by Peter Telep
“Have Nolan and Woodward’s scouts spotted them?”
“I do not know, lord.”
At the sound of more horses, Arthur turned again, this time facing the east.
It had become of circle of frightened, mounted men, with the king spinning helplessly in the middle. A scout from the east shouted, “We spied on a new army, my lord. They seem to have appeared from nowhere!”
“How many?” Arthur demanded.
“We believe five- or sixscore of men!”
Christopher plotted the parlous news in his head. They were one thousand men, about to be attacked by five hundred in the north, another two hundred in the south, and approximately another two hundred in the east, and the same number in the west. The Saxons’ battle plan was perfection through simplicity. And the question burned like bile: How had the eastern and western Saxon armies slipped by them? Or was one of the scouts right-that they had always been there?
Arthur bit down on a knuckle as he thought. Christopher, Leslie, and Doyle all shared apprehensive looks. Doyle suddenly fled the group, breaking into a sprint for the Vaward camp.
“You men from the west and the east,” Arthur said, his voice cracking, “you will try to slip past the invaders and enlist the aid of our brothers beyond them. Go now!”
The scouts wheeled their horses around and heeled off.
“Now you,” Arthur said to the remaining men, “you will divide and scout all directions. Report as many times as you can to our battle lords. God be with you.”
As the scouts separated and hurried away, Arthur pounded his fist into his palm. He jerked himself around, hunting for answers on the ground, the tents, the cookfire, the sky. His army lay as bare as his back, and Christopher could find no words to allay the king’s agony. In fact, he shuddered with confir mation. He had been on a campaign sprung of vengeance before. The first time he had been too naive to recognize the portents; but during the past moons he had seen death coming, had admonished his sovereign, and now stood on his birthday, satisfied and doomed because he was right.
PART TWO
THE FALL OF SHORES
1
The castle of Shores stood in green-and-gcay innocence above the horizon as Kenric’s army dispersed and initiated the first step of their attack.
Seaver led a group of twoscore men through the farmland that lay between the thick wood in the distance and the River Cam. They stomped, cut, tore, and smashed the young vegetables and fruit that would have been the summer’s harvest. Torches were dropped in the dryer fields, decimating the wheat. Fruit trees were hacked apart, and the plow-pulling oxen were killed and left to rot.
It was a far more organized attack than any Seaver had witnessed. His former leader Garrett had been one for storming the curtain walls of the castle and ignoring the village and its surrounding land alto gether. And when that had failed, he had concentrated on the village. Presently, Kenric’s plan incorporated both. The attack was slow, but system atic-a war of attrition.
With the fields destroyed, Seaver’s group moved on to the farmhouse and set its straw-thatched roof ablaze. Any of the already-smoked meat, milk, butter, and cream stored there was plundered and added to the Saxon’s already abundant supplies. The chickens, pigs, and sheep penned around the farmhouse were slaughtered, and the drinking well was filled with dung. Hay carts were dismantled, churns cracked open, and any other working instruments they could find were destroyed. Seaver even caught one man smashing a bench.
The farmer’s wife and her two children were unfortunately at home, and they were mercilessly axed and left to burn with their house.
Seaver’s group left an afternoon’s worth of bloody eradication behind them. They advanced into the burgeoning darkness of the wood. Beyond was the practice field, and to the south, the village of Shores.
2
Orvin had felt ill all morning. He’d gone down from the !oft to take a bit of pottage Marigween had prepared for him, but after filling his belly, a vise of pain had squeezed his innards. He lay in his narrow bed, occasionally staring out the window, where presently he spied a thick pillar of smoke dividing the western sky.
“Marigween!” he shouted. “Yes? Are you all right?” “Come up here! Quickly!” “Not so quickly,” she said.
Marigween had found it increasingly difficult to ascend the ladder into the loft, for with the passing of every moon, her baby had grown. Though he was no midwife, Orvin estimated she was about two moons away from delivery.
He waited a brief, but impatient moment before she appeared on the top of the ladder. “Look,” he said, pointing at the smoke.
Wincing, she moved to the window and lowered her head to peer out. “It looks as if they’re burning their fields.”
