by Peter Telep
Arthur lay on the bed, his head propped up by a pair of goosefeather pillows. He wore a knee-length nightshirt, and beneath, a layer of long underwear that extended below the hem of the shirt. Excalibur lay sheathed and at the ready, resting upright at the foot of the bed. The king had his fingers knitted over a belly that, unlike Neil’s dragon, was surely full. His eyes wore the fog of one too many pulls on the flagon. This is perfect. He’s been fed and aled. He’s comfortable and susceptible, open to plans of rescue.
“Christopher. I’d get up, but I’m afraid I’ve allowed myself too much boar and too much ale.”
An understatement.
“Not necessary, lord. We fought long and hard. You deserve an eve like this, and the hills were no place to rest.” Christopher stepped farther into the tent, turned, and with a nod from the king, sat down on top of one of Arthur’s chests. He looked to his right and spotted a small metal bowl from which burned a brown lump of something-the thing that produced the wonderful scent.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Arthur asked. “It’s called frank incense. A group of traders came from across the sea and sold some of it to Sir Lancelot, who in tum gave some to me. It’s much sweeter than the incense used by our abbots. Perhaps they should change their sup pliers.”
Here we are, talking about incense. I must get this conversation back on the right path. I might as well be blunt.
“Lord. The Saxons have Doyle.”
“Spare me your report. Woodward has told me everything. Though I should punish you for rushing off before Doyle’s lieutenant could pursue him, I will not. Your friend is a young man of fire. He is quick with the bow and his tongue. I know you’re trying to help him … but what he’s done I cannot under stand.”
Christopher sank a little. “I believe he threw his life to them.”
Arthur tightened his brow. “But surely he had everything to live for. Or perhaps he didn’t. You’re his friend, Christopher, you would know.” Arthur fingered the long tuft of hair under his lower lip. His forehead was furrowed, and his eyes were distant, pensive.
How much would Christopher tell Arthur? Would he report the unabridged truth? Tell the king Doyle’s history, how he had been kidnapped as a small child by a jewelry merchant and raised by the man until he was fourteen? Would he tell Arthur about how Doyle had been reunited with his parents, but didn’t feel like they were his own? Explain how Doyle’s father wanted him to be a steward, and Doyle only wanted to be a bowman? Would he inform Arthur about Doyle’s heavy drinking, about how Doyle had mur dered Innis and then murdered Leslie? Could he piece together a small part of the puzzle and reveal it to the king? Or once he started, would the king be able to fit it all together and discover that Christopher was lying?
He sat next to the king and wanted desperately to confess it all, but he knew that if he did so Doyle would swing from a thick rope until he was blue and dead. He could tell the king that Doyle had killed Leslie and Innis-but by accident; however, once the web started, Christopher knew he would become entangled in it.
What part of his internal truth would he murder?
Would he betray his oath as a blood brother or his oath as squire of the body?
Doyle, why did you do this to me! I know you didn’t mean it-but look at what has happened!
He must answer questions truthfully, but not volunteer any information. He had to protect his friend. He had to save his friend, not only from the enemy,but from himself. One thing was certain. He must never lie to the king. Never.
“Doyle does have a lot of pain in his life,” he told Arthur.
“So he did want to die,” the king concluded. “I’m not sure.”
“Was it over honor. A woman?”
“If I may ask, Your Majesty, why the curiosity?” Christopher thought his last a smart question, putting Arthur on the defensive, steering him away from the particulars, the details, the truth. It was a bold move, yes, but the king was relaxed and would hopefully not take offense. The more Arthur pried, the more Christopher would be forced to tell him, and then he would eventually betray his oath as a blood brother to Doyle.
“Any bowman that inspires my squire to risk his life is a concern of mine,” Arthur retorted quickly. “And besides, Lancelot has told me that Doyle might have become one of this army’s greatest archers.”
