung the blade through the air; steel whistled, the nearby torch flames rustled in the sudden gust. How could he stand there in the face of someone as dangerous and malignant as Garrett and fix his eyes on a girl? How could he let a blade be thrust through his head and do nothing? The thought of it brought chills to his spine.
He sat back down on the bed with the sword, let a finger trace the hilt and then the blade. He wasn’t ready yet. He wasn’t a knight. He wasn’t even a squire. He had to learn. He needed the training, the practice. And then he’d be ready-as the broadsword would always be.
Sunlight filtered through his window and paved a golden road on his bed by the time Christopher finally got back to sleep.
5
The Ieatherdressers’ hut was the smallest of all huts in the outer bailey. Though the craft was as important as any, save for the armorers’, the saddlers were relegated to a small, dank comer just beyond the shores of a small, foul-smelling pond.
Orvin stood near the water with his mule. The ani mal didn’t mind the smell of the pond and drank the water with steady movements of its tongue. Christopher came from the hut with his leather mea suring tape and winked at the senior as he gestured with a finger for Orvin to tum around, back to him. The old man complied, and Christopher measured Orvin’s buttocks with professional flair.
“No man has ever measured me for a saddle,” Orvin noted, his voice carrying the tone of a man who was impressed.
“It is customary to measure only the horse. Make the saddle fit the horse and let the man adjust to the saddle. My father always measured both.”