“With a little help from the Saxons,” Orvin said. She regarded him, looking baffled. “Saxons? How?
Arthur hunts them on the Mendips.”
“Why didn’t I heed the warning?” Orvin asked himself aloud.
“What warning?”
“I saw it. Or rather felt it. In my stomach this morning. There had been nothing in the skies yesterday. I had searched them. Why? Why does the omen come so late?”
Marigween frowned. “I have never believed in your omens and never will. It is not the Saxons. The farm ers are up to something; I don’t know what.”
Orvin gave her a fateful stare. “I’ve been able to hide you here from Lord Woodward, but I cannot hide you from the Saxons.”
Marigween’s chin lifted in defiance. “I cannot listen anymore. You do not feel well. Your illness attacks your mind, and your eyes.” She started for the ladder.
Orvin sat up and threw off his wool blanket. A score of invisible arrows penetrated his belly. He pushed his body right and set his frail feet on the wooden floor. Timbers and bones creaked as he stood. His ankles received his stomach, or at least it felt that way.
“What are you doing?” she asked, about to descend.
“We cannot stay here.”
The approaching rumble of a large, unseen number of horses shifted Marigween’s attention to the road below.
Three of the hostlers who tended the rounseys and coursers ran from their duties in the stalls and van ished beyond the main stable door.
Orvin grabbed Marigween’s wrist as an agonizing cry from the road met their ears. More cries joined in, a shrill harmony of hostlers losing their lives. It was obvious what was going on outside, but to Orvin’s amazement, Marigween still wanted to descend the ladder.
“No,” he ordered curtly, strengthening his grip on her.
“What’s happening?” she cried. “Shush.”
Orvin pulled Marigween away from the edge of the loft. He retrieved the broadsword that he kept stand ing in the corner near his bed, then pulled the blade from its leather sheath. The weapon was caked with dust. He should have stayed in practice, should have exercised his muscles. Once a great knight, he knew his appearance and his skills were now weathered. He prayed they would not be spotted.
Sword in hand, Orvin led Marigween to the oppo site corner of the loft, where they hid behind one of two tall piles of dried hay stored there.
A pregnant young woman and a wrinkled old man. That’s what they were. Orvin sighed through a shiver as he helped Marigween sit down, then lowered his own brittle frame.
They heard the horses bucking and neighing in their stalls, then the high-pitched wails as each was put to death. Tears stained Marigween’s cheeks as she listened to the mounts being butchered. Orvin had grown quite fond of two of the animals and gri maced as he imagined them being killed.
Finally, there was stillness. Moments beat. The air hinted of a new smell; Orvin inhaled deeply through his nose. He knew the difference between burning faggots and burning timbers. The stables were on fire. Marigween’s face registered the new alarm, and she tried to push herself up, bracing her back along the side wall of the loft. Orvin stood, set his sword down, then took her hands. Feeling his ar
ms vibrate under the strain but ignoring it, Orvin got Marigween to her feet. They had to move.
The old knight bent down to fetch his sword, and as he did, he heard the sound of someone ascending the ladder. He scooped up the blade and moved to peer from behind the hay.
The invader was young, with only the trace of a beard, and hair that was straighter than usual for a Saxon. His only weapon was a dagger sheathed and bound on his leather belt. He cocked his head, saw Orvin’s bed, the clothes trunk footing it, and the scrolls lying alongside. The Saxon wandered over.
Orvin was eager to make the Saxon’s curiosity fatal, but how many more lay below? A cry from the man would bring his brothers, and that would surely be the end of himself and Marigween. Perhaps it was better not to force a confrontation, but to wait until the Saxons were satisfied with their destruction and had moved on-hopefully before the flames or the smoke or both overcame Marigween and himself.
Orvin’s muscles tightened as he watched the Saxon rummage through his trunk, study then discard his scrolls, rise and take another look around.
Then Orvin saw it: his sheath, carelessly left on his bed. He hoped fervently the invader would leave before noticing it. But the barbarian’s eyes came to rest on the leather sword cover. The man picked it up, then realized that someone might be present and armed. In one precise motion, the Saxon turned toward the piles of hay while drawing his dagger.
