by Peter Telep
At the top of the rampart, Christopher heard a sound from the forest behind him. A rustling that could only have been caused by something large, possibly a man.
Christopher sprinted off, keeping the trees to his right, the castle to his far-off left. The nervous run brought him to the north side of the fortress in far less time than he expected.
He knew, he just knew the wood behind him crawled with guards. One was posted at least every fifty yards. The trick was to keep their backs turned away from him, as they presently were. They guarded against men coming toward the castle, but Christopher had already slipped behind them. Silence was the order of the moment. He sat down, leaned against an ivy-covered trunk, and shed his weapons. He slipped on his hauberk, lacing the shirt of mail up the center. There was a specific reason why he needed the hauberk, other than the semiprotection it provided him in hand-to-hand combat. The hauberk was heavy. And for once he was thankful for its weight. It suited his forthcoming need perfectly.
He took up the crossbow and cranked the handles, windlassing the string into place. He inserted a bolt, but not before running his fingertip over the steel edge of the projectile. His heart began to feel heavy as the thoughts of killing struck. It was his internal contradiction. He wanted to be a fighter but he hated killing. More so now because he knew one day a Saxon leader would come and speak of peace. This war would not last forever. For the moment, he had to justify his actions. He had to tell himself there was no other way to get inside the castle and rescue Doyle. Men would have to die.
He knew what he had to do. He wished he felt better about it.
Christopher readied his gear for a swift departure. With one knee on the earth, he lifted the crossbow and dug the butt of the weapon into his shoulder. There was one guard stationed in each of the four towers along the wall. The object was to silently take out each of the four men. Ironically, if Doyle had been next to him with his longbow, the task would have been easy.
Christopher deduced that these Saxon had never seized a castle before. If they had, they would have known to extinguish all of their tower torches. You don’t want your guards illuminated to those who might be shooting at them. The guards should have been trained to recognize each other in the dark, always to call before firing. They might as well have been stand ing in daylight, their halberds firing dazzles of reflected torchlight that drew Christopher’s gaze to the target.
He fixed his sight on the exposed neck of the young Saxon standing idle atop the leftmost tower. A hit to the chest might prove effective, but he’d be gambling on the thickness of the man’s link-mail. A reasonably thick coat might just stop his bolt. The arrow of a longbow would be far more effective no matter what kind of mail the man wore, but Christopher was not going to drag a cumbersome longbow around, and then attempt to fire it. Lifting and aiming a crossbow was one thing, pulling back ninety pounds of . draw while keeping a longbow steady was another. He would be lucky if he could hit the tower itself with a longbow, let alone the guard.
As he steadied his crossbow, he knew he had to count on more than just hitting the man. He had to pray the man fell back quietly, or fairly so. If the guard fell forward, tumbled in the air, and hit the berm-or worse, the moat-then the noise he created would undoubtedly alarm the others.
Yes, now was when the fun would begin.
He had the Saxon dead, his sights locked onto the soft flesh covering the watchman’s Adam’s apple. He was not sure how the bow would react when fired; he hadn’t taken time to practice with it. He eased down on the trigger, and before he figured the bolt would fly, it did.
He lowered the crossbow a bit as he gazed wide eyed at the shot. The bolt hit the man exactly where Christopher had intended. He could not have asked for a better shot.
The guard’s hands went to the bolt as he swayed forward then backward, each movement causing Christopher to stiffen a notch farther.
Finally, the guard fell. Forward.
He swore aloud as the man’s body turned over slowly in the air until it plunged back first into the moat. A terrifically loud splash followed.
Christopher loaded another bolt as the guard in the rightmost tower pointed a metal-covered finger and screamed.
He fired a wild shot at the wailing guard; the bolt fell pathetically short.
But the guard was suddenly hit in the shoulder by an arrow, an arrow that seemed to come from nowhere. The Saxon fell over the side of the wall to join his comrade in the moat.
