Squire

by Peter Telep

  The audience went to its feet. It was the first time dur­ ing the tourney that Duke Edward had been taken down. Christopher and Orvin jockeyed for a better look.

  Jarvis got to his feet first, took a mace from his squire, then circled right around his opponent. Edward rose with the aid of Leslie, and was handed his mace. Jarvis ripped off his great helm, bore his clenched teeth, then lunged forward.

  Edward ducked away from the blow and brought his mace around Jarvis’s back in repartee; sharp spikes connected with Jarvis’s gorget. Jarvis stumbled forward but did not fall. He pivoted and faced Edward once more.

  As if powered by the force of a hundred charging men, Edward ran toward Jarvis, feinted right, then hooked his mace onto Jarvis’s and tugged it from Jarvis’s grip. The weapon flew a short distance then fell to the ground. The audience wowed. With his opponent unarmed, Edward advanced. Jarvis’s.squire attempted to slip between the knights and feed Jarvis a broadsword, but Edward turned and put himself in the squire’s way. In the second that Jarvis flicked his gaze upon his squire, Edward brought down his mace. The spiked ball swiped past Jarvis’s cheek, and the man fell onto his back, bleeding profusely.

  Edward stepped up to Jarvis and put one of his sabatoned feet on the man’s chest. He lifted his mace over his head, about to finish his opponent.

  “I concede,” Jarvis yelled. “I concede.”

  Shouts and guffaws came from the audience.

  Edward lowered his weapon.

  Orvin turned to Christopher, shaking his head. “I tell you that knight is unbeatable. I wish Arthur’s Lancelot were jousting. Only he would defeat the duke, it seems.”

  Christopher started to leave. Orvin snatched his shirtsleeve.

  “Where are you going?” the old man asked.

  “I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should talk to Doyle.

  And Brenna.”

  “Grieve, yes. But live your life.” Orvin’s advice and compassion were welcome now.

  “I once swore to myself I wouldn’t rebuild the past.

  But she keeps haunting me.”

  “As she should. But don’t look-”

  “Too deeply. I know all about it,” Christopher said. He shouldered and elbowed his way out of the grandstand and started down a row between tents that he guessed would take him near the archers’ field. The shields of victorious knights hung from spathas stuck in the ground outside the colorful shelters. No taps of challenge would be made on the shields now. All competitors had met once, and the final jousts would take place before sundown. Christopher had once been excited about the tourna­ ment, but now it only soured him. It was good to focus on something else. The past four days had been miserable.York’sfuneralpyrehadprompted Christopher to tell Orvin about the many others, and how horrible and ugly the world was and how every­ thing amounted to nothing, to death. He lingered on his guilt and nothing else, and Orvin’s many words of wisdom reverberated in unhearing ears.

  He turned down another row of tents, and saw the archery field at the end. Christopher’s step increased. He wasn’t sure if the timing would be right, but he marched with determination. If Innis was there, he would tell the varlet he wished to speak with Brenna alone-and if the varlet objected, well, he would leave it up to Brenna. She might be a serf, but she had the right to decide to whom she wanted to talk. Still, there was the fear that she did not want to talk to him. But he remembered her eyes, the way she looked back at him the last time. His confidence level rose.

  Four lines of archers took turns shooting arrows with longbows at the butts. Two sergeants standing on the immediate right and left of the field shouted scores to a herald borrowed from the jousting tourna­ ment. The herald sat on a bench behind the shooters, scribbling with a feather pen.

  Christopher saw Doyle on the end of the far left line. Hoping the sergeants did not notice him, he sneaked behind Doyle. “Where is she, Doyle?”

  Doyle recognized Christopher’s voice and did not look back. “She went to fetch Innis his lucky quiver in their tent. Can you believe that? A lucky quiver?”

  “Are you beating him?” “Yes, but not by much.”

  Christopher searched the lines to his right and saw Innis standing behind two archers, three more wait­ ing to his rear. The varlet had not seen him yet. “Thanks.” Christopher turned away.

  “Hey,” Doyle called, then turned to face him. “I’m sorry about York.”

  Christopher nodded solemnly.

  “YOUR TURN, DOYLE! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?”

