by Peter Telep
And as if on cue: “You! I almost forgot about you!” They turned their heads to see Regan standing in the hall, squinting at them and rubbing his stubble laden jowls.
“Did they see you?” Regan was emphatic. Christopher shook his head: they didn’t.
“Thank St. George. I’d be finding a home instead of a job here. Now I’ve got company, Christopher. You have to go.” Regan turned around and shuffled back toward his chair.
Christopher leaned down and folded up the blanket while Brenna returned the cork to the jug of ale. As he stacked the two pillows on top of the blanket, Christopher felt hands pull his head around. Suddenly, Brenna’s lips smothered his. The kiss lasted nearly two minutes, and when it was done they both sighed deeply. Quietly, they left the cell and trudged down the hall, stopping briefly to spy the herald lying supine and unconscious on the floor of his cell. The boy was a mess.
Moments later, a rat appeared from a gap between the stones in the comer of the cell Christopher and Brenna had vacated. The rodent scampered to the drinking horn lying on the other end of the cage, sniffed at the horn, then began to slowly lick its rim.
9
The hut that housed the squires-in-training sat along the rear curtain wall of the castle and was behind the armorer’s workshop. By day, the armorer’s incessant hammering was unbearable, but by night the hut was cool and quiet. Christopher did not want to wake the others as he slipped under the posts that supported the loft where they slept. But in the darkness of the quarters he mis judged the distance and stumbled into one of the wide beams. The clay jug of ale he carried fell to the earth. The jug didn’t break; it didn’t make much noise at all. But any sound would be picked up by the fine-tuned young ears above.
“Christopher?”
Christopher bent over and picked up the ale, then answered in his own loud whisper, “Go back to sleep!”
“Did you kiss her?” another voice asked.
“What was it like?” still another wanted to know. “Shush!” Christopher ordered as he mounted the wooden ladder that would take him to the loft. There was little chance of slipping quietly into bed now, and the whining of the timbers under his feet went ignored. He reached the top, set down his belongings, then palmed his way onto the dry, chipped floor.
A dozen low-lying, foldable cots were lined up on one side of the room. The opposite was obscured by rows and rows of neatly stacked grain bags, as these quarters also provided a backup supply room for the kitchen. The squires-in-training didn’t mind the grain bags. They had fun in the late evenings tracking down the mice that darted in and out of the crevices formed by the bags. Mice hunting had become a com petitive sport here in the squires’ hut, and as Christopher moved toward the last cot tucked into the comer of the loft, he nearly tripped over Bryan, one of the long-haired pages. The trainee dug his hand under a grain sack, engaging the Saxon mouse with clenched teeth and stiff shoulders.
“Oh, I missed him!” Bryan whispered.
“Don’t you ever sleep, Bryan?” Christopher stepped over the boy and dropped his blanket and pillows onto his cot. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the loft, and Christopher could see Doyle, three cots down from him, staring blankly at the ceiling. Christopher watched the boy a moment, considered talking with him, but decided it best he get some sleep. Sloan had promised them a gruel ing session for the next day. He arranged his pil lows and fell back onto the thin mattress. He tossed and turned for what felt like two hours. Frustrated, he reached down and picked up the jug of ale on the floor to his right; he uncorked it and drank the remaining brew with deep, loud gulps. Finally, he fell into a numb slumber.
The familiar and irritating call of the roosters perched on the fence poles of the livestock pen woke the squires. Christopher rubbed the bloodshot orbs that were his eyes as he sat up in bed. Then he col lapsed back onto his pillow, rolled over, and pulled the blanket over his head. He heard the voices of the other trainees as two of them decided to fetch a few buckets of water from the well and wash up. Their banter was the same every morning, and Christopher would usually participate in it, but he had returned late the previous night and the ale took its toll on his system. He could taste the brew lingering in his mouth, and the beats of his heart filled his head. Despite the creaky cot, the thin, straw-filled mattress, and the itchy woolen blanket, he felt absolutely won derful just snuggled there. He convinced himself that it would be all right if he missed that day’s session.