Christopher licked his lips, then swallowed. His next words would not be easy; he had to drag them out of himself. “I must confess, lord, that Doyle’s capture has inspired me to risk my life again. Only this time, I will have help. And I pray to St. George that I will have yours, and your blessing as well.” Christopher shuddered. He had said it, and it felt wonderful to be released. But then the sudden fear of Arthur’s response clutched him.
“You have a plan brewing in your mind?” Christopher lifted himself off the trunk and went to
Arthur’s bedside. He knelt and placed his elbows upon the bed. Arthur regarded him with a questioning stare. Christopher closed his eyes and spoke. “I’ve spoken to two archers, Phelan and Neil. We believe we can get Doyle out and perhaps save a few others as well. There are passageways in the castle that I’m sure the Saxons have not discovered. I know a way into the castle. But I need your help, lord. Perhaps we can move together, we three, and the rest of our armies.”
Christopher heard the trestle bed creak and opened his eyes. Arthur had brought himself to a sitting position, and now eyed him with fatherly contempt. “Christopher, I’m appalled. You sound as foolish as your friend who threw himself to the Saxons. Laying siege to a castle is a costly, long, drawn-out affair that must be done right, and with the proper tools. On the morrow a team will be in the easternmost forest cut ting down trees to build scaling ladders. Once we get word from Nolan, we’ll find out whether we can use his siege engines or have to haul Uryens’s down from Gore. I’ve sent messengers to Falls, Rain, Glastonbury, and Queen’s Camel, announcing that we’re hiring diggers to undermine the curtain walls. Don’t you see, Christopher? This is the way. This is not a tournament with some rogue knight you can slay. This is a very different battle. And there is no room for youthful heroics. They will only result in your death. And you are far too valuable to lose. I learned something from a young man, from you, up there on the Mendips. I learned humility, a trait most uncommon in my family. And now faced with another challenge, I’m not wallowing in my mistake, but thinking clearly and fighting to correct it. But now the tables have turned, and it is you who have become rash. I know all about your passageways inside the castle. And I’m sure the Saxons do too.” Arthur’s eyes grew wide, as though something else had hi t him. He put a hand on Christopher’s shoulder. “By the way, Woodward told me of the offer he made to you. And you were right. I will not let you serve him. Moons ago I told the people of Shores I had found the best squire in the land, and it was not a lie. But purge your mind of this rescue. Just pray that Doyle listens to the Saxons and keeps himself alive.”
That is not good enough! I will go without your blessing then, King Arthur!
Christopher opened his eyes. He wanted to scream, but battled the desire back into his throat. He would, however, voice his concern and disappointment. “It may seem rash, lord. But I fear the longer we wait, the closer Doyle comes to death. He will not obey them.”
“Christopher,” the king began, his voice soothing, comforting, “for all we know Doyle may already be dead, and then your rescue would be for nothing.”
“We could bring out some of the peasants, the cooks, the hostlers, anyone.”
“We will. The right way. When we’re assured of victory. Now rise and go. I sleep alone this evening. There is a tent for you, and you’d best bed down now. You’ve a long journey to make on the morrow.”
Christopher furrowed his brow. “New orders?” “Sir Orvin has not informed you?”
He shook his head no.
“Well, it is not my place. Tell him I’ve given you permission to ride out of Shores with him and Merlin. He will
tell you where you’re going.” Arthur fell back onto his bed and draped a hand over his eyes, then sighed deeply. “I turn my thoughts now to a young virgin of Cameliard whom I have not seen in many moons, but whose smile is still vivid in my head.”
Christopher stood. “By your leave.”
“Good evening, Christopher.”
“Good evening, lord.” With that, he left the tent.
Don’t worry, Doyle. I’m coming for you . …
10
The doctor was an ancient man, bald, with only a few trace gray hairs hemming the sides of his head. A plague of sun freckles dotted his fore head, and when he raised his brow they rippled as the skin did. He wore his long nightshirt, over which was an open, woolen cloak. Slung over his shoulder was the long strap of a leather bag that bulged with hidden remedies. He stepped into the barn barefoot, moving gingerly over the straw and dirt.