  Startled, Doyle faced his target, nocked an arrow under the near-demonic gaze of the sergeant, then pulled back one hundred pounds of draw.

  Christopher paused to watch Doyle’s shot. The arrow arced in the air and touched the ring of the bull’s-eye, but was a finger’s length off-center. The sergeant called off the score as Doyle turned away, his face registering nothing.

  “Was that good?” Christopher asked.

  “All right. Maybe enough to keep me ahead of the varlet.” Doyle gestured with his head toward Innis’s tent. Christopher directed his attention there: Brenna was coming out. “Better hurry,” Doyle urged.

  Christopher hustled away from Doyle and double­ timed toward Brenna. She stopped when she noticed him, and the color flushing her cheeks said she was glad to see him. She carried Innis’s lucky quiver, a gaudy, bejeweled pouch which, by the way she held it, must be heavy. Christopher took the quiver out of her hands; indeed it was weighty. “Will you talk to me?”

  “Innis needs his quiver.” Her tone implied she wasn’t trying to get rid of him, only obeying a wish of the varlet’s.

  “Can it wait?”

  She nodded. “Come on.” She led him back into their tent, and once inside, closed the flaps. “Sit.”

  It was private and comfortable, and the bench had a thin, straw-filled pillow over it. She offered him a bowl of fruit, but Christopher was not hungry. She took a seat on a bench opposite his and shifted her gaze from him to the tent floor, then back again. He knew she was nervous, but she couldn’t be more wool-mouthed than he was.

  “What did you want to talk about?” she asked coyly.

  “I guess, first, I wanted to apologize for not saying good-bye when I left the castle.”

  “Accepted.”

  He could not think of the next thing to say. She accepted his apology too quickly. If she had argued with him, blamed him for something, then their arguing would have kept them talking. But she made it too easy-and too hard. What did he want to tell her? That he still loved her? That he wished to court her once more? That she haunted his mind? That he kept running away, yet kept coming back to her?

  Yes. But how could he articulate those notions with­ out sounding like a poor, lost boy begging for love?

  “What else did you want to talk about?” He sensed her prodding, but needed it.

  “I-this is difficult. I wanted to know if there’s any chance, well, you know, if we-” Christopher sighed; he hated the sound of his voice.

  I’m sorry, Christopher. But I love Innis, he heard her answer in his mind.

  Brenna’s eyes were glassy and reflective. “Remember that saddle you made for Orvin’s mule? I kept it for a long time after you were gone. Finally, I sold it. But you came back.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She rose, moved across the tent, and sat on the bench next to him. “No, don’t be.” She palmed his cheek, pulled his lips toward hers. She closed her eyes and kissed him softly, then pulled back. “I can’t forget what I felt for you.”

  “What of Innis? Do you love him?”

  She exhaled with frustration. “I don’t know.” “Brenna! My tum came and went. Where is my …”

  Innis’s voice trailed off as he entered the tent and saw them. “What is this?”

  Christopher and Brenna sprang to their feet as Innis marched up to Christopher and came nose-to­ nose with him.

  Christopher stood before a fork in the road. He could go left, initiating an argum
ent with Innis, which by all accounts would evolve into a challenge. Or he could go right, bite his· tongue, remain calm, and let Innis do the shouting. That path would make him appear more attractive to Brenna. Innis would be the screaming monster, he the innocent boy.

  He went right and pursed his lips.

  “Christopher wanted to talk to me,” Brenna said.

  “Inside our tent with the flaps closed?” Innis’s cheeks were crimson, his eyes brimming with jealousy.

  “He’s been through a lot,” she argued.

  Innis tried to stare Christopher down, but Christopher knew how to tum himself off at such times. He remembered the way Garrett and Mallory had first looked at him. He had not let their eyes, nor would he let Innis’s, bother him. He stared back and his deadpan enraged Innis even more.

  “I do not believe a word I’m hearing,” Innis cried. He looked to Brenna. “You’ve been seeing him ever since he returned-haven’t you?” His words were definite, packing more accusation than question.

  “No!” Brenna shot back.

  Innis took a step closer to her. “Yes you have!”

  Brenna shook her head, no. She bit her lower lip nervously.