“Out of bed!” someone cried.
Christopher felt himself lifted and suddenly light ning struck his body in the form of a wave of cold water. His blood went icy and his teeth chattered. Through squinted eyes he saw Bryan the mouse catcher holding an empty well bucket, and behind him the rest of the squires were circled around and laughing. Christopher raked his fingers through his sopping hair, then went for the blanket to dry him self, but it, too, was soaked. He got quickly to his feet, shivered hard, then yelled, “That was not neces sary! I was getting up!”
Bryan shook his head, not believing it.
Christopher stormed out of the loft and climbed down the ladder. When he got to the earth floor he spun around and collided with Doyle, who was on his way back up.
“Sorry,” Christopher said, surprised. “What happened to you?” Doyle asked. “Little wake-up from Bryan.”
“I guess it worked.” “Yes, it did.”
“See you out there.”
Doyle’s last was spoken as a challenge, but Christopher wasn’t particularly interested in that. As Doyle mounted the ladder behind him, it occurred to Christopher that he had actually conversed with Baines’s brother. This was an excellent new start, and perhaps they could forget about yesterday and the darker past and focus on the future.
The shivers never seemed to leave his body, even after Christopher dried himself, donned his padded practice tunic, a clean pair of breeches, and leather riding boots. His eyes still burned from the lack of sleep and his stomach spoke the garbled words of a man hanging from a gallows tree.
Ham steaks and quail eggs answered the cries of his belly, and warm goat’s milk replaced the taste of ale. The great hall was unusually quiet as most of the gar rison had already eaten and gone. The lord’s table was empty, as was Brenna’s. Her family had not arrived yet, and Christopher expected that he and the rest of the trainees would be on the practice field by the time they did. Even Orvin had not appeared that morning. It felt like a Sunday.
Sloan arrived by the time most of the boys finished eating, and assembled the trainees into two lines. They all marched out of the keep, through the pair of gatehouses, and descended the slope, leaving home behind them.
Christopher walked closely behind the trainee in front of him. He didn’t think about much as he marched, noticed the simple things: the weather was much more agreeable that day, the air drier, the sky clearer, the sun already cutting through the tree line and edging its way higher. The grass was still wet, but would dry off much more quickly than the day before. Sloan had told them that mud would become their friend, but perhaps they would not meet Sir Mud.
As they came from the wood nd stepped into the beginnings of the field, Christopher noticed that the weapons racks from the day before were present, but were now joined by four targets, each about a hun dred yards apart. Christopher recognized the targets as quintains, but they were designed differently than the ones he’d seen used at the tournament held out side Shores a year earlier. The target itself was a tanned leather hide, probably filled with straw, and stretched over a round, wooden back wall. The target was supported by iron legs, a tripod arrangement that was standard and secure. But a fourth leg rose up through the center of the tripod and extended beyond the tops of the other legs. Mounted on top of the fourth bar was an iron ring, and fastened to the iron ring was a chain as thick as one of Christopher’s arms. On the end of this chain was what appeared to be another target, this one rectangular-shaped and wrapped with many more hides than the
round tar get. Christopher imagined this swinging, baglike tar get in use, and suddenly knew that his notion to stay in the loft had probably been a good one.
They didn’t say it was going to be easy.
Sloan led them to the same spot as before and they resumed the same formation. Christopher belched inwardly; breakfast wasn’t agreeing with him. The sour taste of bile mixed with eggs made him want to spit. Instead, he grimaced as he swallowed.
A dozen saddled, bridled, and shod rounseys came forth from the forest and trotted onto the field. The steeds were led by the stable master, a man with a serious overbite and the sad expression of a monk. He slid down the red hood covering his head, then tapped his courser with his quirt. The horse quick ened its pace.
The rounseys arrived before the trainees, and Sloan stepped up to address the man. “Good morning, Galvin.”
The stable master was a sour serf. “If one of these boys hurts any of my ladies, I will take it up with the lord.”
