by Peter Telep
But what was he now? Was he the leader of the Saxon army? No, that post was held by a man named Kenric. Seaver must, however, now hold some position of power.
“Kimball. It is you, isn’t it?” Excitedly, Seaver leaned forward in his bed, grimaced, then set himself back down on the pillows propped behind him. His eyes regarded Christopher with surprise, and perhaps a trace of pleasure.
Kimball. That was the name Garrett had given him. Christopher had refused to talk to the man when he had first been captured, and so Garrett had taken it upon himself to call him something. Eventually, Christopher had revealed his true name, but Seaver had obviously never learned it.
“It is me,” Christopher answered in Saxon. “Christopher, you know him?” Neil asked, trying to tug his way out of the grip of the guards holding him. “Yes, he does,” Seaver answered in Celt. “We served together.”
Neil gritted his teeth. “I’d heard the stories about you serving with the Saxons, Christopher, but I didn’t want to believe they were true. Now I see they are. Are you a traitor? Did we come here for some other reason than to save Doyle?”
“Your friend’s no traitor,” Seaver answered for Christopher. “I can assure you, he will be humbled and enslaved just as you will be.” Seaver directed his gaze to Christopher. “I see you go by another name now. No matter. Whether you are Kimball or Christopher, you will have to be punished. It is with regret that I do this, but my duty is far more important than an old friendship. I’m not a simple scout any more, Kimball. I cannot ignore my responsibilities.”
Christopher’s face grew hard, and his expression darkened.
“Have you nothing to say?” Seaver asked him after a moment. “Have you no plea to make?”
“Only one. I wish to see my friend Doyle before you maim us.”
“He wouldn’t be an archer, would he?” Christopher nodded.
“You can see him. But he’s not an archer any more.”
Christopher had suspected what they would do to Doyle; he’d seen it happen when he had been a mem ber of Garrett’s army. But there had been the hope that somehow Doyle would escape disfigurement. This confirmation made his shoulders slump. They had taken away Doyle’s best talent, as they would Neil’s and his. What would they do to strip him of his squiring ability? Hack off an arm, a leg, blind him, ram pokers in his ears? Perhaps all of those things.
When he had first seen Seaver sitting in the bed, he had guessed his situation was not as bad as it looked. He had thought that he could exploit his past friend ship with the man. They had, after all, served together, had risked their lives together. He knew now that Seaver did not climb the Saxon ladder of leadership by dishing out succor and mercy to friends; he did it without feeling, with a bloodlust that consumed his heart. He could try to stir some emotion out of the man, but Seaver’s face already told him that would be futile.
Christopher had been rash. He had made a mis take, and was now shackled to all of his errors.
“Take them to see the archer,” Seaver barked to his men. “Then back to the dungeon. I’ll meet you there.”
Seaver dismissed the group with a wave of his arm. Christopher turned around with his escorts. They followed Neil and his two guards out of the chamber.
An extraordinary collection of pictures and feelings came alive in his mind as he walked. He wasn’t worried about his own fate anymore. His mind swept back to Merlin’s cave, to Marigween, to his son. They needed him. They could not afford to lose him. He had never felt like this before-but it seemed natural, instinctive, an epiphany of what truly lay within his heart. It was easy to let them into his mind; he no longer fought away the images. In this dire moment he needed something to live for, and there was no better motivation than love.
Why hadn’t he realized this sooner? Why had he been so selfish, so confused? It was not right for him to take wild risks when he had a family. It was the battle between old life and new, and this time old had won. But it could cost him dearly. If he died, how would his family remember him? As a traitor, a coward who ran from his duty, a fool who threw his life away. And what about his son? The boy would grow up without a father. He tried to imagine what life would have been like without his own father, without Sanborn’s instruction and guidance. Though his father had been firm, Christopher knew the man had loved him. Could he deny his own son that security, that basic need?
It was ironic, but he thanked God for being captured; it made him realize how important his family was to him. If he could mend his errors, trace his way back to the. beginning of that new life he had once despised, he would be content with himself. He would be a man.
He had to survive. For them. He couldn’t guess what would happen next. There wasn’t even a sky to ask that venerable question: what will be?
PART FOUR
DUTY BOUND
1
The door was pushed in on the narrow, shadow-filled sleeping chamber, and at the back of the room Christopher saw Doyle. The archer sat on the edge of one of three scanty trestle beds, his bare feet resting squarely on the stone floor. On his lap was a large bronze breastplate which he had been in the middle of polishing, but the sound of the door had made him stop. Christopher pushed past Neil and ran toward Doyle, calling his friend’s name. It seemed a lifetime had passed since he had seen Doyle, and despite the circumstances, Christopher felt heady with the joy of being reunited. Christopher’s own guards grunted and ordered him back, but he ignored them, then tossed off a derogatory remark in Saxon, something about the promiscuity of the guards’ mothers.
As Christopher neared his friend, he saw the linen bandage balled around Doyle’s right hand. He saw how the hand looked smaller than it ought to be. And as once before, Christopher felt a burst of sympa thetic pain rush through his own shackled hand and streak with the intensity of lightning up his arm. Doyle lowered his head and moved his butchered hand underneath the breastplate. The archer could hide the wound for now, but Christopher knew a day would come when his friend would have to confront what had happened. And if they survived, that day would not be far off.
