Squire

by Peter Telep

  Orvin noticed the shadow darken his cauldron and the encompassing ground. He lifted his gaze to Christopher. “Clean up, boy. It’s almost ready.”

  “I fell off the ladder.”

  “By the looks of you, yes.” “What is that?”

  “My morning stew. Wait until you taste it…”

  Christopher clamped his index finger and thumb around his nose. “It’s a little late for morning stew. I’ll settle for a loaf, if you have any.”

  Orvin shook his head negatively. “Try the stew.” He pulled the spoon from the pot and offered Christopher a tiny sip of the thick, brown liquid.

  Christopher continued to hold his nose, opened his mouth, and let the spoon touch his tongue. He closed his lips over the wooden utensil as Orvin pulled it away. The stew made contact with his taste buds; it was rich and spicy, nothing like it smelled. “How can it taste good and smell bad?”

  Orvin shrugged, then rose awkwardly to his feet. “Well, now that it is a new day, I seem to recall a bit of unfinished conversation from last night. Something on the order of an accusation, I believe. Something about me hiding here.”

  A party of four mounted men rounded the comer of the stables row and galloped toward Christopher and Orvin. Old man and squire turned their heads as the men slowed to a canter, then finally braked in front of them, a dust cloud blowing over the riders. They were archers, armed with longbows, quivers of arrows, and swords and bucklers, the latter a small concave shield that Christopher never thought was effective. They wore gambesons over their bright blue shirts, shin-high riding boots, gauntlets, and iron-framed kettle-hats.

  Behind Christopher and Orvin, a pair of hostlers ran up to greet the men. One of the horse handlers, a man of many chins, shouted, “Your rounseys are ready.”

  Christopher noticed how one of the archers had suddenly turned his head away from him, staring at the wood in the distance. It struck him as odd, but he sloughed off the thought.

  “Let me help you down, Doyle,” the many-chinned hostler offered the archer.

  “Doyle?” The name slipped from Christopher’s lips; he wasn’t aware of it, though, only of the notion that this could be Baines’s brother, and his friend from moons ago, impossibly alive and here before him. He needed to see the archer’s face. “Doyle! Is it you? It’s me, Christopher!”

  With that, the shy archer cracked his reins and heeled his rounsey away from the group, forcing the animal into a gallop down the dirt road. The other archers looked on, confused.

  It is him. It has to be. But why does he f/.ee?

  Christopher frantically scanned his surroundings, and his gaze came upon the fresh rounseys waiting inside the open stable next to Orvin’s. He darted away from the archers and ran into the cool shadows of the building. He opened a stall door and freed one of the animals. The horse was already saddled, and Christopher quickly mounted it. A hostler inside the stable tried to stop him, locking his beefy fingers around Christopher’s leg. Christopher unhooked the quirt from the rounsey’s sad­ dle and whipped the hostler in the head. The man fell back, clutching his bald pate.

  Christopher and the rounsey bolted into the sunlight.

  He steered the animal toward the dirt road.

  The archer pressed forward, traversing Leather­ dressers’ Row in a matter of minutes. Christopher kept him in sight. They followed a path which took them out of Shores, around the castle, and down the steep incline that emptied into the wood.

  The rough arms of the oaks hung low and fettered Christopher’s path. Ahead, the archer ducked, kept his arms in; the branches brushed harmlessly over his kettle-hat. Christopher did as the archer, though his exposed head brushed against many of the limbs. Finally, they broke out of the forest and onto the flat­ ness of the practice field. Christopher raked the bits of leaf and twig out of his hair, then cracked the quirt across his rounsey’s croup; the horse responded, giv­ ing Christopher the extra speed he demanded.

  The archer galloped into a part of the practice field that made riding dangerous: it was the deceptive grass on which Hasdale had trained Christopher. Christopher could not be sure if the archer was aware of the ditches that lay hidden under the green blades. The archer’s unweaving course indicated that he was not, but maybe that was his strategy-ride straight and let his rounsey leap over any of the holes.