  In a flash, Innis backhanded Brenna across her face.

  And in another, Christopher bounded for the left path and unleashed his anger.

  I’m sorry, Brenna. I’m going to ,look ugly. But I won’t let him hurt you anymore.

  Christopher vised both hands around Innis’s throat. Innis tried to face Christopher, but the force of Christopher’s grip was too much.

  The varlet gasped.

  Christopher pushed Innis forward, and the varlet tugged on Christopher’s hands, trying to pry them off his neck. Christopher pushed a little harder and Innis stumbled into one of the benches. Both he and the varlet fell over the wooden seat and slammed onto the tent floor. Brenna screamed her futile protest.

  Christopher lost his grip on Innis’s throat. Innis kicked himself away from Christopher, backed up, and got to his feet. Christopher rolled over and stood.

  Innis looked to the dagger sheathed and attached to a thick leather belt on the floor near his spare bow. Christopher noted the weapons and moved to put himself between them and Innis.

  The varlet’s back was to the tent entrance, and as Christopher edged left, closer to the weapons, he saw Doyle slip through the tent flaps and put a finger over his lips. Doyle slipped up behind Innis, wrapped his left am1 around Innis’s throat, then used his free hand to snag Innis’s right arm and pull it behind the varlet’s back. “Enough,” Doyle said.

  Christopher relaxed his fists, then took a deep breath. He gazed at Brenna, who stood, wringing her hands. The soft skin of her left cheek was cherrying with the imprint of Innis’s hand.

  “Let me go!” Innis shouted. “Damn you, Doyle, let me go!”

  “He needs a bit of water to cool him off.” Doyle dragged Innis outside the tent. The varlet’s wailing continued.

  “I don’t want to stay here now,” Brenna said. Christopher wiped perspiration from his head.

  “Come on.”

  16

  They returned to Orvin, who still sat in the grandstand watching the tourney. The old man was delighted to see Brenna. “Once again I am blessed with a vision of beauty. You, raven maid, are indeed a sight for sore, weathered eyes.”

  Brenna blushed. Christopher shook his head and rolled hi!’ yes.

  “Sit down,” Orvin said. “You’re in time for the final joust. Lord Woodward is the last knight to go against the duke.”

  Duke Edward and Lord Woodward were announced by the trumpeters, blazoned by the her­ alds, then blessed by the abbots. Lord Devin stepped down from the dais under the main tent and walked out to the center of the jousting field. He faced the audience. “This joust will decide the champion!”

  The crowd responded to Devin’s excited words with their own cheers.

  Behind him, Christopher could hear the wagering. Though forbidden, the betting on combatants occurred at every tourney. “If I had a few deniers to bet,” Christopher said, “I’d put them on Lord Woodward.”

  “He does have a personal stake in this contest,” Orvin observed. “I pray he does not foster revenge in his heart, for surely that will break him.”

  Hasdale’s death was a testament to that truth, Christopher knew.

  Devin continued, “The victor will take my daughter Marigween’s hand in marriage. God bless the fighters!” Devin marched off the field.

  “Everyone already knows the champion gets Marigween,” Christopher said.

  “Lord Devin is about to lose his daughter,” Orvin said. “He wants all the fathers here to share his pain.”

  Lord Devin stood on the edge of the dais, his arm raised, his gaze flicking from Woodward to Edward. His arm dropped.

  Hooves sank in the churned quagmire of the field as each knight leaned into his lance and searched for an opening in his opponent’s defenses. Conditions had worsened on the field, and Christopher saw how slowly the knights tilted at each other. In effect, it made the contest more interesting; it would be easier to unhorse an opponent since each knight had more time to hook his lance.

  The impact sounded: a short, single ka-ching!

  Duke Edward landed on his back, sinking deeply into the mud; his cutlet, backplate, and the link-mail fauld covering his rump became encased in the thick, brown ooze. The duke sat up, shaking his helmed head clear of the blow.

  Lord Woodward fell on his right side, his arm still hooked under his lance. From the way his arm had twisted, Christopher knew Woodward must have broken a bone. Woodward rolled over onto his rump and sat up. He tugged off his great helm with his left hand, then remained on the ground, cradling his right arm.