The monk followed the doctor, his face offering reassurance to Brenna. She gently let go of Wynne’s head and eased it onto the earth. She crawled back as the doctor bowed ceremoniously before his patient, then seated himself on the ground.
As the doctor began to unbuckle his bag, he said, “She has not moved since she fell. True?”
Brenna sniffled. “I can hear her breathing, but she has not moved.”
From his bag the doctor drew a sandglass. He pressed his fore and middle fingers onto one of Wynne’s wrists and turned the glass over. He mum bled numbers to himself.
“Can you help her?” Brenna asked. “Shush,” the doctor ordered.
Brenna swallowed, lowered her head, then closed her eyes. She felt a hand on the back of her head and looked up to see the monk hunkering down next to her. “Say a prayer with me,” he whispered in her ear.
Tightly, they held hands, and the monk began a musical chant Brenna had heard many times before, but one she had never taken the time to learn.
The melodious voice of the monk carried her thoughts away from the terrible moment and eased her into peaceful thoughts. Light surrounded and engulfed her, lifted her up and propelled her through the sky. Was it a vision of death? Maybe she had asked too fervently for God to punish her for Wynne’s accident. Was God taking her now? If he was, then she would go. She would not try to fight Him. She would go in place of Wynne-if her friend was to die. But did she really want to give up life? She had come this far and was not even allowed the most infinitesimal of moments with Christopher. All she had to show for her efforts was a friend, lying somewhere between life and death.
The sound of coughing. It was not the doctor!
Brenna snapped her eyelids open. The doctor sprinkled a rust-colored powder under Wynne’s nose. Wynne was awake, her eyes wide, her mouth open, her back arched. The doctor whisked the powder away with his fingers as Wynne relaxed her back. Her breathing was jarred by more coughing, but her eyes remained open. And then she sneezed. Once, twice, a third time.
The doctor regarded the monk with a wan, though to Brenna wonderful, smile. “She was not coming back until you began praying, friar. Thank you.”
“Is she … is she all right?” Brenna asked.
“Let’s get her up and see.” The doctor gestured with his head for the monk to help him. The two lifted Wynne carefully to her feet.
Wynne stood composing herself for a moment, and then, with vigilance, the doctor and the monk released her.
“There,” the doctor said. “Move your limbs.”
Wynne frowned. “I beg forgiveness. I do not understand- “
“Your arms, maid,” the monk said. “Move your arms and your legs. Walk.”
Wynne obeyed, and thank St. Michael she was fine. But then she flinched, staggered, and grabbed her left side. The doctor and monk rushed toward her.
Some hours later, Wynne slept in a trestle bed in the vast rectangular dormitory of the monks. The doctor told Brenna one of the bones that protected Wynne’s heart might be cracked, and it would take some time to heal, but Wynne would fully recover.
While sitting in the cloister court, Brenna sipped on warm tea given to her by the careful brother, the first monk awake in the morning. As the brother rang the bell of prime, and rays of the rising sun drew a jagged pattern of shadows across the yard, she thought about the immediate future. The right thing to do was stay with her friend until Wynne recovered, then abandon the journey to Shores and return home-to face punishment by her parents and the abbot. They could conceal Wynne’s injury, but the fact that they had run off would be enough to keep her in misery for many moons. If they revealed Wynne’s injury, then Brenna would face an even heav ier sentence. It seemed that no matter what, going home, though the right thing to do, meant anguish.
Then how can going home be the right thing to do if it will ruin my life? Did I not gamble everything by rid ing out and trying to better my life? Am I not trying to make myself happy? If I am, then why should I go home?
But what about Wynne? I cannot ask her to go on. Even if I had the time to wait for her to heal, I would not want her coming. I cannot bear the burden. The thought that something else could happen is too much for me. It is not fair to subject her to more though I know she’ll want to come. Her journey has ended here. She’ll face punishment. But she knew that when she came with me. I wish there was some way out of it. But there is not.
