by Peter Telep
“The scouts return, lord!” Sloan shouted.
Hoods of leather concealed all but the eyes of the two scouts as they approached. Reining in their horses, the men descended the grade cautiously and reached Hasdale. Christopher noted that the men were barely armed; only scabbarded spathas hung from their saddles. They traveled light and armorless, taking nothing that would slow them down.
Christopher couldn’t hear the whole conversation Hasdale had with the scouts, but he did hear the name “Wells.” That was unexpected. The knight’s betrayal and banishment was well known, and Christopher had wondered what became of the man.
A thousand yards and another slope, and Christopher got his answer.
A seam of lightning opened a jagged hole in the sky and illuminated the dead form of Wells. The knight lay supine, his rotting face exposed through his open bascinet. A javelin sprouted from his breastplate, and a gauntleted hand still clung to the pole. As Christopher got closer, he could see how Wells’s skin had melted into his bones. The knight’s beard seemed directly attached to his jaw without the aid of flesh to hold it there. With his lips gone, it appeared as if Wells smiled, a kind of twisted toothy grin as odd as anything Christopher had ever seen. Grass had sprung up around the knight, as if nature herself had tried to bury him. Christopher remembered some thing his father had said, something that stayed close to him and showed itself now: “the spoils of a knight.”
Christopher looked over at Kier, who stared at the corpse. “You all right?”
No reply.
Four of the carts near the rear of the lines became stuck in the mud, their wheels nearly half-buried, the packhorses pulling them unable to go on. They should have had mules fronting them, but there just weren’t any. This, combined with the horrible morale the storm effected, convinced Hasdale to halt the lines. The order to set up camp was so pleasant to Christopher’s ears, it sent a ripple of chills through him. Or that might have been the cold. The order was good to hear, anyway.
It was a curious stroke of luck, and Christopher almost didn’t believe what he heard when the scouts returned from their second expedition. He was assembling the lord’s tent with Murdock, and chatting with Doyle, who had never looked so liter ally blue in the face, when it was reported that Garrett’s army was just over the next rise. Surrounded by a shallow valley, the Saxons were stationed on top of one of the largest slopes in the area, some hundred tents jutting up from the mud. The good news was that the scouts had gotten in close and provided a detailed description of three sides of the encampment. The bad news was that Garrett had strengthened his army by a rough esti mate of three hundred men. That meant the num bers were about equal.
Christopher and Doyle exchanged looks of con cern, while Murdock was unmoved by the suddenly even odds. He continued positioning a tent pole, intent on getting the job done.
“What do you think, Murdock?” Doyle asked, try- ing to get a journeyman’s opinion of the situation.
“I don’t think. I simply do my job. As you should.” Doyle snorted at the answer.
“A lot of us are going to die,” Christopher said, hoping that would light something within Murdock.
“That’s right,’’ the senior squire answered. “Maybe even you,” Doyle challenged.
Murdock dropped the second tent pole he was fit ting into place and grabbed Doyle by his collar. “Maybe we all are. But what is important now is doing our jobs- and being with who we belong, varlet.’’
Doyle got the hint. Christopher shrugged as he watched his friend leave. Murdock, a streak of aggres sion banding his eyes, got the tent assembled in a few violent pulls and tugs, barely letting Christopher help.
As ironically as the storm had begun, it let up, the timing near-perfect as the last tent was raised. For a brief moment, the penumbra of the sun was seen above one of the lower, western slopes, then it drifted down into the morrow.
17
Cookfires were out of the question. The food was cold, a lot of it damp. Twenty-five men were denied immediate dinner altogether, winnowed out for watch duty. Hasdale’s element of surprise would be as carefully guarded as the jewels within the walls of his keep. Night fell, and an even stronger wind than the one which accompanied the storm scourged up the hills, blew the sky clear of clouds, and rattled the tents and the nerves of Christopher.