  In his effort to stay on the archer’s tail, Christopher decided he had to, like the archer, ignore the ditches. Part of him wanted to stop, but the desire to catch and confront the man was enough to keep him on course. He saw a shadow in the grass ahead and pulled back on his reins. His rounsey slowed, then dodged the ditch. The movement put Christopher a horse’s length farther behind the archer. He swore under his breath, then quirted his steed. The noon sun drew beads of sweat from Christopher’s forehead and upper lip, and he tasted the salt of his exertion. The archer did not compro­ mise his course, arrowing straight across the grass. It was horrible luck for Christopher that the archer’s steed did not hit a single ditch. There were so many of them. How could the animal not hit just one?

  As if Christopher had willed it to happen, the archer’s horse cried as its right hoof slipped into a ditch. The rounsey’s knee caved in and it rolled onto its side, throwing the archer some four yards. His kettle-helmet fell from his head as he hit the ground, and his arrows slid from their quiver on his back, splaying onto the grass.

  Christopher veered around the fallen archer, then braked his rounsey. He jumped from his horse before the animal came to a complete stop and rushed to the archer, afraid of the blood he might find, but yearn­ ing to know the archer’s identity.

  The archer lay on his side, his back to Christopher. Christopher put his hand gently on the archer’s shoulder and rolled the young man over. The archer’s cheek was red and smeared partially with earth. A tiny trickle of blood rivered from his nostril into his mouth. His eyes were red with pain. All of these things did nothing to hide the archer’s identity.

  Doyle closed his eyes and choked up, blowing short puffs of air through his nose, forcing a little more blood through the one nostril and onto his lip.

  “Where is the pain?” Christopher asked.

  Doyle covered his heart with a palm. “Why did you have to come after me?”

  “Why did you have to run?” Christopher shot back.

  “It was easier thinking you were dead.” “You’re not glad I’m alive?”

  “I am,” Doyle confessed. “Then what are you saying?”

  Doyle struggled to bring his body into a sitting position. Christopher gripped his friend’s shoulders and helped him up.

  Doyle wiped . the blood from his lip with an index finger, cleared the dust from his lungs with a loud, hard cough, then continued, his gaze not meeting Christopher’s. “I cannot face you after what happened.”

  “Why? What are you talking about?”

  “The attack. It was moons ago, but seeing you now makes it feel like it all happened only yesterday. I ran, Christopher. I ran like I did just now.”

  Christopher thought about Doyle’s words, his friend’s admission of cowardice. After seeing the aftermath of the battle-the hundreds of bodies strewn over the slope-could he really hate Doyle for not wanting to join them? Doyle had spoken of his fear before they mounted the Mendips, and that fear had controlled him. Christopher knew the feeling, but was able to blanket it with anger. Doyle was not as lucky-not as cursed. Running from the battlefield seemed immediately a bad thing, but given time to weigh the circumstances, it was not. Christopher was thrilled that Doyle was alive. That joy was greater than anything else. Life was most impor­tant, and thank St. Michael he had his friend back, no matter how or why. The heroes, Christopher reminded himself, were still on the slope… .

  “And I was a fool and joined the junior squires on the battlefield,” Christopher said. “We were ordered to stay behind, but we did not. All of the lord’s great knights were slain. The attack was a mistake, and you were smart to run.”

&nbs
p; “I deserted my archer. That’s why he’s dead.”

  “No. I saw Varney die. No one could’ve stopped it. Don’t feel guilty for what you did. I’m glad you’re here. I don’t care what happened.”

  Doyle frowned. Christopher sensed that his friend wanted to believe the words, but wasn’t ready accept them as the truth.

  At last, Doyle brought his gaze to bear on Christopher. “How is it that you live?” he asked. “And what happened to your face?”

  A chill spidered up Christopher’s spine and broke into a many-taloned ripple across his nape. The chill was triggered by an overwhelming sense of relief: now would come the release of his story. Since the day of Garrett’s death, Christopher had wanted to confide in someone about his relationship with Garrett. He could not tell Mallory, nor could he tell Orvin-at least not yet. But Doyle would lend a sympathetic ear, and per­ haps in telling the story, Christopher could also cut through the traceries of guilt that still imprisoned him. The guilt of being loyal to the very man who had killed his parents, Baines, Hasdale, and many others. He needed to make Doyle understand. Even if Doyle resented him at first, he needed to tell his friend that underneath Garrett’s killing exterior was a man strug­ gling for an identity, a home. He was no different than any other knight. Garrett was a victim of their world, as were all of them. Killing was the way, God help them.

