by Peter Telep
The singsong tone of Orvin’s voice made Christopher feel worse. The old man took great pleasure in seeing him suffer. Then Orvin’s words registered: “rough night.” He cleared the fire from his throat. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” Christopher tested.
“Or you didn’t have the time to.” “What are you saying, Orvin?”
“I’m saying a squire trainee does not make deals with jailers. A squire trainee does not slip out into the night with a young serf girl and expect to perform his best on the practice field the next day. And most of all, a squire trainee does not borrow something without asking its owner first-especially something as cherished and sacred as my drinking horn!”
The horn. He’d forgotten to replace it. Where was it? He searched his memory, didn’t recall seeing it in the loft. Did he forget it in the cell?
“Not only did you take my horn, but you carelessly left it in the dungeon to be gnawed at by the rats!”
At least he’d received his answer, if not his death sentence.
Christopher’s head was already lowered, but now in shame as well as nausea. “Sorry,” he uttered, then coughed.
“Do not look too deeply into her eyes,” Orvin warned, then turned Cara around and trotted away.
Christopher resumed his place on the target line and watched his peers make further runs. Doyle com pleted another successful attack on the hide, and Bryan managed to get his javelin into the target, but it didn’t penetrate deep enough and fell out.
He almost felt better as he prepared for his second run. Almost. The little demon of guilt was on his back. He had betrayed Orvin’s trust. It wasn’t a deep betrayal, but still, it smarted. He would narrow him self now, fix his mind on the training and the training alone.
Easier thought than done. In the face of Brenna’s eyes, hair, lips, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.
Orvin did not stay to watch, and that was part of the hurt. He would have been proud had he seen Christopher dodge the bag and opt to hit it with his javelin instead of the target. An even harder mark, but Christopher sent his rod needling into the heavy hide, surprising the life out of the garrison man. The bag swung back at the man, the javelin sticking out of it. The pole struck the sentry in the ribs, and though the link-mail of the man’s hauberk muffled the serious pain, the force·knocked him onto his backside. Those watch ing burst into laughter. Christopher turned his rounsey around and looked at Doyle. The boy pursed his lips and nodded, impressed. Top that, Christopher thought.
Unfortunately, Doyle did. Utilizing two javelins, the boy rode without holding the reins, hit both the main target and the bag while not so much as slip ping in his saddle.
Dammit, he’s good.
For the rest of the afternoon, the trainees attacked the quintains. Christopher fell only once, but it was a good fall and the pain evaporated quickly. Bryan continued to be battered, and returned with a new injury after every advance. Even the boy who had been trampled decided to give it a go, and with a fierce vengeance buried his javelin in the target.
By nightfall, the squires returned to the great hall for dinner. Many sat together while others joined their families or friends. Christopher noticed that Doyle ate alone, his parents on the opposite side of the hall shooting him worried and longing looks. Doyle ignored them.
Next to Christopher, Orvin was engrossed in his cut of well-done beef. God’s greatest gift to Orvin was not the old man’s knightly abilities, not the old man’s knowledge or the old man’s perception for truth; it was food. And Orvin loved it so. The time between meals Orvin spent dreaming about the next plate that would rest between his elbows. There was eating and not eating. And once in a while, some thing else.
Christopher chewed heartily on his own beef as he took in the view of Brenna. At first he tried to pre tend she was not there. But he was weak in the face of her. Orvin could see the future. She blinded him, but if darkness promised her lips on his, then he would plummet into the void. He was tom between being a squire and being a lover. Couldn’t he have both? Couldn’t he create his own balance, mind and heart working in unison as Orvin said they must?
“Tell me, Orvin. How does a man create this bal ance of mind and heart you spoke of? I seek such a balance now.”
Orvin was annoyed to be pulled away from his beef. The old man wiped his shriveled lips, took a sip of ale from his tankard, flared his jowls, rolled the liquid around inside his mouth, then swallowed. “The trick,” he said, “is to be a man.”