Inside Hasdale’s shelter, planning for the battle commenced. Christopher sat in on the briefing, and spent as much time studying the anxiety on Hasdale’s face as listening to the actual particulars of the attack. Hasdale divided the army into the Vaward, Main, and Rearward Battles; he also designated a rear guard, fifty men who would remain here at the camp. The two hundred men of the Rearward Battle would fall back in a position behind the Saxons, while the two other groups of about a hundred and fifty in the Main Battle, and two hundred men in the Vaward Battle would engage in a full frontal attack from the right and left flanks, driving the Saxons back into the Rearward Battle. In the event of impending defeat, the last fifty of the rear guard would advance, with only two targets on their mind: Garrett and Kenneth-if they weren’t already dead. Normally, the lord would be a member of the rearguard and direct the battle from the relative safety and distance the group’s position afforded. But Hasdale chose to lead the Vaward Battle, putting himself in the thick of the attack.
Junior squires like Christopher weren’t going to accompany their lords into actual battle; they would remain with the rear guard. Varlets, however, would. They windlassed crossbows for their masters, kept the cycle of bolts splitting the air. It seemed unfair to Christopher that Doyle got to participate in the attack while he had to sit around like a serf woman washing her clothes at the lake and waiting for her husband to return. It made him feel helpless and worthless. He had tricked himself into thinking the lord would let him ride with Murdock and Collis, but when he asked Hasdale at the end of the meeting, the lord looked at him as if he were drunk. It was out of the question. The only way he would get to partici pate in the battle was if the last fifty Celts were called in to make the final charge. And if that were the case, it was certainly a one-way trip.
18
The weather had turned against them while they climbed the Mendip hills, and now that they had reached their destination and were about to attack, it had done the same once again. The dome overhead glowed with starlight, and the much greater beams of the waxing gibbous moon. Christopher’s hands were filled with heaps of mud that he rubbed all over Hasdale’s armor. Every junior squire did the same for every knight. A flash of moonlight off armor caught by the curious eyes of a Saxon watchman would sound off alarms through out the enemy camp. “Rain would’ve been good now,” Hasdale thought out loud.
Christopher nodded and continued smearing the cold, mushy earth over Hasdale’s greaves.
The Rearward Battle had already left, and cantered their way around the slope to their position behind the Saxons. The slope provided good protection for the Saxons, but it also provided good cover for the first wave of Celts.
Christopher saw the remnants of the Rearward Battle vanish behind the slope as he helped Hasdale mount a fresh courser. He checked the broadsword in its scab bard, making sure it was securely fastened to the saddle next to the lord’s mace. He examined each hoof of the courser, making sure all shoes were tightly in place. He checked the lord’s belt, the dagger sheathed there, and finally handed Hasdale his escutcheon, the rectangular shield much heavier than it looked. There was a precise order to fitting and checking the lord, but Christopher was so nervous he’d forgotten to go by it, studying whatever struck him at that second.
Hasdale joined Collis and Murdock, as well as Sloan, Condon, Malcolm, and their senior squires at the head of the Vaward Battle. The Main Battle was already some three hundred yards away and waiting for the order to advance.
Christopher stood outside the tent, watching this almost magical display of men and horses. Two great masses of force spread out, about to charge up the slo
pe in the far distance and ride over into battle.
He never heard the order to attack, but the spurring of rounseys and coursers, and the loud clatter of the animals’ feet told him it had come. He half expected to hear battle cries, but remembered it was a surprise attack. Anxiety-induced screams would have to be stifled.
He wished he had had the time to talk with Doyle before his friend left. He wanted to wish Doyle luck and to tell him that it was, indeed, ten days later and that he was, indeed, nervous. But there wasn’t time. And Doyle was somewhere in that wide group of men on the right who bounced forward through the night wind toward the enemy.
“There they go,” Kier flatly stated.
Christopher watched, and the more he did, the more depressed he got. “How can we just sit here and wait?” He studied the other squires who stood with them, some dozen boys whose gazes were all locked on the advancing troops.
Behind the squires, the cart drivers were huddled around a recently started cookfire, casually roasting a leveret, the young hare twirling on a small spit. The drivers sucked down jugs of ale and didn’t consider for a moment that the good men they served headed off into battle. Christopher turned his attention away from them.
