by Peter Telep
Edward sprang toward Mallory, arms raised, fin gers tensed and ready to vise around the rogue leader’s throat.
Dallas moved behind Edward and slung an arm around the duke’s throat. This, however, did not stop the duke, and Dallas had to leap on Edward’s back and attempt to drive the man to the ground by the force of his own weight. The duke carried Dallas four steps before he shrank to his knees and gasped for air. Dallas released his hold on the duke, and, out of breath, unsteadily withdrew.
Mallory dipped the banner over Edward’s head, let the flag drape over the kneeling duke. ‘‘I’d choke you with this if I didn’t need it so badly.”
But Mallory had already grown bored. He could toy with the duke for only so long. He had originally considered dragging the duke along to watch, tor menting the man, a minor thrill along the way to reacquiring a domain. But that would’ve been sloppy. Better to have no loose ends.
Mallory dropped the banner, then gestured for Dallas to haul Edward to his feet. As Edward rose under Mallory’s will, Mallory unsheathed a small anlace from his belt. The dagger had a horn hilt carved with the picture of a boar; Mallory found himself star ing at it. He admired the artist who had designed the hilt, for Mallory’s own artwork was too often on human flesh, and always sloppily rendered. There was painstaking detail on this hilt, and for a brief second he wished he had the patience to accomplish such a task, to paint, carve, play an instrument. But that was not his fate-nor the order of this moment.
He rushed up to Edward, gripped the head of the duke’s penis with his thumb and forefinger, extended the organ, and sliced it off. Edward’s scream echoed off the distant hills. Mallory dropped the soft organ.
He could have lingered, taken the thrill of seeing the duke grow fearful with the notion that his man hood was about to be cut off, but Mallory had been merciful. He had done it quickly. But, he reasoned, there was still a respectable thrill in it.
The duke’s groin bled, a river of red rushing to the earth. As Mallory turned away from Edward, he heard the sounds of his men unsheathing their spathas and daggers. He studied the hilt of his anlace once more.
The duke let out a cry, but it was immediately strangled.
11
Christopher had not gone to Uryens’s castle and bid his farewell to Brenna. He had not wanted to see her again, knowing she was with Innis. He had resigned himself to the situation and had folded in on his own love. He had tried to convince himself that he had had a good learning experience, that next time he would guard his feelings more carefully. Whether it had been a learning experience or not, it still had made him feel miserable, had made him want to bury his head under a pillow. He had battled his emotions.
And had lost.
Both he and Doyle had consoled each other on the ride back to Shores, each having failed to make the other feel better.
On the last night of their journey, in the faint light of their small cookfire, Christopher and Doyle sat, Doyle with a small, thin blade in his hand.
The blood oath had been the··archer’s idea. A promise between Christopher and Doyle that no matter what came between them, they would always remain friends.
“Can’t we just make the promise without blood?” Christopher shifted nervously on his saddle cloth.
“Our blood seals the oath.”
“My word is as strong as my blood.”
Doyle smiled as he fingered the blade. ‘‘You’re scared?” “No,” Christopher lied.
“It’s just a little cut.”
Christopher touched his cheek, remembered the pain. Any cut hurt. “I think my loyalty to you-to our friendship-has already been proven.”
“In what way?” Doyle asked.
“I have sincerely tried to help you reestablish your family. And when you were hungry, I, at great personal risk, fed you.”
“You also got me locked up. You also forced me into a confrontation with parents who want to own me like a serf.” Doyle handed Christopher the blade. “Do it.”
Christopher would not have thought twice about making a blood oath with Baines. Was it really the sight of blood that held him back-or something else? Was he afraid to get too close to Doyle, for fear of one day losing his friend. That possibility would always loom on the horizon. They both had to realize that, and not let it hinder their friendship. Up until the past two years, death never seemed real; it had happened to someone else, never to someone close.