Christopher felt anchored by frustration. You had to watch every word you uttered around Orvin, for he always sought the small, sometimes literal inter pretations of what you said, never reaching for the general meanings. “How does a boy do it?”
“A boy does not,” he said.
It was a simple, perfect truth that Christopher refused to accept. “I want desperately to be a squire. But I also-”
“You must find your way. I have spoken all I can on the subject. Are you going to finish your meat?”
Not now, he wasn’t. Christopher slid his plate over to Orvin, who did the rippling skin incantation with his eyebrows.
Christopher’s gaze found Brenna once more. She twirled her hair with her index finger.
10
The dimensions of the castle of Uryens of Gore doubled those of Hasdale’s fortress. Built high on a man-made mound, the castle was fortified by over a dozen towers that each supported stone parapets resting on stone corbels. The spaces between each corbel enabled defenders to drop rocks and fire arrows at the attackers while being shielded by the surrounding corbels. Hasdale admired this arrange ment as his party crossed the open drawbridge and slipped into the fettered shadows drawn by the raised portcullis of the gatehouse. His own tower defenses were wooden hoardings, erected hastily in the event of an attack, and usually not at all. Trouble was, one catapult shot would take out a hoarding and render the soldiers inside vulnerable or already dead. Dropping rocks on an enemy was always an effective means of defense, especially against a battering ram, but protecting oneself while doing so was a problem that Uryens had solved here. He must talk more about defenses with the man, plan to reinforce his own towers the same way.
A ruby sun nicked the western horizon as they were heralded, then dismounted in the outer bailey. Hasdale took Sloan, Condon, and Malcolm, a boy barely eighteen whom he had just knighted. It was apparent from his weak jaw and bubbling eyes that Malcolm had never seen such a large castle. The boy’s wonder bruised Hasdale’s ego. He wished it were his castle the boy gaped at. But no matter. Petty jealousy was far from the order of the day.
They were welcomed by the humble and gracious steward, Blaine, a man so rawboned that Hasdale was afraid to breathe too close to him, for a sudden exhalation might cause considerable damage.
“Lord Uryens is out now, but will be back later in the evening. He will greet all on the morrow in the great hall,” Blaine said. Then the spatha-shaped man led them into the keep, where they were shown to their quarters on the fifth floor.
Fires blazed in each of the chambers. Sloan and Condon would share quarters, while Hasdale and Malcolm would take another. They stripped out of their armor, hauberks, gambesons, shirts, and breeches, and dropped comfortably into each of their beds. They had ridden for five days, sleeping under thin tents on hard earth, waking up damp and stiff and hungry each morning. Hasdale had almost for gotten the comfort of a poster bed, but as his stiff back made contact with the wool-stuffed mattress, he was marvelously reminded.
Hasdale’s palm grew red, and his armor became scuffed and dull from embracing the many lords here in the great hall. He knew as many as fourteen of the other knights, and felt a great sense of fellowship as he sat down at the longest trestle table he had ever seen, his three loyal men to his right.
Uryens’s great hall wore the name much more fit tingly than his own, even more so now with so many great knights drinking and eating, exchanging battle tales, and making toasts so rough that tankards oc
ca sionally broke and shards of clay dripping with ale fell to the table.
Banners and pennons displaying the coat of arms of each of the knights hung from the rear wall of the hall, and below them, at the head of the trestle table, the king took his place, attended by two pages.
The king. Hasdale had never met his lord, only exchanged messages with him. He looked as intelli gent and as carefully measured as Hasdale had imag ined. He had drawn a mental picture of the king via the communiques, and it startled him to see how close the face in his head matched the face before him.