The two lines of Celts rose, twin serpents sidewind ing over the crest of the slope, home to Garrett’s army. A great roar, a sound the combination of many sounds all happening at once, hit the squires’ ears: the sring! of spathas pulled from scabbards; the klang! of those spathas on shields; the fwit! of triggered cross bows; the thong! of nocked arrows released from longbows and shortbows; and the thump! of mis thrown battle-axes burying themselves in the ground. The sounds of horses and men mixed in, added to the roar, made it grow louder, gave it a rhythm that increased and worked its way under the flesh of all the young boys who listened to it.
And then a different kind of roar hit Christopher’s ears. A cry from every squire around him-including Kier. He turned, and was shocked to see the boys scramble from their vantage points and mount their nearby rounseys. Some began to charge off toward the great Saxon slope. Others followed suit.
“Wait!” Christopher screamed, running after Kier as the boy made it to his horse and put his left foot in its stirrup. “Where is everyone going?”
“Where do you think, Christopher?”
“We’re not supposed to attack! It’s against the lord’s orders!”
“We know. But we want to. And they need us. Coming?” With that, Kier snapped his reins and his rounsey whinnied and jumped forward.
He didn’t think about his actions as he climbed onto his rounsey. All he knew for a sudden second was that the junior squires were joining the battle and he wasn’t going to be left behind. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to go. Yes, he was completely disappointed by Hasdale’s refusal earlier, but the cold harsh reality of riding toward combat brought on serious misgivings. But he just did it, drove his horse forward, checked and rechecked his sword as it bounced up and down off the rounsey’s left flank. He caught up to the others, and they all rode, a line of twelve mounted squires charging up the hill and wondering what would be the first image to strike their eyes when they reached the top. Christopher threw a quick glance over his shoul der and saw they were pursued by six of Hasdale’s men from the rear guard. No matter. They were too far ahead of the soldiers.
As the grade became steeper, Christopher felt his mount struggle. He looked left, then right, and saw the others slowing as well. All heeled their steeds, and Christopher did likewise as that distinctive battle thunder seemed to hit him now with the force of a fist. He sprang onto the crest of the slope and reined in hard with the others, twin jets of breath firing from the nostrils of all the rounseys.
For Christopher, it was the tents that stood out among the horses and men. The whites, the blues, the reds, all added the only color to the otherwise ocher mud that covered everything else. He could barely pick out his own forces. If the enemy were true Saxons, it would have been easy, but Garrett had turned them into a kind of Saxon/Celt blend, mixing the savagery of the Saxons with the intelligence and armament of the Celts. That was a bloodcurdling mixture and spelled serious trouble for himself and the other boys.
“What are we waiting for?” Kier screamed.
Another howl from the boys and they all galloped forward, splitting up into the battlefield.
Christopher pulled his broadsword out of its sheath and held it tautly in his right hand. He bounced past a tent, reined his rounsey left, and found a Saxon horseman hacking away at the shield of an infantryman. Christopher galloped up behind the Saxon and swung his blade into the back of the barbarian’s head. The Saxon lost his balance on the gelding he was astride and fell to the mud. He had barely hurt the Saxon, but dismounting the enemy soldier gave the infantryman an opening he used to bury his spatha in the Saxon’s neck. Christopher left as the blood spurted.
Malcolm flailed away with a double-headed battle ax at three Saxons who surrounded him. Two of the Saxons waved javelins, while the third brandished a mace. In the second it took Malcolm to drive his ax into one of the Saxons’ chests, another of the Saxons buried his mace into the forehead of the young knight. Christopher fought back the desire to vomit as he approached. Malcolm fell to the ground. Christopher slashed at the shoulder of the Saxon who had killed Malcolm; the spatha found a crease in the armor and drew blood from the man. The Saxon’s eyes spoke his anger. Christopher didn’t wait around to see just how much anger that was. He heeled his rounsey away.
The tolling of weapons was everywhere. Shouts, groans, and piercing death screams came from both attacked and attackers. The smell of his own rounsey was dominant, though the musty earth backed it strongly.