The decision was made. Brenna would go on alone, providing Wynne would be cared for and escorted back to Shores by one of the monks. That was a tall order, but she would offer the free services of her father to the monk who brought Wynne back. Her father was the best armorer in Gore and could pro duce for the monk whatever he requested. She rose, drained the last bit of tea from her cup, then moved toward a long hall that would take her to the quarters of the abbot.
11
Christoph..- had never fallen asleep. All night he had wrestled with his rough blanket, fully aware of every clack and bicker of the small, one-man tent. Though his eyes were now closed, the cry of crows, the yawning of men, and the crackle of freshly flinted cookfires all messengered morning.
He had never found Orvin the previous night, and that had been one link in a chain of things that had shackled him awake through the wee hours. He knew he would ride out with Orvin and Merlin. But why and to where, he did not know. Or would he? Maybe he would not agree with whatever it was they wanted of him. He still had to do something about rescuing Doyle. He had been honest with the bird and the barbar ian after his meeting with Arthur. Phelan had insisted he would still go, despite violating the king’s orders. Neil had looked at his friend as if he were a heretic. Neil held fast; he would not do it unless Arthur approved. Christopher began to wonder if the king was right. Maybe the whole idea was impetuous and ill conceived. He needed Neil, but was not willing to lie about Arthur’s approval to get the archer to go along. He would have to find someone else-or change Arthur’s mind; the former was a much smaller mountain to climb. Then again, who would volunteer for the rescue?
In the hours of sleeplessness, he had had time to ponder Marigween’s fate. Bloody visions of her demise at the hands of the Saxons had rocked his body with jerks and shivers. And her face had blended into the tear-soaked face of Brenna, who waited too long for him back at the castle of Gore. He had seen Brenna in a candlelit chamber in bed with another, crying out in passion as the other made love to her. The other had turned his face … and it had been Innis on top of Brenna. Innis, back from the dead to steal Brenna away again. Christopher had curled up and pulled his hands through his hair, try ing to yank the image from his head.
“Hello inside,” a creaky voice called out. “Christopher of Shores, the wind whistles your name.
It beckons you out to greet one who has waited moons to meet you.”
Who is that? And what manner of speech is that?
Christopher sat up, rubbed his eyes free of sleep grit with the heels of his hands, then stood. He pulled his linen shorts up to his belly button, then shivered. Summer roamed the land, but her mornings s
till held the accursed reminders of winter. He found a scruffy though functional nightshirt and slid his head and arms through it. There was a large hole in the front of the shirt that exposed one of his nipples, a strange pink eye peering out of his chest. Self-consciously, he adjusted the shirt to hide the hardening nipple beneath it, then padded outside.
It was cold! The dew on the grass stung the soles of his feet. He was so intent on fighting off the ice of morning that he barely noticed who stood before the tent. Hopping up and down, he took a look at the man.
Never had he seen a beard and hair as long and as white. Nothing man could produce would equal the color. Merlin was framed in strands of what resembled tearings of clouds. His face bore the deep canyons of age, but Christopher did not focus on them. His gaze was commanded to the old man’s eyes, which were of a color that Christopher could not describe. They seemed to contain every color and no color. When he first looked at them they appeared a bit green, blue, brown, and yellow. He blinked, and for a second they looked white, then spilled into blackness, then back to the rainbow of hues. Was it some trick of the druid’s?
“Don’t stare at me, boy,” Merlin croaked. “Say it is an honor and a privilege to meet the great Merlin!” The old man laughed, his version of the act more aptly described as a cackle.
“I have seen you from afar. But now, indeed, it is a privilege and an honor.” Christopher extended his hand.
Merlin slapped the hand down. “Hate that custom. No need for it. A look. A word. They are enough to know we are already friends.”
Insulted and puzzled, Christopher withdrew his hand and shielded his chest with his arms as a gust bid him a frosty tiding. “Arthur told me I was riding out with you and Sir Orvin this morning. He wouldn’t say why. Why?”