Christopher had focused on the worst of Doyle’s injuries. Now he took into account the terrible beat ing they had inflicted on his friend. It was difficult to find a place on Doyle’s face, neck, and arms that wasn’t red, or a deeper, darker, much more painful blue. Even with Doyle’s head tipped forward, Christopher could see enough of the bruises. The joy of being with Doyle again was now marred. He felt awkward. How could he console Doyle? He had never seen anyone at a point so low in their lives. Not only was Doyle’s body broken, but his spirit was as well. Doyle’s polishing of the breastplate proved that. They made him do menial tasks in order to break him, like a wild horse. It was frightening to see Doyle so lonely, so beaten.
Before Christopher could open his mouth, Neil and the others surrounded Doyle, and Neil blurted out, “Oh my God.”
Neil’s tone made him feel even worse. Christopher did not want to address Doyle’s injuries, but skirt conveniently and mercifully around them. That was what he had been taught to do when visiting someone ill. You never spoke of how terrible they looked or how horrible it was for them to be sick. You only told them they would get better and gave them hope for the future. His mother had instilled that behavior in him.
Christopher shot Neil his darkest, rain cloud look, then eyed the guards, addressing them in their tongue. “Can you stand aside so we may have a few moments alone with our friend?” His tone was harsh, the anger born of Neil’s remark and of the smirks on the guards’ faces. The Saxons did not move. Christopher blew out a breath in disgust. “Is it too much to ask?”
One of the guards pursed his lips and gestured with his head for the others to move off, toward the back of the chamber.
Christopher crouched in front of Doyle, able now to look into his friend’s bloodshot eyes.
Neil moved next to Christopher, then whispered in Christopher’s ear, “I’m sorry.”
�
��It’s all right. I know how I look,” Doyle suddenly said, his voice strangely unchanged from how Christopher remembered it. Somehow, he expected Doyle’s voice to be bruised or disfigured like the archer’s body, but the words flowed smoothly, the expected sadness or embarrassment absent. They res onated with fact, nothing more.
“I … I don’t know what to say,” Christopher said, swallowing deeply. “I cannot ask if you’re all right because obviously you’re not.”
Doyle’s jaw muscles flexed and the fingers of his left hand curled into his palm, forming a fist. “I came here to die. But God wouldn’t grant me that wish so easily. I must be punished for my crimes. I know that now. What they’ve done to me … I deserve every bit of it.”
“What are you talking about?” Neil asked. Christopher stole a look at the barbarian and saw how perplexed the archer appeared.
“We don’t have to-” Christopher began.
“I killed Innis,” Doyle said, overriding Christopher with his louder voice. “Leslie saw me do it. He was going to tum me in, and so I killed him, too.”
“Dear Lord … ” was all the barbarian could say. “The Lord has not been so dear to me,” Doyle added, “but it’s just as well.” He slid his bandaged hand out from beneath the breastplate. “I will never draw a bow again. Think about that, Neil.”
Blood did not run through Doyle’s veins; ice did.
Christopher knew that somewhere within his friend there was a tiny part that wanted to reach out and hug him, a tiny piece of Doyle that wanted very much to cry. But Doyle would not allow himself the luxury of tears. His stoicism was part of the punishment, a punishment that God had not inflicted upon him, but one he had inflicted on himself out of guilt. Doyle tortured himself before their eyes, and Christopher knew it would continue unless he did or said some thing to stop his friend.
“I don’t know how long they’re going to give us,” Christopher said, referring with a tip of his head to the guards standing near a floor sconce adjacent to the door, “so I’m going to say this all at once and say it quickly. We’ve come here to get you out. It seems impossible now, but we’re not ready to give up. If we make it out, Doyle, I want you to do something for me, something that will help you more than you know. Confess your sins to the king. Throw yourself on his mercy. Let the truth be known, and as we have both heard many a monk say before, ‘the truth will set you free.’ Don’t ask me to keep your secret any more. Please. King Arthur is a fair man.”
Doyle took a long, decisive moment before answer ing. Then he raised his head, wiped his right eye with the back of his bandaged hand, and said, “It will be God’s will if we get out of here alive. And if we do, the very first person I will speak to is the king.”
A voice was capable of conveying many things, and often times Christopher could not figure out the exact truth from the inflections of the speaker. But there was no mistaking the regret in Doyle’s tone, and the softening of his voice.
“Thank St. Michael and St. George,” Christopher said. “We’ve both been running away from our duties, Doyle. You from telling King Arthur the truth, I from the responsibility of my son.”
Doyle’s head jerked back. “Your what?”
“Yes,” Neil chipped in, “now what are you talking about?”
Christopher felt his body stiffen, partly from being on his haunches with his hands bound, partly from the looks of his friends. He stood, and felt their gazes . track him. He closed his eyes. “Marigween was pregnant when we left for the Mendips. While I was away, she had our son.”
