by Peter Telep
Mallory and Dallas engaged the first pair, while four more of Mallory’s men took on the second and third pairs.
The rear pair galloped toward Christopher, and though their faces were familiar to him, he had never spoken to them.
“Kimball, climb on!” the taller one cried in the Saxon tongue.
Christopher had about twenty yards to decide what to do. It was, if nothing else, an interesting dilemma.
He was captured by the Saxons, then grew to admire and serve them willingly through Garrett. Then he was rescued by Mallory, whom he already despised but who was a Celt. Now he might be rescued again by the very Saxons from whom he had escaped. The words rescue and escape had lost their meanings over time.
But I can get closer to my home with the Celts.
The Saxons braked their horses next to the stalled cart.
“Climb on!” the taller archer insisted again.
Christopher shook his head, no, made sure he uttered nothing in Saxon for Mallory’s men to hear.
The tall archer turned to his heavy partner and ges tured for him to dismount.
An arrow caught the heavy archer in his side, just above the waist, and he dismounted much quicker than he had intended.
The tall archer brought his horse around and booted the animal toward the cover of the wood.
Christopher watched Dallas gallop by, nocking an arrow in his shortbow while also holding the reins of his horse. Dallas let the arrow fly, but it struck a beech tree, missing the Saxon by a yard. The archer disappeared down a trail curving into the shadows.
Of the eight Saxons who had attacked them, two had fled and the other six had been killed. Not a very organized or professional attempt, Christopher judged, but the men had probably staged this on their own, without the consent of whoever led them now. Why did these men want him back? He asked himself that as Mallory swung off his horse and walked over to confront him.
“Who were they?” Mallory asked-in the Saxon tongue.
The words made Christopher’s heart drop. He
knows Saxon?
Mallory took another step closer, then reared back a gauntleted hand and smacked Christopher across the face. The hard steel stung like ice. He felt some thing wet, warm, and salty touch his lips. His nose bled.
“They were your Saxon friends, boy,” Mallory went on, “come to rescue you. For a prisoner, you must have been very popular.” Mallory sighed deeply, then pushed a metallic thumb toward Christopher.
He thought of flinching as the thumb came toward his head, but he remained stolid. Mallory wiped the blood from the top of Christopher’s lip with his thumb, then rubbed the bloody metal thumb together with his index finger. “I don’t blame you as much as I blame Garrett. What a persuasive man he was. Getting a single squire to follow him was nothing, you understand. But recruiting an enemy army-that was a feat. I will always remember him.” Mallory frowned a moment, thinking as the wind picked up. “Now what to do with you, young Kimball. “
The air moved through his loose-fitting clothes and easily chilled Christopher. He shivered, and knew it wasn’t entirely because of the wind.
“You know what I think?” Mallory asked. “I think nothing changes. Onward.”
14
Christopher had not been forced to participate in the many robberies that followed in the six moons he had spent thus far with Mallory and his men, but in performing his squirely duties, he knew he had been an accessory to the crimes. He had fol lowed orders without compromise and had been rewarded with heavy meals and pats on the head which he loathed. He had seen stewards, earls, dukes, and even a poor messenger fall under the hands of Mallory. Soon, Christopher had realized that Mallory had forgotten who the enemy was and had sought revenge on the very Celts who despised him. In a strange way, he was not unlike Garrett. But Garrett was no criminal.
Mallory’s most complex and dangerous crime was yet to come: the abbey at Queen’s Camel was to be robbed of its tithe. The village there was larger than Shores and produced an unrelenting flow of goods that serviced the inhabitants and found the trade routes to the markets of West Camel, South Cadbury, and Glastonbury. One-tenth of all the profits from the trading went to the abbot, as was his right.
One hundred percent of that one-tenth would go to Mallory, as was his desire.