Before he could load another bolt, Christopher heard another guard’s cry. This man fell back with an arrow stuck squarely in his chest. Christopher rose, took a pair of quick steps out of the forest toward the castle, turned, then threw a glance down the field.
Barely visible at the edge of the forest, he saw the silhouette of a man drawing back a longbow.
I don’t know who you are-but thanks!
He cocked his head, abruptly aimed, then fired at the remaining Saxon. The bolt found the man’s bicep and rooted itself there, while simultaneously, an arrow from the longbowman struck the guard under his left ear and finished him off.
“Christopher! Come on! Let’s go!”
It was the longbowman shouting to him, waving an arm. He recognized the voice, and was shocked.
He jogged down field to join Neil, knowing they had only a moment to move before the horn of attack sounded and as many as twoscore men appeared on the wall-walk. He could already see the shifting shad ows of archers through the loopholes.
Neil tore off his quiver and threw down his long bow. He drew the dagger sheathed at his belt. “Forget your bow. Come on,” he urged, then turned away even before Christopher reached him.
Christopher abandoned the crossbow and quiver of bolts. His own dagger and broadsword would be enough once they were inside the fortress. As he ran, hard on Neil’s heels, he shouted ahead, “Thank you, Neil! Thank you!”
‘‘I’m not doing this for you,” Neil called back. “I’m doing it for Phelan. And Doyle. And because I must be a little mad! Like you!”
What they were doing was mad, but Christopher was very sure about it, sure about his madness. A man had to toss away his logic to do something like this, otherwise the fear would overwhelm him. You didn’t take on an occupying army of Saxons without surren dering to the absurdity of the act. You simply let the waters of fate carry you up the correct stream, and you prayed that stream would lead you to victory.
Neil did not test the waters of the moat before leaping in. He simply increased his sprint as he reached the correct spot opposite the northmost tower and launched himself into the air.
Christopher felt the cool mud of the shoreline on his toes as he watched Neil dive under the water. He inhaled as deeply as he could, cursing the decaying stench of the stagnant pool. He gripped the hilt of his broadsword to steady the weapon on impact. He extended his free hand to guide him and pushed off with his legs.
The icy rush of water never came. The moat was warm, the waters having been heated by a succession of clear days, with only a single, brief storm in between. He had forgotten about the strange texture of the water; it was uncharacteristically thick and made diving a bit more difficult than it would have been had they been in the Cam. Christopher knew his hauberk would help drop him deep enough, but he’d aid his descent with his arms and legs. He paddled down, eyes tightly shut. He knew Neil was ahead of him, and hoped the barbarian knew the way as clearly as he did. Christopher had to enter the castle literally with his eyes closed. He knew he could do it. But he wasn’t sure about Neil.
He felt ahead, nothing but more water in front of him. Then his hand smashed against the slick, miry surface of a stone wall. He felt his way down the wall until his hand reached a sudden edge. He reached around the edge and knew this was it: the tunnel. Kicking hard with his feet and releasing a little air through his nose, he forced himself into the circular hole. The tunnel was constructed wide enough to fit a man, but just barely so. Christopher hit his head sever
al times on the stone ceiling as he fought his way forward. He could only hold his breath for a few more seconds. A pain shot down from his throat and into his stomach. He had to hurry. He thought the tunnel was far shorter than it actually was. When was it going to end? He moved faster, began to panic, wanted to scream and suck in a deep, healthy breath.
Hands were on him. They seized his shirt and pulled him up. He felt the waters of the moat begin to pool off of him. He flickered his eyelids open and drew in a breath.
He was at the end of the tunnel where its ceiling opened up into the first passageway within the north side curtain wall. Neil was hunched over him, soaked . but smiling.
“You looked like you were in trouble. You should’ve opened your eyes. You would’ve seen the light,” the barbarian said.
There was light at the end of the tunnel, and it came from above, from a few of the loopholes. The sills of the holes had dropped out, and the light from the chambers fell within the wall. If any man ventured a gaze down, they might be spotted. But as it was, the archers were too busy racing around to find out who had killed the men in the towers.