  Christopher rose, then walked over to Doyle’s rounsey. He reached down and gripped the animal’s right hoof, then felt his way up the leg, past the pastern and cannon to the forearm. “She’s just got a sprain.”

  Doyle pushed himself off the ground, then brushed off his gambeson and breeches. “You didn’t check to see if any of my bones were broken,” Doyle chided.

  “Your screams would have told me. You will walk with pain, though.”

  Doyle nodded, then reminded, “You have yet to answer my questions.” He bent over and gathered his fallen arrows.

  “I’ll answer them on the way back. Your partners await you, I’m sure.”

  Doyle looked up, sighed. “Yes. I tell you it is no pleasure serving Lord Devin. Though I’m a paid archer now, the job concerns us more with appear­ ances than with marksmanship. Look at this livery.”

  Christopher studied Doyle’s clothes; they were rather fanciful for an archer. Hasdale’s men had worn dull, rough tunics, and some had donned leather or scaled armor. They looked like dirty, rugged fighting men. Doyle’s livery was more tournament-worthy than battle­ field-practical. The sky-colored shirt under the gambeson seemed to beckon to an enemy, “I’m here! Shoot me!”

  “But you are a sight to the ladies, I’m sure,” Christopher said, trying to raise a smile from his friend.

  “True,” Doyle said, blushing slightly.

  Christopher handed Doyle his reins, then walked over and snatched up his own rounsey’s bridle. They walked their steeds toward the wood below the castle.

  “Have you seen your Brenna?” Doyle asked.

  “Sir Orvin tells me she fled the castle after the attack on Garrett’s army. She’s been at Uryens’s cas­tle ever since.”

  Doyle rubbed his shoulder with his free hand. “Oh, this hurts.” Then, to Christopher, he added, “Yes, that’s right. Most everyone left. My parents are there.”

  “Have you seen them?” Christopher asked.

  Doyle hesitated.

  Christopher remembered the awkwardness and pain his friend felt when it came to his mother and father. Christopher hoped that time had scabbed the wounds to the point where Doyle could at least speak with his parents.

  The slow clumping of the rounseys was too loud in Christopher’s ears. “Sorry,” he said, pitching his voice softly, and with regret.

  “They, I suspect, do not know I’m alive.”

  Christopher stopped, turned to face Doyle. ‘Will you ride with me to Gore? I wish to see Brenna. And you-” “Should make amends with my parents?” Doyle cocked his head away from Christopher, stared at the ground while huffing. “Why? Because it is the right thing to do? I barely knew them when I was taken. They did not raise me-Weylin did. And he’s dead.

  And I’m here. And that’s it.”

  “You have a family. I don’t have anyone. I wish I were you. I wish my parents were alive.”

  Doyle returned his gaze to Christopher. “I had a family and lost it like you. I don’t think I have one now.”

  “You haven’t tried. Ride with me and see what hap- pens. Tell your sergeant at arms you need a leave.”

  “Without pay,” Doyle tossed in darkly.

  “It may be worth it. Just talk to them.”

  “I don’t … I don’t know if I can. It feels strange. I could barely utter a word to them when I returned. I was glad to leave Shores.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Christopher said, assuming Doyle’s company, and in doing so, forcing his friend into the journey. Christopher slid his arm over Doyle’s shoulder, and they resumed their walk. “Sir Orvin will help fill our riding bags.”

  “I always thought he was dead,” Doyle said. “Where has he been?”

  “Hiding. Mourning his son.” Christopher thought a moment, rolling the words in his head. And then they came out. “I saw Hasdale die.”

  “By whose hand?” Doyle asked.

  “Garrett. But our lord sought revenge. The cam- paign was wrong.”

  “Garrett must die,” Doyle said through clenched teeth. “Lord Mallory has already seen to that.”

  “Mallory? I’ve heard mention of him. A rogue knight, isn’t he?”

  Christopher sighed. ‘‘I’ll say this quickly-and start at the beginning. Please listen. Make no judgments until you’ve heard everything.”