Christopher waited at the camp they had made in a clearing along the shoreline of the River Cam. Mallory and Dallas would soon return from their spy ing on the abbey. Christopher was left under the careful watch of Fergus, who, in the last six moons, had proven his senses were as keen as those of a man half his age. Christopher had found no opportunity to escape. And always the question had burned: if he did get away, where would he go? Was home still home?
Mallory and Dallas returned with the knowledge they needed to form a plan.
The abbey, which had been built along the river’s edge, consisted of a main cruciform church, which was the largest and tallest building. Behind it was the chapter house, and next to it were the cloisters. The cellarium, refectory, prison block, and the monks’ dormitory lay farther behind. A prison block, conversorium, and garderobes stood in the rear. All of these rooms were connected by narrow passages that would afford the robbers easy access to the most important room of all: the abbot’s quarters. That was where Mallory guessed the tithe was stored. The quarters were behind the church, and they would have to pass through the main room to get to them.
Following the service of compline in the church, the monks would go back to their darter and sleep until midnight. Then, a rule of customs bell would knell them back to duty to sing matins and lauds. After the last three psalms and the Lord’s Prayer followed, they would return to their room to sleep until the morning bell. But Dallas had noticed that many would remain awake, praying through the night. Everyone, however, slept after the service of compline. It was between eight and midnight that they would strike, rob the tithe, and get out without being spotted. Four hours was a large window for success. No one feared the unarmed monks.
Christopher sat with them around the cookfire and listened carefully. His job was to rouse the abbot, get the man out of his quarters. Mallory did not want the crime to be rioticed until at least the following morn ing, giving them ample time for escape. And so it seemed Christopher’s father was dying, and the abbot needed to come right away. Christopher hated the lie, more so because he kept hearing the word dead in his head. M y father is dead not dying.
“There are a little over one hundred monks down there,” Mallory said between bites of the leveret leg he held between his long fingers, “and eight watch men, who are relieved at midnight.”
“They’re not a problem,” Dallas added.
“The monks will only be napping while we do our work. Remove your boots or sandals when you get inside. We don’t want to disturb them.” Mallory grinned sardonically.
Christopher got up from his seat and moved away from the fire. He scuffed over the soft earth onto the already wet grass and found a short oak tree to lean on. He always felt better distanced from the group, knew he would never fit in with them. He could admit to himself that there was something exciting about robbing and getting away with it, something similar to the thrill of the battlefield, but both feel ings were fleeting, and always left orie wanting more. To cease experiencing them might be better. He saw how Mallory was possessed by each and every scheme, and he wanted to ask the man what they were all going to add up to. Yes, they needed food to survive. Yes, Mallory was more or less banished from Arthur’s new union of knights, but that didn’t mean the man had to go on robbing. He had enough money already to purchase some land from one of the other lords; he could till himself a reasonable living. Christopher smiled inwardly. Mallory would never stoop that low.
The still-young night had grown old, and perhaps he was a little overtired, Christopher wasn’t sure, but he decided to voice his thoughts without care to the consequences; the question had been nocked in his lips and now ju
st arrowed out. “Lord Mallory,” he called, using the title though it no longer existed, “for what purpose do we rob the abbey?”
Mallory’s men choked on their meat, spit out the ale in their mouths, and broke into laughter.
“He’s a jester as well as a squire,” Mallory said to Dallas.
“But weren’t we all fools at his age,” Dallas answered. Mallory turned to Christopher. “You wonder why we want money when most everything we need we
plunder, yes?”
Christopher nodded, feeling sheepish under the gazes of everyone.
“You gave me the idea, boy,” Mallory said. “I don’t understand.”
“You told me Shores was your home. You said you wished to go back there.”
“And you told me that was impossible.’’
“Yes, because of my little affray with Lord Devin.’’
“Forgive me, lord. But I still don’t understand.”
Mallory waved him over. Christopher pushed himself off the tree and halfheartedly returned to the group. Mallory gestured that he take a seat next to him. Christopher retrieved his saddle cloth and lowered him self onto it.