But Christopher had lost so many people he cared for, maybe his feelings were burning out. He couldn’t let that happen. He would make the blood oath with Doyle, but he didn’t feel comfortable with it. It felt as though he was unshielding his emotions for anyone to stab. He was attaching himself to someone who could die like all the rest. But he loved his friendship with Doyle, admired the way Doyle handled the crossbow and longbow, and held precious the way they could talk to each other honestly and openly. ·He never wanted any of it to end, and maybe Doyle was right. Maybe blood would bond them, and protect him from being hurt, as he was with Brenna.
The blade was cold, the hilt warm. Reflected flames danced on its shiny surface. Christopher turned the knife over and over, as if picking the right edge on which to cut himself.
“Do it,” Doyle repeated. “Or you’re not my friend.” “You mean that?” Christopher asked.
Doyle nodded; his face gave no indication that he jested.
‘‘Why is this so important to you?” “You were right,” Doyle answered. “What do you mean?”
“I need a family-and you’re it,” Doyle explained. “You said your friends will be your family. So I’ll be yours. You’ll be mine.”
“I’m not sure if two friends make a family.” “Two brothers do.”
“Brothers?” “Blood brothers.”
Christopher returned his gaze to the blade. He stopped rolling it in his hand. He put the tip of the knife to his wrist, saw three bluish veins waiting innocently there. He moved the blade a little higher, closer to the heel of his hand, then flicked the knife across his skin. A thin slice appeared, but no blood came out of it.
“Let me see,” Doyle said.
Christopher refused to show Doyle his hand. “You’re probably not even bleeding. Come on.
Give me the blade and I’ll show you.”
Reluctantly, feeling embarrassed, Christopher handed over the knife.
Doyle took the blade in his hands and sliced open a long, thin line that paralleled his veins. The cut bled well, more than enough to mix with Christopher’s own blood. “See.” Doyle showed his wrist, then returned the knife to Christopher.
Christopher closed his eyes and put the blade to his wrist, pressed the tip into his skin, then flicked it. A quick needle of pain followed, then he opened his eyes. Blood from a deep fingernail’s-length cut oozed onto Christopher’s wrist. He pushed the skin together with the fingers of his other hand, forcing more blood to the surface. He held his wrist up for Doyle’s inspection.
Doyle pushed himself across his saddle cloth and moved as close to the cookfire as he could. He raised his arm over the flames. “Press your wrist against mine.”
Christopher edged forward and extended his arm. His wrist met Doyle’s, and they pressed their bloody skin together. It felt warm and slippery. Christopher coughed as he inhaled a little smoke from the fire.
It seemed the longer they could hold their wrists together, the stronger the bond would be. Finally, his arm too heavy, Christopher broke the connection.
“Blood brothers,” Doyle said, wiping his wrist on his saddle cloth. “How does it feel?”
Christopher coughed again, the smoke still tickling his throat. “It feels the same,” he managed. “Is it sup posed to feel different?”
Doyle shrugged. “I don’t know.” “How does it feel to you?”
“Somehow I feel safer. It’s odd. It’s as if I’m protected as long as I’m with you.”
“But my fighting skills are not as good as yours.” “Have you really
put them to the test?”
“I think so.”
“Perhaps not. Maybe there’ll be a contest for squires at the tournament. You should enter.”
Christopher wiped his bloody wrist on his shirt sleeve, then spit on the wound and rubbed the saliva in to cleanse it. “I have to find a knight to serve. That’s my first priority.” Christopher yawned. “Let’s sleep. And dream of the tournament.”
“That we will,” Doyle said.
12
“Another lesson for one who believes he has learned them all,” Orvin said, his voice soft and carrying the warm notes of a fine wooden instrument. They stood outside the stable the old man called home. “Close your eyes and face the sun.”
Christopher complied, turning his face toward the orange globe that had just cleared the castle. He experienced the heat, and though his eyes were closed, the blackness was somehow full of light.
“Now,” Orvin sang, “if you were to open your eyes, you would be blinded, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And wouldn’t you consider it possible during combat to be blinded by the sun?”
“I would.”
