by Peter Telep
“Fergus is very upset with you, Christopher,” the rogue said through an ugly, gap-toothed smile. “And Mallory, well, it is enough to say you are dead.”
Christopher looked down and saw Dallas’s hand resting on the hilt of an anlace sheathed and belted at his side. But there were too many people here. Dallas wouldn’t kill him now-would he?
Repressing his fear, Christopher sprang right, but felt one of Dallas’s thick-fingered hands wrap like a manacle around his wrist. “No, no, Christopher. You stay with me. We’re going to watch.” Dallas gestured with his head toward the main tent.
Duke Edward stood on the field before the dais, gazing up at Lord Devin, Lord Uryens, and King Arthur. Lord Devin spoke: “Duke Edward of Somerset. I declare you champion of the tourney of Shores, and, as is your right, bequeath my daughter Marigween to you.”
“I accept the honor.” And though the voice was muffled by the helm, it was familiar to Christopher.
His suspicions were answered as the duke removed his helmet, and a hush fell over those in the main tent.
Mallory smiled. The blue doublet centered on his headband twinkled.
The name began to drift among those who knew him: Mallory, Mallory, Mallory. Mutters, shouts, whispers, rumbles, cries; they all echoed the name with surprise and utter hatred.
Lord Devin turned to Arthur. “It cannot be! He cannot marry Marigween!”
Mallory started toward the wooden steps that would take him up to the dais.
“Stop right there, Mallory,” Arthur ordered.
Mallory ignored the king. “I’m getting the crown of laurels put on my head whether you like it or not, Arthur.” He faced the audience. “Who can deny my victory? Is there anyone who did not hear Woodward concede?”
Devin turned around and pulled Uryens’s spatha out of his sheath. “You come up here and I’ll strike you to hell!”
Mallory mounted the steps.
Christopher felt Dallas’s grip tighten on his wrist. He looked to the audience, trying to pick out Orvin and Brenna. Scores of faces, none recognizable. No comfort there. He had to do something.
Both he and Dallas had free hands, but Dallas’s readied an anlace. What could Christopher do with his? He tapped his foot nervously, thinking, thinking, thinking. He could pull up Dallas’s hand and bite the grip off, but that might give the rogue time to work his anlace.
Wait a minute. I’m thinking. Wrong. Just act.
Christopher closed his eyes and let his body feel the way out. Though Dallas’s grip seemed perma nent, Christopher took a long, deep breath, rolled his wrist toward Dallas, and as he rolled he pulled away. When he felt his arm spring toward him, Christopher opened his eyes and ran.
He didn’t look back to see if Dallas was pursuing; logic said he was. He bolted straight for the stairs leading to the dais.
As he charged forward, a question tugged on Christopher’s mind: where were the rest of Mallory’s men?
He got his answer as he mounted the stairs. Above, Mallory’s band ambushed the nobles from three sides. The tent was a hurricane of arms and swords and shouts and confusion.
As he set foot on the dais, he saw Mallory and Devin trading sword strikes. Uryens fought off Fergus, blocking blows from Fergus’s spatha with a helm he used as a shield.
Two more of Mallory’s men fought Arthur, and for the first time Christopher set eyes on the legendary sword Excalibur. The blade sang its sweet, deadly song as it penetrated the link-mail of one of the rogues; the man fell away, freeing the blade. Arthur feinted right, then spun around and beheaded the other man.
At the rear of the tent, the wives of the great knights cowered, but Marigween found a spatha, rushed up behind Mallory, then hacked at the rogue’s plated back as he engaged her father. Mallory took a swipe over his shoulder with his sword, cutting a deep gash in Marigween’s arm. She dropped the spatha and screamed.
Christopher bolted for the fallen weapon. He picked it up, then turned and helped Marigween over to a nearby bench. “Get under here!”
Marigween complied, squeezing her small, lithe frame under the wood. She clutched her wound, and blood stained her fingers.
Dallas reached the top of the stairs, his anlace drawn. His gaze met Christopher’s.