The hilt of Orvin’s broadsword was slippery with sweat. He could not get a good grip on the weapon. The Saxon stepped closer. Orvin’s heart staggered and tried to convince his body to recoil. His arms quivered, and a steady hot pain wrestled with his lower back.
For a second he looked at Marigween. She cowered in an attempt to dissolve through the wall behind her. He could hear her short, uncontrolled gasps, sounds that only swelled his terror.
The Saxon was also afraid. His body was bent in an attack stance, his steps slow and apprehensive, his gaze repeatedly sweeping the room.
Orvin had to make a decision. If he leapt out, he would own the element of surprise, but he had already considered the problems of engaging the man. It was too risky. They had to go unnoticed.
He skulked back and joined Marigween at the wall. The Saxon chose to probe the hay pile on his left, and as he did, Orvin and Marigween took cover behind the right pile, but this exposed themselves to the sta ble below. Any Saxon who entered the building would see them.
The soldier continued his investigation, stepping completely around the left pile. They heard the floor timbers betray his advance. Orvin ventured a furtive glance beyond their pile to see how close the barbarian was-
-and found himself staring directly into the Saxon’s eyes. The two men were no more than a dag ger’s length apart. Both gasped.
Orvin thrust his broadsword forward, but the Saxon gripped the blade with his bare hand and pulled it past him with Orvin still on it.
A stinging pain sent Orvin’s hand to his shoulder. The Saxon had swiped him with his dagger. Orvin’s palm came up bloody, but the cut, though long, was not deep. He spun and faced the invader.
The Saxon grinned as he wiped the sweat off his forehead with his arm. Orvin knew the man found it amusing to take on one so old and frail. Orvin gambled that experience in this case would overcome strength though the odds of the game were steeply against him.
The lessons of combat Orvin had taught Christopher would be practiced now. It was time for the teacher to demonstrate his own skills. To act and not think, to rely on all the senses and not only the eyes, to become as fluid and easy as a gentle stream. He remembered when Christopher had fought Dallas. It had been broadsword against dagger-as it presently was-and Dallas had thrown the dagger. He would be wary of a similar maneuver from the Saxon.
Though the old knight had a greater reach with his broadsword, the Saxon boldly feinted right, then dodged left, trying to get in close to stab him. Orvin parried the Saxon’s blade with his own. The edge of his dusty broadsword slid down the dagger, jumped over the small blade’s hilt guard, and bit the invader’s fingers. The Saxon wailed and swore.
Orvin flipped a look to the stable below and saw no other Saxons. What he did see was the eastern wall of the stable above its two-yard stone base being devoured by flames. Smoke rose to the ceiling and floated toward the !oft.
Pulsing visibly with vengeance, the Saxon stormed toward Orvin. The old man tried to flee the advance but was too slow. The invader collided with him and both plunged toward the floor. Orvin felt the broadsword slip from his grip as he hit the timbers. His vision cleared in time to see the Saxon rear back his arm and, with the dagger sticking from the bot tom of his fist, he was prepared to slam it home into Orvin’s heart. Orvin raised both hands and they connected with the Saxon’s wrist, locking around it. He fought with every shred of strength he could muster from his ancient frame, but the blade fell steadily closer toward his chest.
He heard the shuffle of footsteps, then saw Marigween come up behind the soldier. In a flash, she slid her arm under his neck and yanked his head back. The Saxon withdrew the weight from Orvin’s hands, tore his dagger arm free. He reached back with the blade and slashed Marigween across her cheek. The young woman fell backward, and as the invader turned to see whom he had injured, Orvin rolled his body left and threw the Saxon. In the seconds of free dom the maneuver bought him, he crawled away and searched for his broadsword. Orvin hurt in places he had never hurt before, and his body wept, begged him to stop, but his mind overrode everything. There.
There it was. He came up with the blade.
Marigween lay on her side, blood seeping below the palm she pressed to her cheek. She whimpered like a whipped dog and was oblivious of the Saxon creeping toward her.