The crest of the helm sitting on the table next to Arthur’s plate was a dragon, and the matching bronze-colored armor he wore was so polished that it caught the morning light and threw it up into the rafters in a fountain of shifting beams. The musculature of his body was apparent, and his face generated an aura that no man could not acknowledge. There was something magnetic about him, not because he was the king, not because he had pulled Excalibur from the stone when no other could, not because he had gathered them here to create a battle plan to defeat the invaders of their land, and not because his striking sea-green eyes, his long, soft hair, and trimmed beard reflected an almost religious image to them, but simply because he knew. And they trusted. Arthur knew how to defeat their enemies, he knew how to bring peace to the land. He would show them how to build a dream from nothing. What man could resist?
Uryens took a seat to the left of Arthur. Another knight whom Hasdale did not recognize sat to the king’s right. Uryens rose, and the room fell silent. “Welcome, knights. You know why we are here, and you know what it is we all seek. Today we will clear a path that will lead us to our goal. The king will show us the way.”
Arthur stood.
Everyone stood. Steel pinged , link-mail shook, bench legs dragged across the stone floor. All eyes found one man.
The king gestured for all to be seated.
After the clatter, Arthur took a sip of deep red wine from an ornamented mug, set it down, then pulled on his beard thoughtfully. “How does a king unite a land? How does a land unite men?”
No one dared venture an answer. Hasdale assumed the questions were rhetorical, as he hoped the others did.
“Loyalty. Truth. Fellowship. We all stand together or not at all. The time has come to attack instead of defend. We must spread the word of peace through out our land by driving out those who spread death.
“We have many enemies. Each of you, separate but linked by the common cause, must engage and con-quer them. It is the vision that will strengthen us, drive us to victory. If we follow it, we follow a com mon path toward peace.”
Cheers of approval filled the air and wafted up through the cookfire vents in the ceiling.
“This union,” Arthur continued, “is only a first step. But it is an important one. And we all must swear allegiance to it-or ban ourselves now.”
From the rear of the trestle table, Hasdale saw a lone knight rise. The simple action jarred him. How could one man actually address the king in such an abrupt fashion? He could not imagine himself stand ing. He could hardly bear the sight of another man doing it.
“I challenge your ideals,” the knight said.
He was a half head taller than Hasdale, but about as broad across the shoulders. His armor was dark and unpolished, and his long, chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail. His headband bore a single jewel in the middle of it, and it was this jewel that caught Hasdale’s attention as the rogue spoke. It was a blue gem of indeterminate type, a third shining eye that focused on Arthur.
“Go on,” Arthur said, “speak your mind, Mallory, as I know reticence is not a problem of yours.”
“This talk of truth and fellowship and vision. What do these ideals lead to? A man charging into battle with ideals in his heart comes back with an ax in his head! We must kill them! Force them out because it is our land! Ours! We should keep the faces of dead children in our minds, not these visions of a future peace. Anger, force, the setting of a jaw and the grip ping of a blade, stiff, hard, might, will of iron, and fire in one’s veins. Those things equal victory. Not these flights of fancy you peddle us.”
The words, like glaives in his ears, made Arthur react. Hasdale saw the king’s face become flushed, saw how he uttered his retort through gritted teeth. “If it is revenge you seek, Mallory, then go. No knight here will follow that quest.”
Those words woke guilt in Hasdale. He found some truth, some relation to Mallory’s words. He did know he wanted Garrett and the spy Kenneth dead. He did know why. And did acknowledge it was out of revenge. The losses were still tangible, missing limbs throbbing with phantom pain. They were holes in his spirit, never to be filled, only to be dealt with, to come to terms with. Would Garrett’s death make it easier? Maybe. Maybe not.
Mallory had gall. Gall up to his ears. He spun around and marched toward the tunnel exit, all eyes following the man as he left. Murmurs spilled low near the tabletop.
Arthur shook his head. “Any others to join him?” And then, screaming at the top of his lungs, vent ing the pain Mallory’s challenge had caused him, Arthur repeated, “I SAID, ANY OTHERS TO JOIN HIM?”
The question, the challenge, hung, lifted from the air by no one. All knights secured their positions. Even Hasdale, whose mind continued to be sprin kled by a light rain of doubt, kept his mouth closed.