Christopher told himself that all that was now hap pening was nothing. Nothing compared to that night on the Mendips, when he had been surrounded by the Saxons. But all around Christopher were the same sights and sounds: blades flashed in the air; metal panged on metal; men gasped and howled; and then, always, the blood. He hated all of it, was scared by it, would not accept it-but knew he had to act within it.
He was going to kill. But this time it would be Celtic blood that he shed. If not, he wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again.
Christopher remained on the defensive, dodging each of the bulky rogue’s swipes with sharp, agile movements. It was anlace against broadsword, and Dallas would have to get close to kill him. That was Christopher’s advantage. But Dallas was as handy with a blade as he was with a longbow; he would try something else.
A pair of men locked in combat fell over the benches behind Christopher, and a bloodcurdling scream followed the cacophony of armor and wood. Distracted by the sounds, Christopher saw Dallas’s blade only on the periphery. As he adjusted his full attention to the rogue, he saw Dallas finger the blade end of the anlace with his thumb and index finger. He cocked his arm and let the blade fly toward Christopher.
His spatha went up to deflect the tumbling anlace but Christopher missed. He felt a lightning bolt of sear ing pain strike his shoulder. He saw the anlace, like a horrible growth, protruding from a point just below his collarbone. He reached up, about to pull the blade out. But he looked to Dallas, whose elated expression woke as much strength as was in Christopher. He rushed for ward, aiming the tip of his spatha at the crease he knew rendered every suit of armor vulnerable. The spatha slipped vertically under Dallas’s pauldron, cut through link-mail and gambeson. Then Christopher heard the terrible pop of cracking ribs and felt a shudder rise up the spatha to his hand. The blade would not go in any more, but Christopher pushed harder; he scraped past Dallas’s broken ribs and found the man’s heart. Blood gushed over armor, and Dallas crumpled onto his back, his face twisted in agony.
Christopher’s expression mirrored Dallas’s as he pulled the anlace from his shoulder. The pain was so strong that he saw the world darken around the edges and suspected he was about to pass out. The flash of blackness passed, and Christopher looked down to see that the wound had not bled that badly; the blade had pierced mostly muscle.
As Christopher turned, in pain but still heady with his victory over Dallas, he saw Mallory pin Lord Devin to the floor. Devin squirmed for escape, but found none. Christopher stomped over the fallen benches and dead men, coming to Devin’s aid.
Mallory placed his broadsword under Devin’s chin. Christopher dropped his spatha as his leg became caught on a bench leg. He recovered the blade and looked up.
Mallory rammed his sword into Devin’s neck, then worked the blade up into Devin’s head as the man gargled his last breath.
“Arthur!” Uryens yelled, having seen Devin’s death while still battling Fergus. “Arthur!”
But Christopher saw that Arthur was busy with another pair of Mallory’s men. Mallory had made sure that no less than two men at a time would engage the king.
Mallory turned away from the dead man under him and raised his malevolent gaze to Christopher. “I spent time in a cell because of you, boy! But at least you’re here to pay for your sins.”
When he had first broken away from Dallas and had run toward Mallory, Christopher had known then that a confrontation was what he wanted. He hated admitting it now because he feared he acted out of revenge. Many nights had passed during the time he had spent with Mallory, nights Christopher had plotted Mallory’s murder and his own escape. He was free now, but the desire to see Mallory dead was still unrewarded, and still presen
t. But he had to know why. Why did he want Mallory dead? To make the man pay for all his transgressions? Wasn’t that revenge?
Or was it justice? Justice for the frightened girl who huddled under the bench, and for her father who lay dead. Justice for the other people Mallory had robbed and killed. Justice for Garrett.
Christopher had to make the distinction. He would fight for what was right, not to make Mallory pay for the deaths. He would detach his emotions and act. Not feel or think. Just act.
Mallory continued to taunt him verbally, but Christopher did not hear the words. He concentrated on his breathing, on letting his body do the work. The heavy spatha felt a part of his arm. His shoulder throbbed, but the pain gave way to numbness. The sweat on his upper lip and forehead cooled him, and the wetness under his arms only made them glide more gracefully. All the discomforts were friends as he let his mind go to his form. No pressure. No fear.
