by Peter Telep
It would have been a stalemate had Sloan not fallen back. Christopher thought it odd that his trainer suddenly slipped his hook free and retreated a half dozen steps. It probably had everything to do with the fact that Hasdale was the lord and Sloan was not. Or it had nothing to do with it. Sloan was either being polite or really had weakened. Christopher preferred the former.
The knights paused, their breathing loud and mechanical. Their faces were still split with grins almost menacing, diluted only by their loyalty and friendship. They dropped their halberds.
Christopher nearly missed his cue. He thought it most curious that they would engage without weapons now. Then logic, only a hairbreadth away, elbowed his head. Maces! Now!
He went over to the club arms rack, searched, looked, eyed, spied, trusted. He came up with two and brought them forth.
Hasdale’s mace was too short.
It wasn’t a big issue, and it shouldn’t have both ered him that much. The problem was, at the moment Hasdale shook his head, no, you’ve the wrong one, Christopher saw the other squire trainees join the crowd in the background. His peers had missed all of the other correct choices and perfect moves he had made. Now they witnessed his blunder. He staggered back to the weapons rack, his spirit hovering somewhere around his ankles. It was down and-out horrible timing that the other trainees watched now. He could almost feel their taunting eyes on his shoulders, and though none did, he thought he heard one of them yell, “Fool!”
He trudged back to Hasdale. One mistake distanced him from the whole yard, filled his head with so much doubt that thoughts of reverting to saddle making invaded his mind. Defeat was as uncomfort able as any physical thing, and if it were physical, Christopher suspected it would be hot and wet and heavy and solid; it would bum, soak, and crush. Defeat would walk the lands, choke the air, and cre ate a death silence in its wake.
He had made only one mistake.
“Two out of three,” Hasdale said, accepting the replacement weapon, “are good odds for any squire of mine.”
The drama in his mind climaxed, the curtains fell, and defeat was dead.
Christopher backhanded a band of sweat from his head, then blew out a heavy sigh as he walked back to the racks. When he turned around, he saw the trainees thrusting their fists in the air for him.
14
“You don’t have to go, do you?” “Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Where the lord goes, I go.”
“But you’re not ready yet, are you?” “He thinks I am.”
“Do you think you are?” “Sometimes. Most times.”
Christopher studied Brenna’s face, the gloom and worry clearly molded there. Then he looked away, part of him already ascending the Mendip hills.
Hasdale had told him about it matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the quality of an ale, or the feel of a saddle. Oh, by the way, you’re riding with me to attack Garrett’s army. Maybe it was the lord’s way of downplaying it to Christopher. But since then, antici pation and abject fear had braided inside him, knot ted up his system and driven him wild, made him want to do something physical, like run or leap or dive-or hide. But he had to tell Brenna, and, in a way, say good-bye to her. For now.
It had barely occurred to him that it could be their last good-bye.
It had definitely occurred to her.
They hadn’t been able to find a good place to talk, and so it was they stood on the bottom of a staircase that led up to the maid’s chamber. And it was here, listening to the diminuendoes of distant servants call ing out to each other, and bathed in the reddish light of the hall, that Christopher realized how much he cared for her.
“If you’re not•ready … “
Christopher knew the end of that sentence. “I trust the lord. And you have to trust me, Brenna.”
She bit her lip, and the tears came.
He touched her shoulder. She pulled away. “Brenna.”
“My mother told me being with you is wrong.”
And this time he grabbed her shoulders, giving her no opportunity for escape. “It’s not wrong. Just wait for me. Just wait.”
She collapsed on him, nudging her head into his neck and shoulder. He stroked the raven maid’s hair · as she cried.
He had to come back. If only to stop her tears.
15
Through the night, they worked. Some said, “like dogs,” others, “like mules,” still others more poetically put it, “like slaves chained to the vengeful will of their master.” It was no secret why Hasdale wanted to attack. They all knew. Some agreed with his motives, some not. But they all worked.