No sign of the lord yet.
He dodged engagements as he galloped, nearly ran over a pair of his own infantrymen, turning his horse at the last second. Finally, a face he recognized: Sloan.
Every thrust of blade his helmetless trainer made against the two advancing Saxons carried with it an exhalation of sheer will and sheer anger. A fire of sound spewed from Sloan’s lips as he fought: “Ahhhhhh!” blade crashing on shield-“Ahhhhhh!”-blade impact ing on shoulder armor-“Ahhhhhh!”-blade sinking deep into a Saxon heart. “Die, bloody filth! Die!”
The unwary Sloan didn’t see the Saxon behind him.
The tall, lean barbarian one-handed a double-edged battle-ax, holding it high over his hairy head.
Christopher heard the Saxon’s shoulder armor rumble as his arm brought the ax down toward Sloan’s shoulder.
“Lord!” Christopher cried.
Sloan turned his head, and the blade of the Saxon ax shaved off his right ear. The iron continued down into the base of his neck, plying past the top ring of his breastplate and finding link-mail hauberk, then leather gambeson, then linen shirt, then finally skin and the heavy muscle below.
The Saxon tried to yank the weapon free, but it was wedged in Sloan’s armor.
With the ax hanging from his neck, Sloan switched sword hands and slashed out madly with his spatha, cutting a deep gash across the face of the towering, beardless man. The slice ran from the Saxon’s upper left cheek, across his lower lip, taking part of it off, and ended at his jaw. Blood the color of wine wiped quickly across the Saxon’s face as his hands went to the wound. Oddly, he didn’t scream.
Sloan turned and smiled mildly at Christopher, who could not return the grin. His eyes were fixed on the ax protruding from his trainer’s neck.
“Help me, boy,” Sloan barked.
Christopher lifted himself out of his saddle and splashed down into a puddle. He scuffled his way the ten yards toward Sloan.
Without warning, Sloan suddenly fell face forward into the mud, revealing an iron-tipped arrow buried in the back of his head. Christopher recognized the blue dye of the feather fletching; the shot had been wild and had come accidently from a Celt.
He was about to reach down and touch Sloan, compelled to do it, not knowing exactly why, vaguely th
inking his trainer might still be alive. But the rum ble of hooves only a few yards in front of him stole his attention.
It was Conway, Fiona’s father, and three infantry men who had confiscated Saxon horses and were now mounted. “Boy!” the gray-templed man called, “what are you doing here?”
Fortunately Christopher wouldn’t have to answer, for behind him he heard the drumming of many hooves; the sound took Conway’s eyes off the squire and on the present danger.
Christopher turned around. As many as ten Saxon horsemen bore down on them. He barely had enough time to remount his rounsey and move off. He was a scant five yards away when Conway’s group clashed with the Saxons.
It felt a little strange not being an obvious target. He was a boy, unarmored, with only a broadsword to fight with. He could blend in rather easily with these Saxons, and he noticed that most looked at him oddly, trying to size up whose side he was on. And he didn’t feel scared as he watched Conway’s men fall under the hacking arms of the enemy. He wasn’t terrified as the Saxons finally finished Conway himself. Two of them sliced apart Conway’s face with dag gers. It was grotesque, yes, but it was as if he were standing over the scene, not a part of it.
“Christopher!” a voice called.
He cocked his head sharply moonwise, and, in the silvery light, saw the form of a man struggling on the ground near a collapsed tent. He yanked on his reins and moved his rounsey toward the injured person.
The bolt from a crossbow whistled by his head and he ducked, spurring his rounsey hard. Another bolt followed, and he arced his horse around the fallen tent, taking advantage of the minimal cover it provided. He dismounted and rushed over to the figure on the ground.
He didn’t have to roll the boy over to know it was Kier. He knew Kier’s tunic. He had almost recog nized his voice. He certainly recognized death when he saw it, this time in the combined form of a spatha stab in the center of Kier’s back and the arrow from a longbow stuck in his left shoulder blade.