“Then what is one to do during that completely vulnerable time when one is blinded and one’s oppo nent is about to strike?”
“Pray,” Christopher joked.
“If one is smart, one is praying during the entire engagement.”
Christopher bit his lower lip, imagined an enemy knight in front of him, about to bring his battle-ax down. He saw the sun just over the man’s head, and the rays fired blinding dazzles into his eyes. I can’t see his weapon. How do I block it?
“Some say duck and move. Which is commonly effective. But some opponents are quicker than you, and as you duck, they take off your head.”
“Which in that case you don’t even know you lost.” “Ah, for a split second you do,” Orvin said.
“Well, you could try to avoid the situation in the first place.”
“Now we’re learning. Simple rule: in daylight, always fight with the sun at your back. Tum and put it there. Make it your ally. But its loyalty often wanes, and thus you’re faced again with the dilemma.”
“If the sun’s in your eyes, and your opponent’s about to strike and you can’t duck or move, then all you can do is attempt to block him without seeing him.”
“Are you thinking about what to do-or feeling it?”
Just act. “Sorry.” Christopher felt Orvin push his broadsword into his hands.
“Do you remember Sloan’s lesson in arms identifi- cation? Finding them in the darkness?”
“All too well.”
“Is it possible that one could fight by sound?” “One could try. And probably die.”
“Open your eyes.”
Christopher craned his head away from the sun and opened his eyelids; he squinted at the old man.
“We’ll finish this another day. I’ve invited someone to meet you.” Orvin pointed over Christopher’s shoulder.
Christopher turned around and saw a fully armored bachelor knight cantering toward them on his black destrier.
“He’s looking for a squire?” Christopher asked, his voice buffed with excitement.
Orvin winked. It was a wonderful wink.
The bachelor knight looked like a king. His armor was ebony black, trimmed in gold, and his mount wore a matching set: champfrain on its head, criniere on its neck, poitrel on its chest, and croupiere on its rump. Horse and man were foreboding. And beautiful. The knight’s great helm was under his arm, and he held the reins with his free hand. His face was round, his cheeks shadowed by the fine hairs of a three-day beard, and his eyebrows connected into a single line of hair. His too-soft eyes made him look like a younger version of the Saxon Elgar. Christopher had liked that generous Saxon, and at first sight, Christopher guessed the knight might share the same altruism simply because he looked the part. It was a speculation Christopher hoped was right.
His breath tripped as the knight neared him. He remembered the day he had first spoken to Hasdale, how his mouth had become instantly dry and the words had not come. He recalled his first encounter with Brenna and how a similar set of plagues had fallen upon him. And time had not changed him that much.
“Good morning, Sir Orvin,” the knight said. His voice was deep, and Christopher could tell right away that when he ·wanted to, the man commanded respect. He had a knight’s voice. But it was a friendly voice now. The knight turned his attention to Christopher. “And you, boy, are the squire Orvin tells me so much about.”
Christopher looked to Orvin. “Good things, I hope.” He had to calm down. He had to sound intelli gent, not the jittering boy he was. He felt one of his eyelids twitch.
“Nothing but,” the knight said. “I am York, and I serve knight banneret Lord Woodward, who serves Lord Devin.” He levered himself out of his saddle.
Christopher rushed over to help the knight down; York accepted his hand, and the man slung one heavy leg over his destrier and hopped to the ground. Christopher stepped back from the knight. “I’m Christopher.”
York stood a full head taller than him, and with his armor on seemed twice as wide. “You served Hasdale.” York frowned. “I knew him very well. I shared a great meal with him at Uryens’s castle. That was the last time I saw him.” York’s expres sion stiffened with sudden intent. “Tell me. Did you
… see it?”
Christopher shifted his gaze away from York and let it fall on Orvin. At the mention of his dead son, Orvin could not lift his head; he eyed the ground, and Christopher could tell that time had not eroded the old man’s pain. Orvin had tried to hide it from him, but Christopher saw it now.