“What happened to our usual practice mounts?” “They’re in West Camel, I’m afraid. On loan.” “Rest assured, I’ll make sure your ladies are treated with kindness and respect.”
The stable master nodded, then reined his courser around and galloped off.
When the master was out of earshot, Sloan announced to everyone, “You will ride hard and to the best of your ability. A man who worries more about his horse than himself will find an early grave on the battlefield. Yes, they are loyal creatures, but they are tools. Never forget that. Attachments to them will lead to pain.”
Sloan was honest, brutally honest. Christopher hadn’t had the opportunity to become attached to a horse, but he had seen many knights who swore by the same steed, and when that animal died, they walked the land like lost souls for at least a moon. They wouldn’t even use the same saddles, regardless that the device fitted the new animal perfectly. It was a superstition, and one of the reasons why Christopher’s father had never run out of work.
Before they were allowed to pick out a rounsey, the trainees ran through the arms delivery routine once more, this time delivering weapons to a mounted Sloan. Christopher found his speed improved, despite the sick feelings daggering his head and stomach. Doyle’s time was better as well. They both acceler ated at the same pace, but Doyle seemed locked into that higher notch. Christopher would not let it bother him. What did bother him at the current moment was the idea that he would have to ride, put his belly on top of one of those steeds and charge a target.
As the others moved quickly through the horses, inspecting and choosing, Christopher absently picked the first beast he came upon. He got sicker as the idea grew into the reality. I have to get up on this horse? Now? Ohhhhhh …
It was amazing how the excitement of becoming a squire could be so easily blighted by a hangover. The desire to succeed never left Christopher, it was simply overcome by the desire to puke his guts out.
“Mount your horses!” Sloan ordered.
Christopher blinked hard as the sun finally cleared the tree line and was full in his face. He turned to his rounsey, a brown mare with eyes that were large and seemed full of sorrow. He checked the saddle, recog nized the craftsmanship as March and Torrey’s, and snickered. Besides feeling internally ill, he would have to endure perhaps four hours on this slapped together piece of dung.
They didn’t say it was going to be this hard.
Before climbing up, Christopher went over to face the horse. “Take me quickly but smoothly like a mule. Understand?” The animal’s large, globular eyes stared through Christopher. He shook his head resignedly, then stepped over and levered himself onto the rounsey, praying under his breath.
Ten horses were poised in four lines some three hundred yards behind the targets. Christopher noted the arrival of four garrison men, simple sentries recruited for target duty. Each of the men manned a position behind a target, readying both hands on the bag that hung from the chain.
Sloan would explain it, but Christopher already had a good idea what would happen. They were sup posed to charge the targets with weapons, javelins probably, and the garrison men behind the targets would try to stop them. In Christopher’s mind, he would glide gracefully toward the target, dodge the swinging bag, center his javelin, then rein in his horse, all while not throwing up. That was a best case scenario. He repressed the ugly images of a worst-case scenario; they were too vivid, too real, too close to what might really happen.
Sloan didn’t disappoint. His explanation was clear, save for the news that the swinging target was not exactly a target and would be used in attempts to dis mount the squires as they threw their javelins. If one of the heavy hide bags made contact with Christopher’s torso, he knew that, besides falling, he’d empty himself onto the grass. ·
Christopher purposefully waited on the back of one of the longer, three-horse lines. He would watch two other boys make their runs before he did. That was helpful. He half expected to be forced into going first. That notion sparked another and he looked around for Orvin. The old man was nowhere in sight. Sloan raised his arm, then lowered it, and the first boy in every line was off. Christopher watched as small, dry clumps of earth arced low in the air behind the first horse in his line. The trainee approached the target, drew back his javelin.
The garrison man feinted left with the bag, then swung it right. The heavy, hard hide slammed into the trainee’s shoulder as he released his javelin. The weapon fell short of the target, earthing itself about a yard from the tripod’s base.
The weapon wasn’t the only thing that fell. The rider’s left foot slipped out of its stirrup at the moment of contact, and the boy dropped right, crash ing hard onto the ground. But it wasn’t over.