The sun shone into the tent from the front opening, and Christopher felt its warmth on his back. A friend watching over him; he would keep the sun there.
Mallory stood and wrenched his sword from Devin. He wiped both sides of the bloody blade across the cuisse shielding his right hip, as if he needed a clean blade to draw more blood.
Christopher let Mallory do all the preparing he wanted. As with Dallas, he would let Mallory attack. With several engagements still going on behind and around them, Mallory made his first move; he feinted right, then swiped horizontally left. Christopher counterswiped, feeling the power contained in Mallory’s arms. Again, Mallory moved, hammering his blade in a deadly downward arc that was stopped short by Christopher’s spatha. Their blades touched and seem ingly stuck to each other; Mallory barreled down while Christopher strained to hold his own.
It was a trick of Mallory’s, and Christopher did not realize it until it was too late. With their blades locked, Mallory circled around and put the sun in Christopher’s eyes.
Did you know, Orvin? Did you know this might happen?
Christopher attempted the same move, but Mallory pulled his sword away and lashed out horizontally once more; the broadsword’s tip nicked a tiny hole on the breast of Christopher’s leather gambeson. He assumed the en garde position, waiting for Mallory’s next strike. The rogue shifted his heavy sword from one hand to the other, boasting his strength.
The sun’s own blades of light struck over Mallory’s shoulder, cutting Christopher’s vision to shreds. He squinted, saw Mallory a moment, then whiteness, then Mallory.
The time had come to fight by sound. Christopher had never done it, nor believed he could. He could surrender to the natural current of his body, acting and reacting without thinking, but to lose a vital sense … it seemed impossible.
Christopher heard the wind created by Mallory’s blade. For a moment he saw the broadsword come out of the blinding light and razor toward his left eye. He lifted his spatha and countered the stroke, then fought back the desire to riposte. He had to let Mallory beat himself. His heart kept telling him to kill the monster, but he had given control over to his body, and his body knew what to do.
He shifted his position slightly. He could see Mallory’s armored feet, his greaved and cuissed legs and part of his breastplate, but higher than that nothing. He wanted to move right or left, put the sun to his side, but fallen benches blocked both paths. Mallory knew exactly what he was doing.
The whiz of steel through air, and Christopher forced his squinting eyes fully open; all he saw were flashes of orange and yellow and white.
I’m helpless!
He gripped his spatha as tightly as he could and tipped it toward the noise, then klang! Mallory’s blade connected with his. He’d countered the stroke without seeing it.
Another attack from Mallory, and Christopher saw the blade swiping left as Mallory’s head blocked the sun. Christopher parried the lash, then used the sec ond of shadow to finally, though nervously, riposte. He flicked his spatha over Mallory’s before the rogue had time to cut it up and away. The tip of Christopher’s blade cut across Mallory’s forehead, tore through the rogue’s bejeweled headband, then came away at the hairline. The headband fell over Mallory’s back. The cut was only minor, and if Mallory felt any pain, he buried it.
The sun thrust its fiery fingers back into Christopher’s eyes. And now he heard a shout behind him: “Help the boy! Sire, can you get to him?”
A clatter of swords answered. Below him, the rum ble of approaching horses rose among the sword fights. He listened again, though it was hard to drown out the background noise and the sound of his own panting to focus on Mallory’s blade. He stiff ened, grimacing in the harsh glare. ·
Wishhh! Klang! He successfully countered.
Wishhh! Wishhh! Klang! Another good block.
Something about that last stroke put Christopher’s body in motion. He hadn’t thought about making an offensive blow, since he had still been in the sun light. But that had been why his body moved. He hadn’t been making futile strokes at Mallory, but accurate, measured ones. He lunged forward, felt Mallory’s parry, knew the position of the rogue’s blade, heard Mallory bring it around and sensed where the opening was. With his blade flatwise, he made a short stroke right, slicing horizontally through the air. He felt the blade connect with flesh. And he heard Mallory scream. The rogue fell backward onto the tent floor, and Christopher saw the damage he had done.