Neil pulled Christopher from the watery floor of the tunnel to the dry surface of the passageway. Normally filled with flint and rubble, this part of the wall was hollow, but the exterior ashlar walls were still strong enough to deflect a mangonel stone.
“Ready? Or would you like another moment to catch your breath?” Neil asked.
Christopher found himself grinning. “Are you in a rush? You can’t wait to get in there and face the Saxons, can you? … “
Neil tugged on his wet beard. “I just want to get all of this over with and go home.”
“You are home, Neil.”
Neil whirled around. “Let’s go.”
As Christopher followed Neil, he checked for his dagger and felt the empty sheath. He must have lost it during the swim. He still had his broadsword. That had better be enough.
At the end of the passageway, Neil leaned over and felt along the wall, tracing the edges of a square, base stone. Even in the half-light, Christopher could see that the stone was not as dusty and rough as the oth ers. Neil had found their exit.
“Lend me a hand,” he said, falling to his rump and digging his fingers into the comer of the stone.
Christopher knelt and put his fingertips to work,forcing them into the crack and pulling inward as hard as he could. The stone budged. An inch, and then two, and then their leverage increased. In one yank, the stone came free from the rest of the wall. Thankfully, the wall was only a palm’s length thick there, otherwise the stone would have weighed much more than it did-and there would have been no way in the realm to drag it across the floor.
Torchlight, tinkling with the dust of their efforts, entered the passage from the hole. The wall sconce was above, Christopher knew, and, unfortunately, would illuminate their entrance.
Neil stuck his head into the hole and peered around. He leaned back into the passageway. “It’s clear. But once we’re in there, I was hoping you knew a way out. Didn’t you say that old jailer was your friend?”
Christopher nodded. “Go ahead.”
Neil pulled himself through the hole and disap peared. Christopher unbuckled his sword belt and wrapped it around the sheath of his broadsword. He passed the weapon through first, then followed it.
As he rose from his belly to a kneeling position, Christopher laughed ironically to himself. He stood in a dungeon cell, last one on the left. The iron bars were shut. He and Neil had, in a sense, already been captured.
Christopher refastened his sword belt around his waist as Neil moved to the wall and reached into the hole. Getting the stone back in place would be easier than dragging it out. Set into its inner face was an iron loop to hold a manacle chain. Neil simply grabbed the loop and pulled the stone back into place within the wall. He stood, then wiped the rust from his hands onto his damp breeches.
Christopher checked the iron door. Locked, as expected. A simple rule he knew: never fumble for a way to get through a door unless you are certain that it’s locked. Men have spent hours agonizing over ways to pick locks which were open all the time.
But even though the door was locked, Christopher would have it open in a minute. Old Regan the jailer had shown him a lot more than just the tunnel entrance. Regan never used the cell, for fear a crimi nal might discover the tunnel. And once he had acci dentally locked himself in and had spent a miserable day and a half before he had been discovered. Never again would old Regan let that happen. The key to the door sat atop the highest crossbar. Christopher reached up and felt magic in his hand.
“You have a key?” Neil whispered, amazed.
“Of course,” Christopher answered softly, with mock haughtiness. “What did you expect? Another secret tunnel?”
Neil rolled his eyes. “I’m glad you’re taking this all so lightly.”
“I’m not. I just don’t want to think about being scared,” Christopher said in earnest. “Would you like to say a prayer before we go?”
Neil shook his head. “I already have.” “Me too,” Christopher confessed.
He unlocked the door, returned the key to its spot on the crossbar, then moved past the door. Neil fell in behind him. The barbarian eased the iron barrier shut, wincing as a final creak tore a hole in the silence of the hall.
Christopher figured there would only be one jailer on duty, and perhaps another at the upstairs entrance.
“First we check the cells,” he whispered to Neil.
Neil acknowledged, removed his sandals, drew his dagger, then padded off soundlessly, checking cell after cell. Christopher began his own quiet inspection, drifting up the hallway.