He faced York once more. “My lord fought with valor and dignity and died a knight’s death.” Christopher uttered the words to protect Hasdale’s memory, but he didn’t believe them. Hasdale was butchered; it was an act as despicable and grotesque as the murder of Baines.
A knight’s death had two. meanings: dying hero ically on the battlefield, which was what you told the poor man’s relatives and passed on over the years, and the truth-that he died over something that should have been solved with words instead of weapons, something like revenge, or greed.
“So you didn’t see it,” York said.
Better to let the knight think that than get into a telling of the grisly tale. “You-you’re looking for a squire?”
York breathed deeply through his nose. “Ah, yes. Why I’m here. Enough gossiping, eh? I’ve no time to put you to the test. I intend to joust today. Are you ready to meet the challenge?”
“That I am, sir.”
York shooed Christopher away with his hand. “Then go on, boy. Prepare yourself!”
Christopher spun away from the knight, but before he would race into the stable, climb the loft, and don his gambeson and riding boots, he paused before Orvin, grabbed one of the old man’s hands with both of his, and mouthed silently, “Thank you.”
Orvin covered Christopher’s hands with his free palm, and returned a genuine, if not exceedingly wrinkled, grin. “I’ll come to watch you.”
“Please do,” Christopher said. He broke away and arrowed toward the stable.
13
It was the Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, and the tournament would commence immediately after matins and mass were heard. Christopher rode next to York on a black-and-browri rounsey that York promised he would replace .
Christopher was glad for that; the other squires would either have coursers or destriers.
They followed the path that swept around the castle, ribboned through the wood, and led to the practice field. As they reached the ramparts of the castle, Christopher was able to look down and take in the spectacle in one magnificent breath.
The sun-drenched practice field had been converted into the tourney ground, and at least five score of tents were pitched in rows on the north and south sides of the field. White splashes of color dotted the brown field, and
the tiny forms of people and horses bustled among them.
In the center of the field, a long, rectangular stretch of land served as the jousting ground. Arms racks stood on the east and west ends. Many of the racked lances bore the banners and pennons of the first knights who would joust.
The main tent, which Christopher guessed shaded Devin, Uryens, and King Arthur, was centered on the north side; its great dimensions and bright blue fabric made it easily distinguishable. To the right and left of the main tent were the hastily erected grandstands, long wooden daises covered with rows of benches borrowed from the great hall. The stands were begin ning to fill with excited toumeygoers.
“I’ve never entered a tournament this grand,” York said. “So many competitors. I wonder how long I’ll last.” They descended the ramparts, traveled slowly through the wood, and came into the swarming throng of the practice field.
Their first stop was the herald’s tent, where York was placed on the list of knights to joust. The her alds, donning the blue livery of Lord Devin, would not tell him who his competitor was; he would find out when they called him onto the field. They did say his tum would come late in the afternoon.
As they exited the tent, York said, ‘We’ve a lot of time. We’ll inspect arms in my tent, and then get some thing to eat. I’m going to fetch your mount now. I’llmeet you.” York reined his courser to the left and trotted off.
Christopher heeled his rounsey in the opposite direction. He passed an open stretch of grass where two knights made practice tilts at a shield mounted on a counterbalance. The first knight’s lance pushed the shield around while the second one missed, and he swore loudly. Then Christopher traversed a nar row path between a long row of tents. He searched for York’s pennon-an argent flag deviced with a sable falcon-flying from one of the tent tops. He came to the end of the path and saw it opened into a clearing on the left, more tents on the right.
The clearing was a target field, and it was here the archers would hold their own competition. A hun dred yards away, a dozen straw-filled butts rose knee high, spaced some three yards from each other. Christopher sensed the real games had not begun; the atmosphere was light. Crossbowmen and longbow men joked with each other, took quick aim, and fired random shots at the butts, warming their fingers and stretching out their strings. A food merchant’s cart was parked nearby, and tankards of ale were filled and handed out to a group of bowmen. Christopher spotted Doyle among the drinkers. He directed his rounsey toward the group.