  Doyle smiled. “I don’t wear a surplice, Christopher. Nor am I as round as most abbots. But let’s hear your confession anyway.”

  “I was taken by Garrett and served him. At first because I was forced to, but then because I was loyal.”

  Doyle froze; his legs would not carry him another step, and his face clouded over with horror.

  “He was a Celt. He was like us, alone and looking for a home. Yes, his men killed my parents, yes, his men· killed your brother, yes, his men killed your Weylin. But it’s our way. I hate it, but how do we escape it?”

  “Not by serving a traitor! He might’ve been a Celt-once-but he commanded the Saxons. I believe he had the heart of one.”

  “You’re wrong. He missed our ways. I reminded him of them. Don’t you think I felt bad giving my loy­ alty to him? But it wasn’t wrong. I tell you it wasn’t.” “Why do you tell me any of this?” Doyle asked. “It makes me hate you.”

  “Perhaps I, too, feel in some way like a deserter.” By the look on Doyle’s face, the flush of guilt,

  Christopher knew he had struck the right chord in his friend.

  “When I first saw you,” Doyle said, “I hated you. I hated you because you didn’t save my brother. Then you made me like you. And now you make me hate you again. But I despise you now because you are too much like me. We both need to mend our lives some­ how. What do we do?”

  “You have a home here in Shores-but no family. We ride to Gore and see what we can do about that.” “But what about you? You have no family, and no

  home.”

  “I have friends. For now, they will be my family.” “That thought makes you feel better, eh?”

  “Some food would make me feel better! I rode after you without getting any stew.”

  “You mean Orvin’s foul-smelling cauldron.” “The very same.”

  “You’ve spent too much time with the Saxons.” “Not to mention six moons with the rogue knight.” “This story is getting worse,” Doyle said.

  A field mouse scampered underfoot and disap­ peared into a tiny burrow; the animal ·reminded Christopher of someone. “Do you know what hap­ pened to Bryan the mouse catcher?”

  “I suspect he’s dead,” Doyle said.

  Christopher nodded; he had thought the same.

  They reached th
e edge of the field and stepped into the welcoming shade of the wood. Christopher told the tale of Queen’s Camel Abbey. Doyle listened, as intent as he was incredulous.

  6

  The thick, gray walls blocked out the sun. Neither Doyle nor Christopher had ever seen a cas­tle as great. As they trotted over the drawbridge toward the gatehouse, they could not help but crane their heads up and stare at Uryens’s curtains and towers; Christopher estimated they must be twice the height of those of the castle of Shores. Doyle shouted a request not to be heralded to one of the gatehouse sentries. Christopher wanted to surprise Brenna, and Doyle did not want to call any attention to himself, still battling with whether he would confront his par­ ents. “Just because I’m coming doesn’t mean I have to talk to them,” he had told Christopher.

  They came into the outer bailey, where the sun was visible and bathed the dozens of bustling freemen and serfs in warmth and light. The bailey was a small town itself, with a marketplace, craftsman’s row, sta­ blehouse, kitchens, brewhouse, piggery, smithy, chapel, gardens, and dovecote. So many people swarmed the bailey that Christopher wondered if he would ever find Brenna among such a multitude.

  The journey had been long and uneventful, save for the one night Doyle had walked sleepily to a nearby brook for a cool sip and had fallen in, startling the life out of Christopher. He hated sounds in the night. Hated them.

  Orvin had overstuffed their riding bags with provi­ sions, and had bargained with the hostlers for a fresh pair of rounseys. Doyle’s sergeant at arms had not been not as helpful. He had given Doyle his leave and an instant demotion. Doyle would be windlassing crossbows for a long time, having lost the privilege of firing the weapons. Doyle was, in a word, upset with the sergeant.

  They dropped off their rounseys at the thatch-roofed stables. A money-hungry hostler informed them it would be one denier per day for each of the horses.

  “Do you bathe them for that price?” Doyle asked. Christopher put an index finger to his lips, indicating for Doyle to argue no further. “That will be fine.” As they turned away from the short, squinting man, Doyle mumbled, “Quick to give away your money. I’m losing pay for this.”