If Doyle was in one of the cells, the whole rescue would be magnificently simple. Knock out the jailer, get his keys, remove Doyle from his cell, then take him out through the tunnel. They would encounter only minimal Saxon resistance. But Doyle was not in the cell block. Somehow, Christopher already knew that, but he wanted Neil to check the block anyway to be sure. When Doyle was close, he would know. Like drawing the right weapon for a knight, the sense would be there. He only felt damp and sticky, and sud denly hungry. He had forgotten to eat and bathe. Well, the moat had taken care of the bath, save for the fact that the water was foul. Somehow, somewhere along the line, he would have to satisfy his deprived belly.
Once Neil had finished his tour of the block, he joined Christopher. “They’re all empty,” he said incredulously. “I thought there would at least be a few prisoners here. I thought Doyle would be here. Maybe I was right. Maybe he is dead.”
“No, he’s not.” Christopher thought a moment, something new occurring to him. “Did you see the jailer in: the outer hall?”
“No.”
Something tingled at the base of Christopher’s spine; it grew into the kind of chill he only got when something was terribly wrong. “He has to be here. They wouldn’t leave the dungeon unattended, even without prisoners.”
“Maybe they would,” Neil guessed. “They’re Saxons.”
“No,” Christopher said. “Something’s wrong. Back in the wall we go!”
The chill increased within Christopher as he sprang back toward the cell. The sense that they had just walked into a trap was so strong that it made his vision go blurry in the effort to escape. His legs moved, his heart pounded, his lungs filled with air and blew it out, but all he could feel was the ice of the moment, and all he could think about was that he had made a grave error. He was first back to the cell, first to see the two Saxon sentries smiling sardonically at him, their spears at the ready.
He shot a glance to the stone at the base of the floor; it had been moved. The Saxons weren’t wet, yet they had come from the inside of the curtain wall.
There must be another passageway, one Christopher didn’t even know about!
He tore his gaze away from the Saxons and brought it to bear on Neil. “Other way!”
Neil stopped short and turned
around.
Christopher looked up the hall over Neil’s shoulder.
A stream of guards poured down the stairs and began to flood into the cellblock.
Someone must have seen them dive into the moat.
Arthur was right; the Saxons knew all about the tunnels, and knew them better than they did.
Neil craned his head, his eyes glossing with fear. “I should’ve … forget it.” His dagger fell out of his hand to the floor. The guards surrounded him, clutched his wrists, then brought them together behind his back.
Christopher resigned himself to the other Saxons as they ripped off his sword belt, then seized his wrists. He felt the rough steel of shackles bind him.
Someone shoved him from behind, and he said in Saxon, “I’ll come. You don’t have to push me!”
He knew the guards were surprised to hear him speak Saxon, but didn’t bother to tum around and confirm it.
They were each escorted by a pair of guards down a chamber hall high in the keep. Christopher wasn’t sure what floor they were on. He had been battling verbally with the Saxon who had first shoved him. The man had continued to do so, and Christopher had resorted to attacking his family, his friends, everything he stood for. So intent was he on stopping this man that he’d become oblivious of where he was going. That, in a small way, was good. If he was to be tortured, he didn’t want to worry about it on the way there.
Before they turned and entered through an open chamber door on the left, Christopher noted how coarse and hostile the hall had become-all the tapestries were gone. It was a little thing, but it made him feel all the more cold inside.
A man sat up in a poster bed, two Saxon guards at his elbows. The man was shirtless, a linen bandage wrapped tightly around his chest. Christopher flipped a perfunctory glance at the man, expecting to find just another angry Saxon leader who would taunt then torture him. One look and his spirit rose out of the gloom. The Saxon’s hair was cropped much shorter, and his complexion was fairer, but it was Seaver, the little man with whom Christopher had served in Garrett’s Saxon army. Seaver had taught him the ways of a scout. Once he had thought of murdering Seaver to get away, but he had become too friendly with the man, and when others had ridiculed him, Christopher had come to his defense more than once. Seaver might be short, but he was very tall when standing on his scouting abilities.