The armorer’s bellows breathed life into the fires as the dirty-faced men with gnarled hands hammered last-minute corrections into a steady stream of new spathas. Bascinets, gorgets, shoulder-protecting paul drons, breastplates, elbow-shielding couters, cuisses, poleyns, greaves, and sabatons were checked and fit ted with all other parts of armor, while link-mail was mended and cleaned. Axes, glaives, spears, and hal berds were honed on whetstones, as were the iron tips of arrows. Longbows, shortbows, and crossbows were waxed and tested, quivers filled, and weapons racks and tents folded and stowed on supply wagons.
In the stables, Galvin directed ten hostlers in the· shodding of coursers, rounseys, mid his beloved mares. The horses were fitted with the loriner’s bits and stirrups, and recently delivered saddles from March and Torrey. A dozen lampblack coursers, which made up the lord’s party, were behind the sta bles, leather plates strapped onto their faces and flanks by two of Galvin’s most skilled men.
It was hard to believe, but the kitchen bustled even more than usual. Seniors, who usually loitered about the castle drinking ale, growing fat, and attending to children, were commandeered into the food preparation chain. They wrapped smoked pork, beef, and chicken in salted linens, and tucked the packages into wicker baskets. Dozens of clay flagons were filled with ale and wine, corked, then fitted into traveling trunks that would be loaded onto the flatbeds of the food carts. Vegetables, both cooked and raw, were packed, and the scent of hundreds of loaves of bread being rolled, baked, slid from the oven, and basketed, wrapped the castle air in heaven.
Under an ebony sky and a waxing crescent moon, the members of the garrison who would travel to the Mendip hills came together in the outer bailey, forming first into lances, groups consisting of a knight, infantry man, two mounted archers, and the accompanying squires and varlets. Once these small parties were assembled, the fighters joined in a pair of lines which started at the gatehouse and stretched back to the keep’s moat, bending around the body of water and weaving past the storerooms. The lines were led by the lances of Hasdale, Sloan, Condon, and Malcolm. Behind them were the other eight battle lords, includ ing Fiona’s father, Conway, and farther back, a peasant levy of archers and infantrymen armed with spears. In all, nearly five hundred souls would trek to the hills.
An overweight serf woman elbowed and bellied her way to Hasdale. “Lord!” she cried, in a voice too deep, too loud, “you take too many! You leave us with no protection here!”
Christopher, part of Hasdale’s lance and one of three of the lord’s squires, was astride a young brown rounsey, an even patch of white hair splitting the horse’s eyes and reaching down to its nose. Christopher nudged his way between Hasdale’s two senior squires, Collis and Murdock. He watched his lord’s reaction carefully, seeing how his master would handle the panic maker.
“I leave you forty men-at-arms! And there is no other army within forty days of here.”
“The invaders are sly, lord. Perhaps they-” “Enough, woman! ” Hasdale turned to Christopher and gestured with his thumb to lose this woman.
Christopher swung a leg over his saddle and hopped to the ground. He grabbed the woman by an arm and escorted her away from the battle lines.
The pudgy serf wrenched her arm free. “Unhand me, devil child! Going off to kill and only a boy!”
The woman made the
job easier by pounding off toward the keep under her own power. Christopher wasn’t used to being called “devil child,” let alone a killer. He watched her merge into the crowd. It was a frenzied night.
Doyle trotted up the line and arrived next to Christopher, just as he remounted his horse. “Nervous?” he asked.
‘Tm the veteran. I should be asking you that,” Christopher chided.
“Well are you, anyway?” “I will be in ten days.”
“I already am.” Doyle was rather on the pale side. “Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“At least you’ll be alert.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Doyle wheeled his roun- sey around. “I hope it doesn’t rain.”
“It will.”
“How do you know?” “It’s my luck. Trust me.”
Doyle guided his horse back to his lance.
It was no easy task, assembling and readying twenty-five score of men; the eastern sky was a dim orange by the time preparations were complete.