Arthur blew out a puff of air, let his lips tremble like a rounsey’s. “Good. Now, I tum this gathering over to Lancelot.” Arthur gestured to the flaxen haired knight on his right, who stood. “He and I have designed battle plans for each of you. Listen care fully. And a dagger to the heart of the next man who interrupts this meeting.”
11
“He’s taken you, hasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
Christopher and Doyle sat together on the live stock fence, watching four archers converse loudly as they examined a new courser one of them had just acquired and brought into the outer bailey.
The tallest of the bowmen was Varney, a beady eyed, close-cropped young man whose rose-colored tunic and scaled shoulder armor set him apart from the other men who donned simple, more comfortable gambesons. Varney boasted he was the best marks man among the group, and Doyle believed it.
“I hope I can attend him well. I expect him to be very demanding,” Doyle added. “But no more so than the lord.”
“The boy that Hasdale selects will be in for a rough time.”
“You’ll make it,” Doyle said.
There it was. Christopher knew the rumors of Hasdale’s affection for him would reach the trainees. He hadn’t considered how to handle the situation, but knew jealousy and resentment would certainly arrow his way. He figured now he’d shrug off the truth, wall it up in the prison, let Regan guard it, and release it to no one, except by his approval. “The lord has not made his choice yet, and besides, there are many others as worthy as me.”
“None of us has ever killed a man.” “What does that have to do with it?”
“I’ve heard Sloan say on more than one occasion that experience is the true training, that real battle prepares one for another. Practice is only practice. When blood is spilled, it must be a different thing.”
“If I’m chosen, it will be because of my talents as a squire. Nothing more.” “You can believe that-if it makes you feel better.” “It’s the truth.”
“No, it’s not.”
Christopher pushed himself off the fence post, began to walk away from Doyle, then his pent-up rage turned him around. “I didn’t ask for what happened. It just did. If it angers every boy that I’m chosen because I killed a Saxon, what can I do about it? What’s done is done!”
“It angers no one,” Doyle said. “All of us know that you are the one; you will serve Hasdale. You have been in battle. Everyone respects that. Everyone.”
“But it’s not the only reason, right?”
“Well … ” Doyle smiled. “You’re a fair squire when you’re not sic
k.”
Doyle’s grin was infectious. Christopher found himself smiling. “I don’t know what to say.”
He really didn’t. Expectations had been replaced by comforting truths. The fact that everyone already accepted Christopher’s place as Hasdale’s squire was both unbelievable and wonderful. He felt taller than his height, broader than his medium build. A force took hold of him, and the most important thing he drew from it was courage. The courage to accept what was happening. He would not fear the success, but revel in it.
But a fact still ghosted him: the lord had not offi cially chosen.
Doyle closed his eyes. “Maybe it’s about time you-” There was a catch in his voice. He frowned a moment, breathed deeply, then, “Why don’t you tell me about my brother?”
Christopher stared at Doyle: the tightly shut eyes; the white-knuckled fists; the laborious rising and lowering of his chest; the twitching of a nerve in his neck. He seemed to be bracing himself for the impact of past and present.
Orvin was right about Doyle; the new varlet did not blame Christopher for Baines’s death. But Orvin was wrong when he said the feelings were not that strong. Never knowing a brother, and then losing him must unsheath some powerful emotion within a per son. Guilt? Shame? Sorrow? Longing for the past, for what was, what could never be? Dreams of a day when brothers could reunite? Doyle’s tension might harbor all those things.
Christopher would tell Doyle all about Baines, but the story of his friend would be a celebration of life, not death. There were too many roads of that yet to travel.
“I guess I could start by telling you about the time he fell into Lady Fiona’s bathing tub-while she was still in it… . “
Doyle’s eyelids snapped open.
12
Spittle flecked the old man’s lips, and his eyes were rolled up to heaven. “Revenge is a sin against God, son. And the sky is not with us. You mask the truth by telling me it is the king’s will, but I see through the forest of your heart.”