‘‘When we rob the tithe there is going to be a great outcry,” Mallory said. “The abbot will hire mercenaries to apprehend the criminals and return his small for tune. The mercenaries will receive a tip from us that the tithe is in the solar of Lord Devin of Shores, and that his men robbed the abbey. The mercenaries will find the tithe in Devin’s possession and take him back to Queen’s Camel, where he’ll rot in the abbey’s prison block. The trial, if any, will be a mere formality.”
“Revenge,” Christopher uttered, in a tone that said he didn’t like it.
“Not exactly,” Mallory corrected. “More of a disci plinary action. It will be quite a thrill to see Devin fall-and to be given his castle by Arthur.”
“I thought Arthur was your enemy as well.”
“Oh, he is. But I’ve reconsidered my grand plan. If we’re going to defeat the invaders my way, I’m going to need a lot more power. And I’m only going to get that from Arthur. It’s taken me this long to realize it-but I cannot stay an outcast forever.”
“So he’s going to lie to Arthur,” Dallas said through a wide grin. “He’s going to beg for forgive ness and move into Devin’s spot.”
“Will it happen that easily?” Christopher asked.
Mallory shook his head. “Of course not. I might have to kill Arthur. We begin with the abbey and ride the plan from there. I think we’ve all grown tired of the road.”
Fergus looked up from his tankard. “Indeed.”
15
” Plese! I need to see the abbot immediately!”
Christopher stood at the foot of one of the transept entrances to the church, groping for the motivation to tell the bored guard there that his father was dying. He couldn’t use the story. He kept seeing an image of his father smiling, then the picture would fracture into one of blackened flesh. The lie would not come.
“I need a blessing right now,” he pleaded.
The guard furrowed his heavy brow, then scratched a hairy jowl with long, dirty fingernails. “How did you get within the walls?”
He could tell the guard that he had climbed on top of Dallas’s back and had slipped over the wall unnoticed-but that would be insulting the man.
“Please! There is very little time!”
His vague story did not draw any sympathy from the guard. Christopher fingered the hidden dagger on the belt he wore tJnder his baggy tunic.
“I asked you a question, boy,” the guard said, his words freighted with anger.
“The other guard passed me through the gate. Now please let me in!”
“He wouldn’t do that,” the guard said.
Christopher heard an arrow split the air a millisec ond before it pierced the cheek of the guard and went straight on through, the tip birthing from the back of the man’s head. Christopher was surprised at how quiet the sound of death was. A fwit!, nearly no sound as the arrow passed into skin, then the crum ple of the man. He looked over his shoulder, saw Dallas duck down behind the wall.
Christopher dragged the body of the guard to a line of shrubs that jogged off to his left, paralleling the building, and placed the corpse under one of the shrubs. For some reason he thought of removing the arrow in the guard’s cheek, that the guard looked rather hideous with the thing sticking out of his head; but Christopher’s stomach argued against doing so.
He left the man, stepped gingerly back to the door, scanned furtively around, unbolted the door, then moved inside the church.
Christopher had to get the abbot away from his quarters. What was the story going to be? Just a blessing? That could be done anywhere. He needed something else, but what?
In the rafters, clouds of incense from the recent service moved with underwater slowness. The smoke was picked out by rows of candles set on ornate stands in front of a gleaming golden altar. As he took a moment to look around, it was apparent that noth ing was too rich or too lavish for the abbot. It seemed he, and the abbots before him, spent most of their tithe decorating this building. From the rich fabric curtains, of a material Christopher had never seen until now, to the finely carved crucifix suspended from the ceiling, the church was as much a thing of beauty as a place of worship. If he had to describe it to someone in the future, he would run out of words. And the place did something to him; it made him feel miserable. About his life. About everything. His parents had died in a place of worship. A man had just died back there. He was going to lie to an abbot. Would God forgive him for all of it? Could he cross this room, pass through the nave of the church, and still be able to live with himself? He looked back at the entrance door. What would happen if he ran away?