  The knights had decided on broadswords if both were unhorsed, and Leslie rushed over to the duke and handed Edward his weapon. The duke stood, heaving up his sword with both hands. Woodward’s squire, a worried blond boy, had trouble getting Woodward to his feet. He reached under the knight’s pauldrons and tried to pick him up, but the effort was to no avail. The squire heaved again as the duke advanced.

  The sight of Edward coming toward him with his broadsword raised must have overridden Woodward’ s pain, Christopher suspected, for Woodward wrapped his left arm over his squire’s neck and fought his way up. Once standing, he one-handed the heavy broadsword delivered by his squire and balanced him­ self, ready to defend.

  Edward struck the first blow, a slow horizontal swipe that Woodward parried at the last possible sec­ ond. Christopher saw Woodward grimace.

  The tension inside Christopher reached a breaking point. He had to get down onto the field. Woodward’s squire was inept.

  Without warning, Christopher walked in front of Brenna and Orvin and hopped down from the grand­ stand. He heard them call after him, but the voices seemed part of a distant reality. What was real right now was getting near the battle. He threaded through more spectators and found a position next to the trumpeters, who were lined up a mere six yards from the combatants. No one noticed Christopher’s approach. All eyes were trained on the field.

  Woodward, still nursing his right arm, lunged for­ ward in a weak riposte. His sword was blocked by Edward’s, but continued on, slipping over the duke’s blade; the weapon came crashing down on the breaths of Edward’s helm.

  But as Woodward withdrew his sword, the duke made his own riposte, an abrupt, upward thrust. Blade met blade, and Woodward’s broadsword was flung out of his grip.

  “Mace!” Christopher shouted to Woodward’s ner­vous squire. The straw-haired boy’s gaze darted over the weapons lined up on the small rack near him. The squire panicked.

  Christopher ran to the rack, scooped up the mace, then hurried onto the field. Woodward regarded him curiously for a second, but then offered his hand. Christopher tossed the knight the weapon.

  Woodward dropped the mace. He attempted to pick it up, but the duke reached it first and kicked it away. The duke stormed after
the unarmed Woodward, his broadsword drawn up over his shoulder.

  Christopher reacted again, sprinting behind the duke and retrieving Woodward’s lost sword. Christopher circled around the men and found his way to a position behind Woodward. As the knight continued to recoil from the duke, he reached Christopher, who handed him his broadsword. For a moment, Woodward’s eyes thanked him. Christopher jogged to the side of the field.

  The knights attacked each other again, this time much more aggressively. The duke made a flurry of lunges, each countered by Woodward’s sword. Woodward backed away with every slash but fought with stiff, unyielding determination. Christopher sensed, however, that Woodward was tiring.

  It was the show of shows for the audience. There were so many shouts behind Christopher that his ears rang into numbness. He shot a glance up to the main tent and saw lords Devin and Uryens on their feet, and next to them, the king. All three men were wide­ eyed, and Devin beat a fist into his palm.

  “You don’t belong here,” Christopher heard some­ one yell in his ear. He gazed over his shoulder and saw Woodward’s squire.

  “No matter,” Christopher answered. “You’d best stand ready-so I don’t have to help you again!”

  The squire shot Christopher a dark look then and returned to his position near the weapons rack.

  By now, Woodward could only defend. Duke Edward gave him no time to strike. The duke’s lunges came from high, low, left, and right, and were pounding, rhythmic, seemingly endless. It was clearly an attempt to wear Woodward down, and it was working.

  In the middle of the melee, with Edward still ham­ mering away with his broadsword, Woodward, pale and at his end, lowered his weapon and shouted, “I concede.” He stepped back from the duke, in time to miss a final high-to-low, left-to-right slash from his opponent.

  Duke Edward pivoted to the audience and raised his broadsword in the air; the blade dazzled menac­ ingly in the sunlight.

  Christopher lowered his head dejectedly and turned to walk off the field. He bumped squarely into another knight. The knight’s surcoat bore the coat of arms of the duke, and Christopher assumed he was one of Edward’s bachelor knights. He looked up at the man’s head, saw only a great helm. The knight tilted up his visor, and with horrid recognition, Christopher stared into the roundness of Dallas’s face.