Neil nudged Christopher with his shoulder. Christopher opened his eyes and turned his head to look at the barbarian as he spoke: “She is betrothed to Lord Woodward! And what about you? I thought you were courting that maid from Gore?”
“Don’t ask me to explain how it all happened. It simply did. And you must never repeat a word of this until I say you can. Will you do that, Neil?”
“We may all die, so you won’t have to worry about that. If we live, I’ll keep your secret-for a price to be negotiated later.”
Christopher frowned at the barbarian’s opportunis tic acceptance. He was about to ask Doyle if he had seen any possible way for them to escape when one of the guards announced that their visit was over. Christopher looked at Doyle and mouthed the words, “Be ready,” then turned to face the guards with Neil. He whispered to the barbarian, “We’ll break as we exit through the door, push them outside and slam it shut behind them. Understood?”
“Sounds easy,” Neil whispered back sarcastically. “What do we do after that? And how do we remove these shackles?”
“Think hard,” Christopher replied.
Christopher didn’t have to look at the barbarian to know that he shook his head with skepticism. The guards surrounded them and they all started for the door. Neil deliberately stalled and let the first two guards slip through. Christopher took the cue and shot back behind his guard, buried his shoulder in the small of the guard’s back and then drove the Saxon through the passage. Neil did likewise, but his Saxon rolled off his shoulder and spun around.
That was all the time the other guards needed to turn and dash back into the room. One particularly scarred and hairy man grabbed Christopher by his shirt collar and threw him past the door. Christopher slammed against the opposite wall of the hallway out side the chamber and felt the wind escape from his lungs. Neil was booted on the rump, the force of the blow sending him through the doorway and crashing into the wall next to Christopher.
“A most excellent plan, squire of the body,” Neil said, huffing and grimacing.
Christopher silently cursed to himself as the hairy guard who had thrown him put an index finger under Christopher’s chin and forced his head up. “Try that again, and your punishment will come much sooner. Enjoy your healthy, perfect body now-while you still can. In a little while, you’re going to look even worse than your friend in there.
2
OrvinleftMerlin’scaveinpursuit of Christopher. He arrived at Arthur’s camp along the Cam only to discover that Christopher was nowhere to be found. The last person to see the squire a sergeant who had said Christopher had gone off for a little weapons practice. That had been was the previous night, and here it was, late afternoon on the fol lowing day, and still Christopher had not returned.
No, the squire had not gone off for weapons practice, and as Orvin sat on a weathered stump in the wood opposite the east wall of the castle of Shores, he knew exactly where Christopher was. The young saint was inside the fortress trying to save his friend. Blast the impetuousness of youth! Couldn’t the boy understand what a foolhardy mission he had assigned to himself?
The boy did not understand, Orvin reasoned. And if he were Christopher’s age, he knew he would have done the same.
But Christopher was now in the middle of much more than an enemy-occupied castle. He was in the middle of a siege. Arthur had moved the camp away from the Cam and now began the first stages of his attack to win back the castle. Orvin watched the grim spectacle unfold before his eyes:
Lance after lance of Arthur’s men completely surrounded the castle to prevent the entry of any stores, in the hope of starving the Saxon garrison into surrender. The next step would have been the discharge of an assortment of missiles from the siege machines, but those Orvin had overheard had still not arrived from Gore. Instead, Arthur’s archers hid behind their movable wooden mantlets and showered the battle ments of the castle with arrows. No Saxon sentry would dare step out from behind a protective wall or loophole. Occasionally, a Saxon archer would venture an open shot, but twice Orvin had watched those men succumb to Celt arrows. Hollow cries abounded, mixed with the neighing of cart-pulling horses and the grinding of wheels as salvaged sup plies from the remains of Shores were brought in to aid the fighting men. Under the cover of the archers, gangs of men Orvin assumed were hired from neigh boring villages moved up to fill in a portion of the moat in order to make use of a makeshift
belfry. The wooden tower on wheels would be rolled up to the castle walls so that the archers within it could rake the battlements, then lower a wooden bridge to allow a team of Celts access to the wall-walks, commencing the invasion. The filling in of the moat was a long process that Orvin guessed might take several days. Orvin also noted the presence of a peasant levy of diggers; these fourscore of men, when called upon, would undermine a section of a curtain wall and cause it to collapse. Orvin knew what section they would choose, a hollow portion that contained a tun nel that led to the dungeon-the route Christopher most certainly had used to enter the castle.
From his vantage point, Orvin could watch in reasonable safety. He did not wish to be with Lord Woodward or any of the other battle lords who had invited him to their tents scattered just beyond the range of the best Saxon archer and the strongest mangonel. The knights promised lavish meals, but Orvin ignored the tempting bait since he hated their company. He would rather remain alone with his small pouch of dried pork and his pair of apples.
Correction. He would rather remain alone, but with a lot more food than he had.
Woodward’s constant badgering about how he should have moved into the castle had always been too much to take. And the present situation had given Orvin the perfect opportunity to chide the battle lord. “You see,” he had told Woodward, “if I had moved into your castle, I might not be alive now!”