What if he was caught by Mallory? What if he told the abbot what was happening? Could the man help him?
Christopher was either going to move forward or back. He could pause no longer. God, feel my fear. He ran quietly toward the altar.
Mallory had not been sure where the entrance door to the abbot’s quarters was, but he knew it had to be on the back wall behind the altar; the layout of the abbey told him it could be nowhere else. But when Christopher slipped up the wooden steps and moved along the wall, he could find no door. The physical discomforts that come with panic assailed him. His palms were sticky, his mouth parched. He darted his gaze quickly here and there along the doorless wall. Why do I have to do this? What is it all for? What am !doing here?
There was a large painting of a spring scene, a beech tree alive with meadow pipits and starlings under a heavenly sky; it was an arm’s length wide and slightly taller than Christopher. The base of the paint ing was flush with the floor, and something about it caught Christopher’s gaze. The way it was framed on the wall, appearing cut out. He looked to the middle right of the painting, and there it was: a door latch. He had expected a door like the one on his old house. He flipped the latch and pulled the painting/door toward him, slipping his nose in behind it.
A narrow passage led off into darkness. He stepped into the shadowy vein and carefully closed the door behind him. He took off his sandals and padded quickly, feeling his way along the wall. Farther on, light wedged from somewhere ahead, and as he drew closer to it, he saw that the light seeped out from under another door. The room beyond it had to be the abbot’s quarters.
Should he knock? If candles were still lit, perhaps the abbot was awake. Should he burst in? What was the story again?
Christopher came upon the door, paused there, breathing. His mind would not focus. He didn’t real ize he had inadvertently pushed the door in until it was too late.
The abbot was asleep, lying supine on his narrow pallet, a rough woolen blanket pulled up to his waist.
A scroll he had been reading was rolled around both his thumbs, connecting the fingers across a linen nightshirt that was tented by his wide belly. The can dles on the stand near his bed were only a finger’s width high
, for the wax had melted down over the lip of the stand and now dripped steadily to the cold, wooden floor. The abbot’s snoring, and the dripping, were the only sounds-although Christopher swore if someone else were in the room that person would hear his thundering heartbeat.
His gaze focused on the man, and the rest of the room blurred on his periphery. It was time to do something, and like entering the room, he simply and abruptly dropped his sandals, put a hand on the man’s chest, and shook him.
The abbot’s head swayed and his eyelids yawned open. He blinked a few times, trying to focus in the candlelight, and when he did, he bolted up in the bed. “What is the-who are you, boy?”
Christopher sensed the abbot had a million more questions tarrying on line in the back of his throat, but Christopher wouldn’t answer a single one of them. “Come outside the church. Quickly. You must. You are in great danger.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie; in fact, it bordered closely on the truth.
The abbot was, in a word, difficult. “I will not! How did you get in here?” The line of questions would not stop coming.
Christopher set his grip around one of the abbot’s wrists and yanked the man from his pallet; the abbot screamed.
How was he going to slip the abbot out of the church quietly? Christopher was botching the entire job and, deep down, it didn’t bother him a single bit. If the abbot wanted to scream, let· him scream. Christopher would be caught and go to prison and maybe that was all right. Maybe he deserved it. The past six moons had made him very depressed, and he might as well sink as low as a man could.
The abbot was much heavier than he looked-and he looked plump. Christopher managed to get him to the doorway of his quarters, but the abbot used his free hand to latch onto the frame and pull his other hand loose. He moved inside the room and slammed the door in Christopher’s face. Then Christopher heard a ringing noise, and guessed the abbot banged two metal things together, a homemade alarm.
Reflexively, Christopher fled.
When he slammed by the entrance door to the church and hit the ground outside, he heard the church bell clanging from the overhead tower. Someone shouted in the distance. A dog’s bark answered.