Curtains of smoke obscured and choked the air, and Orvin struggled for breath. If he and Marigween didn’t leave soon, the Saxon wouldn’t matter. Sudden panic caused sudden action. He rushed behind the advancing Saxon, and, as the man cocked his head, Orvin sank his broadsword squarely into the Saxon’s left shoulder. The blade tip sought and found the man’s heart. The barbarian hit the floor, exhaled his last breath, and voided himself. The fire did little to weaken the stench.
Marigween’s whimpering was cut off by her cough ing. Orvin shuddered as he came upon her, not real izing she had bled so much. The right side of her beige kirtle was soaked down to her waist, the blood on her neck and hand still wet and shiny. She shrieked as he grabbed her free hand and lifted her to her feet. Orvin assumed the pain originated from her cheek, but she bent over, clutching her swollen stomach.
No. Orvin didn’t want to believe it. They were in the loft of a blazing stable, having just killed a Saxon, and Marigween, slashed and covered with blood, was going into labor. No, it was not labor, only those nor mal pains women sometimes get during their final stages of pregnancy.
“Orvin! It hurts! I think it’s the baby!” Maybe these were not the normal pains.
In all his years, Orvin had never been more chal lenged. If only the challenge had come when he was younger… . He would face any fighting man in exchange for a way out of the moment. And yet there wasn’t time for self-pity. He had to get her down that ladder. And it seemed impossible.
Orvin’s eyes burned as he went to the edge of the loft and checked the ladder; it was still in place, but the bot tom two rungs had caught fire. There was no reason to ask Marigween if she could make it. She had to. Or die.
He went back to her side and led her to the edge. She remained hunched over, able to withstand the pain that way. Orvin pivoted and, facing her, lowered himself three rungs down. Coughing and spitting, he turned her around and guided her left foot onto the first rung, then her right foot. They continued the painfully slow process until, four rungs from the bot tom, Orvin leapt off. He hit the stable floor, steadied himself, then tore his linen shirt savagely from his back. He beat out the flames on the bottom of the ladder. But the wood had become blackened and weak. Suddenly, it collaps
ed.
With a hard jerk the ladder slipped straight down, the third rung hitting the stable floor almost instanta neously. Marigween lost her grip on impact and slid over the last five rungs. As her feet hit the dirt and hay she fell backward, but Orvin was there to break her fall. Unfortunately, no one was there to break his. The old man landed on his rump, his body pillowing Marigween’ s.
Cut, bruised, filthy, and gagging, Orvin dug him self out from under Marigween, stood, then gently lifted her. They shambled outside and were barely beyond the stable before both let themselves fall to the ground, the cleaner, fresher air a shock to their lungs. Orvin’s eyes were too sore to look around. He didn’t care if the other Saxons were waiting for them. Death would only ease the tremendous pain. He lis tened to Marigween’s bawling. Her baby would come now.
3
A lone Saxon messenger rode from the north toward the Vaward Battle of Arthur’s army.’ He was met by the multiple, wide-eyed stares of Lancelot’s archers, cavalry, and infantry as he arrowed his way toward the Rearward Battle, and the king.
Christopher was as amazed as everyone else. The messengers presence was highly irregular. Saxons never sent messengers. What was the point when no Celt could understand them? No Celt, except Christopher.
With the blue-and-white banner of the Virgin Mary whipping proudly in the wind to his right, Arthur sat erect on his courser, his eyes neither angry nor benign. He studied the messenger, and then looked askance at Christopher. “If you’re ever a king, you too should have a druid.”
Indeed, Christopher would have to converse with the man, fulfilling Merlin’s prophecy. But by sending a messenger, the Saxons had already communicated something: they knew Christopher was among Arthur’s ranks. Doyle’s theory held. Some of Garrett’s army still existed.
The messenger was clad in an assortment of confis cated Celt garb. The leather gambeson covering his arms and chest was of a design worn mainly by Celt hostlers, allowing them more arm movement. Likewise, his breeches were obviously of Celt fash ion, dyed bright blue and extending too far: well past the Saxon’s calves. The messenger’s mount was a common brown rounsey, but the horse’s bit, bridle, and saddle were unmistakably crafted by the hands of Celts. Christopher admired the workmanship of the saddle, for it had been a long time since he had seen one whose construction rivaled his own work. These Saxons plundered only the best, it appeared.