The trainee’s right foot remained lodged in its stir rup. The mare dragged the boy. Christopher flinched as he saw the heavy hooves of the horse come down on the trainee’s hand, and then his arm. Agonizing cries came from the boy as the target man hustled after the mare. The horse stopped on its own accord, and the target man freed the boy’s leg. The trainee began to cry.
Runs at the target were held up while Sloan checked on the condition of the squire. The fallen boy’s arm and hand were badly bruised, but he hadn’t broken any bones. The trainee was lucky. He would sit out the rest of the day’s session, but Christopher knew he would be back on the morrow.
Bryan was the boy ahead of Christopher in line. He turned back to face Christopher, and let out a long, leery sigh. “Want to go ahead of me?”
“No. But don’t fret. That was a freak mishap.” “How can you say that? They’re trying to dismount us.” “Grip your pommel, not your reins. Try it.”
Bryan grabbed the pommel of his saddle, tested the strength of the wood, the support it would provide. “I will.”
Doyle was in the line next to Christopher’s, and would ride at the same time as Bryan. Seeing the almost familiar features of Baines’s brother reminded Christopher of the squire practice he and Baines had shared only a short time ago. Baines had tried to teach him how to fall. If he had learned anything, he had better utilize it now. Walking pain was the alternative.
Ann down. Bryan and Doyle sprang forward.
Doyle dug his heels hard into his mare, and the animal leapt ahead of Bryan’s. Doyle steadied his javelin.
The target man swung the bag at him.
Doyle blocked the leather hide with his forearm while he sent his javelin razoring through the air. He caught the target, though off-center. Above all, he had remained on his mount.
“Excellent, Doyle! Impressive, boy! Impressive! ” Sloan shouted.
Bryan neared his target, but his bag man was more creative.
The man feinted right, feinted left-then came left, sending the bag whipping through the air.
Bryan gripped the pommel as Christopher had sug gested and took the bag flatly in the face. His javelin fell from his hand as his body arced back under the impact. He was terribly shaken, but he didn’t fall.
> The right side of Bryan’s face took on the deep shine of an apple as he trotted back toward Christopher. Blood trickled from the boy’s nose. Bryan smiled, and raised a balled hand. “I remained in the saddle. Next run I hit the target.”
Christopher returned his own clenched fist of strong will. He moved his rounsey to the starting position, took the javelin Bryan handed him. He paused, and the world took on different and strange dimensions. Height became fear, width heat, and depth spelled promised pain. Rivulets of sweat inched down the sides of his cheeks as he looked at the target and the ugly half grin on the garrison man shadowing it. He began to feel dizzy, a kind of spin ning down and over through the horse that placed him upright again. Ignore everything and ride! he screamed in his head. His heart seemed to stop for a moment, then kick in again. His fingers rubbed the cold steel of the javelin while his right hand clamped the shoddy pommel March or Torrey had commis sioned. He looked to Sloan for the start, and saw Orvin approach on Cara over the battle lord’s shoul der. The old man spotted him and raised his head. In the foreground, Sloan’s arm dropped.
His boots went to the mare’s ribs. The animal dug its hooves into the dry grass. Christopher bounced up and down in the saddle. Breakfast flooded the back of his throat.
The garrison man stepped back with the swinging bag.
Christopher neared the target, drew back his arm, swallowed. The bag came for his head. He ducked, put his face down near the pommel. The bag passed over his head as he jabbed the target with his javelin, not throwing it, but stabbing it underarm. A direct hit, off-center, but a kill.
“Nice move, Christopher!” Sloan yelled.
Christopher heard the congratulatory remark, but could not acknowledge Sloan for it. He remained in his forward position on the rounsey, and when the horse drifted into a canter and then finally stopped behind the target, Christopher sat there breathing, feeling his cheeks draw in and his mouth fill with saliva.
Orvin trotted up as Christopher expelled his steaming, half-digested breakfast onto the grass. “A rough night, followed by a rough ride. Am I speaking the truth, young patron saint?”