While waiting for the order to leave, Christopher stared at the sunrise, trying to read signs of victory or defeat.
What will be?
The brightening sky reflected no reply.
Christopher lowered his gaze to Hasdale, watched as his lord stood in his stirrups, cocked his head back toward his men, and shouted, “Onward!’’
As the lines passed over the drawbridge, Christopher repeatedly gazed over his shoulder, not believing how many horses and men were behind him. Every so often he would catch Doyle’s eye and wave a hand to him. He knew Bryan the mouse catcher was with them as well, but cantered some where just ahead of the peasant levy. Doyle, Bryan, and he were the only trainees who were allowed to go. The others would stay home and attend the bare bones garrison guarding the castle.
He took turns carrying Hasdale’s banner with Collis and Murdock. The poles were thankfully lighter than they looked, and would be turned over to the official banner flyer during the battle. He felt awed as the flag ruffled with a little life and he saw the red crow spread before his eyes.
Hasdale’s senior squires kept to themselves, mak ing Christopher feel like a fifth wheel. Hasdale didn’t really need him on this campaign but insisted he come; he could use the experience, and wanted to learn as much as he could. But, Christopher had found, the more questions he asked the senior squires, the more irritated they became, and so he decided he would learn for himself.
Bread and ale were passed around. They weren’t stopping to cook breakfast this morning. They would push their hardest the first few days, the horses and the men being fresh.
As Christopher chewed on his loaf, he thought of Orvin. He wished the old man had come to see him off, but Hasdale had told him his father was ill and wished to remain in his chamber. It didn’t bother him as much then as it did now. The thrill of leaving and the rush of preparing cleansed the small wound that Orvin’s absence had opened. But now he had nothing to do but eat; eat and contemplate the under current of sadness he had detected in Orvin’s voice in the practice yard. Something had been wrong with the old man. Perhaps it had been the illness coming on. Or perhaps it had something to do with the battle. They did coincide.
If a mouthful of bread taught one how to become a good listener, then it also taught one to become a good thinker. Unfortunately his thoughts were laced with worry. Orvin had better be all right.
The first night was nearly like all the rest: a clouded, starless sky that seemed to be folding in on the land; a small portion of meat, usually the sweet pork-he hated the chicken; a pepper or carrot or radish to temper the meat in his mouth; a dozen swigs of ale; and a lousy night’s sleep on his woolen blanket that did nothing to shield him from the damned stones and roots that nudged their way into his spine. Sometimes he opted to sleep inside the lord’s tent, being permitted, but on the warmer nights he preferred the ironically quieter outdoors. The snoring of four battle lords would find anyone in a red-eyed delirium come sunrise. It was a fair trade off, though: red eyes for warm feet.
In the early-morning darkness of the day they would mount the Mendips, Christopher heard a voice while huddled on the ground, trying to stay warm out side the tent. It was familiar, and when the words repeated, he sensed they were Orvin’s. He raised his head, cocked it around. The ears on his nearby roun sey flinched under the icy breeze. A smoldering cook fire sent thin wisps of nearly undetectable smoke fading into nothingness. The tent stood, no one around it. Three images, no Orvin. There it was again. He sat up, pulled the blanket off his breech-covered legs, then padded toward the voice, which seemed to originate from inside the tent.
He pulled one of the flaps aside and ducked his head into the traveling chamber. Sloan, Condon, and Malcolm were twisted into odd and humorous positions. Arms were pulled across backs and foreheads, legs were crossed at strange angles, and mouths hung open, undamming the saliva within.
But Hasdale slept flat on his back, his arms Xed across his bare chest as if positioned by the living while he was already dead. His face was ashen and his mouth worked. “Let the boy accompany you and watch you die,” he said. “Let the boy accompany you and watch you die.” Had he not been looking at Hasdale, he would not have believed it was the lord’s voice. Indeed, it was Hasdale’s throat which pro duced the sounds, but the tones and articulations were Orvin’s. Father and son did sound alike, but this was a perfect match.