Mallory clutched a deep gash that curved from his earlobe to the point where his gorget protected his collarbone. Christopher’s spatha had severed a large vein in Mallory’s neck, and the man’s lifeblood fountained through his fingers in a grotesque spray that blossomed with each beat of his heart. Christopher flinched, then turned his head away.
Semiarmored garrison men poured onto the dais from all sides, brushing past a stunned Christopher. The last three survivors of Mallory’s band surren dered, but Christopher couldn’t have cared. Killing made him feel bleak, and in a sense, evil. It would never get easier. He felt the desert in his mouth and tried to swallow; it hurt. Then he heard Marigween crying. He lifted his absent gaze from the tent floor, and spotted her kneeling over her father’s bloody corpse. He dropped his spatha, then rushed through men and benches to be next to her.
Even through her red eyes and tearstained cheeks, Christopher could see her beauty. For one selfish moment he let it take his breath away.
She barely noticed him as he hunkered down near her. As she looked at Devin, he looked at her. And maybe it wasn’t completely selfish of him to focus on her; looking at Devin would only make him sicker.
He felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder and turned to see who it was.
Arthur’s eyes, green as the slopes of the Mendips, stared back. The king nodded his approval. Then he looked past Christopher. His face paled with sorrow and his eyes washed over with tears.
Christopher could not take his gaze off the man. He tracked a drop that fell from Arthur’s right eye and darted for cover in the king’s beard.
All the emotions Christopher had repressed during the fighting woke, and now it was all right to free them. He choked up, not only over the sight of Devin’s body, but over the entire moment. Sorrow mixed with the guilt of killing and images of the hap pier times with Mallory. There weren’t many, but the few moments he and the rogue had chuckled together were enough to make him feel horrible. But he had done the right thing. He kept telling himself that.
17
He would be Sir Christopher.
The great hall was set for a massive feast which would follow the ceremony. Already, the trestle tables buckled with food, and the older serfs and freemen who occupied them waited impatiently for the whole thing to be over so they could eat. The knights and nobles who sat at the front tables or up on the long dais table were more tolerant. They remembered the day they had become knights, or the times those they loved had knelt before the blade.
Christopher sensed the sympathy and restlessness of the crowd as he stood at the rear o
f the hall, wait ing for the trumpets to announce him. Arthur had Christopher fitted with a suit of armor for the knighting, and Orvin and Doyle had helped him don it. He wasn’t sure if he would make it to the other end of the hall. The armor weighed in at nearly sev enty pounds, and the hauberk underneath tugged at his bandaged shoulder, sending occasional pinpricks of pain shooting up and down his arm. It was a mag nificent suit, though, all silvery and radiant. At his side, the broadsword Baines had given him rested in a bejeweled sheath that was a gift from Arthur. All of the glitter, like the parading before a joust, was the better part of being a squire. No, knight, he corrected himself.
He saw Brenna wave from a trestle table on the right. Her family had let her stay for the ceremony, but she would return to Gore the day after. Christopher was not sure where he would be. The uncertainty of his future bothered him more than it ever had, and the confusion was sparked by some thing Orvin had said after helping dress him. The old man had whispered: “Never be afraid of the truth. Even in the face of a king!”
Never be afraid of the truth. He rubbed his sweaty palms together, listening to more words in his mind: “In the name of God, of St. Michael and St. George, I make you a knight. ” How long had he dreamed of becoming a knight? Ever since the days of living on Leatherdressers’ Row, when he had worried about telling his parents what he wanted to do.
His father’s voice came to him now, a stem warn ing which echoed from the past and darkened his spirit: “The spoils of a knight. “
He’d seen the spoils: a knight who had died a painful and lonely death on the floor of his old house; a lord he had been proud to serve burned and then murdered; an enemy he had grown to understand cut down by a man of his own blood who had truly been the evil one. There were many more faces that would haunt him: his father, mother, Baines … . The death masks fell on into darkness. The only truth in all of it was the pain.