Christopher had two choices. He could quickly get out of there and back under his blanket, since he was at once terrified of this ghastly image of his lord, or he could wake Hasdale and dispel the horror.
He left and went back to sleep, long before the voice subsided.
Sunrise found Christopher jarred awake by a spasm of nerves in his neck. Shivering, he looked around. Just another morning in the field. Nothing unusual about it at all. Nothing. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and as he was about to slip back into the dreamworld, a horn blew.
16
The Mendip hills broke the flatness of their trail and protected the horizon with their mighty ribs. Hasdale and the other battle lords were expres sionless as they reached the deep valley that formed a perimeter around the sister slopes. Christopher eyed the hills, wondering if it were really possible to ascend them. It certainly looked impossible.
They moved through the valley as the afternoon dragged on. The sky darkened-not with a setting sun, but with thunderheads: the predicted rain. Christopher flashed a knowing grin Doyle’s way as sheet lightning flickered in the white towers above him.
“Tarps on the wagons!” Sloan ordered, and the order drifted back, carried on the l.i,ps of every lieu tenant in the line.
Christopher felt a cool drop of rain touch his nose. Then another. And still another. Then nothing for a hundred yards.
Then the sky opened up and hell poured down.
Someone cursed loudly, and the wind spit back a reply. Earth’s cold breaths swirled around Christopher, trying to find contact points to chill him. He pulled down on the collar of his tunic, then hunched forward in his saddle, trying to keep the water running down his back and not into his eyes. The effort had only min imal effect.
The ground was softening quickly, and he could already see the hooves of the lord’s courser sinking deeper into the grass, and soil below.
Everyone knew they weren’t going to stop. The question had certainly entered everyone’s mind, just as it had Christopher’s, but the lord was there to drive them up these godforsaken hills despite the tempest, and drive out any notions of making camp here-or, by God, turning around.
Christopher’s rounsey didn’t care much for the rain, rattling its bridle with every shake of its head and neighing frequently. And the horse was extremely agi tated by the thunder: its volume, its jolt, its lack of rhythm, its sheer domination of the ear. With every clap, the horse tried to nose out of line and Christopher had to rein the steed back in. Christopher did this easily at first; then, becoming agitated
himself, yanked on the reins, shouting, “Come on now! Come on!”
Spearheading the lines didn’t seem so bad when you looked back at the poor, wet bastards who were just footing the base of the first slope while you had already reached the muddy crest. But then again, you had already experienced the misery of the climb, and forgotten the chore quickly. Christopher turned his head forward and saw two more slopes ahead, fol- lowed by a bunch more that were fuzzy to his eye in the heavy rains. There could have been a million more for all the difference it made.
Water found its way inside his tunic and shirt, and the nipples on his chest were damp and stiff around the gooseflesh that fanned out from them. He tried to contain jitter after jitter, but they kept coming, and soon he gave up.
The squire next to Christopher was Kier. He was a dark-skinned boy two years older than Christopher, a member of Sloan’s lance and leader of all junior squires. Kier talked himself through the ordeal. “It’s just rain, that’s all. A little storm. Nothing that can stop us. We a-a-are the best. We are the finest of this land. It’s not so c-c-cold. Not so wet. We … we are the best.”
We are wet, is what we are.
Christopher almost wished he wore the heavy armor of the battle lords, and the thick woolen tabards and surcoats they pulled around themselves. Certainly the wind wasn’t bothering them, but then he considered the weight. Suddenly it wasn’t so bad to be in his simple padded tunic.
He tried to picture warm things, any image that would take his mind off the miserable climb. He started with a torch, tried to hypnotize himself with the flames that heated the air. Soon the torch became boring. He thought of any one of a thousand hot days in his old workshop, pounding away at the bench. He imagined the rainwater as sweat cascading off his face. He didn’t realize he had opened up a dangerous and painful memory until it was too late. The image of Sanborn smiling over a saddle Christopher had just completed filled his mind. He wasn’t always strict. He did smile. He did love me.
