by Peter Telep
Christopher rose, blowing out a breath of disgust through his nose. “That’s nothing but a stone. There’s no passage behind it, only rubble.”
“Why don’t you help me instead of giving up? What’s wrong with you now?” Neil shook his head, his beefy face tightened in a frown. “Remember, it’s your fault I’m in here and you’d better help me get out! You’re responsible for me!”
“No, I’m not!” Christopher fired back, his despertion turned into headlong rage. He pointed an index finger at Neil that might as well have been a sword. “You came here because Phelan wanted you to. You told me you did it for him! And for Doyle!”
“I lied about that. I did it for you, Christopher. As much as I hate to admit it, I knew you were right in coming here. Trying to save Doyle is the right thing to do. It’s a shame you didn’t have a real plan for get ting him out, and that our lives will be wasted now for nothing. You’re the squire of the body, you’re supposed to be the one who knows what to do. Look at you now. I wish I had a mirror so I could show you how scared you look!”
“Quiet! Hold your tongue!” Christopher screamed, then he dropped roughly onto his backside, slammed himself next to Neil, drew back his leg, and pro ceeded to help the archer pound the stone. “You didn’t do this for me,” Christopher added between slams of his foot. “You just don’t want to blame yourself for coming here.”
A key went into the lock on the cell door behind them. In unison, they turned their heads to see a lone Saxon open the door and step into the cell.
Christopher hauled himself to his feet. Neil rolled and stood, his reactions much slower than Christopher’s. They moved to opposite comers of the cell to stand poised and ready … for what?
There was something remotely familiar about the Saxon. Christopher guessed he had seen the man before, but could not remember from where. It had probably been only recently, inside the castle. That seemed logical, but then for some reason the explanation seemed unlikely. He had seen the Saxon before-but it might have been a long time ago.
Tall and bearded, the Saxon scratched an itch on the top of his sandy brown hair, which was parted in the middle and tied back into a ponytail with a leather cord. His face and neck were strangely darker than his hands, as if he had purposely darkened them with a dye of some sort. His pale blue eyes emitted a glow of experience that was far beyond the Saxon’s years. He was probably about twenty, Christopher guessed, but he appeared to be a man who had seen many battles. If you served long enough in the field, you could sometimes recognize a fellow combatant, and the Saxon wore the unmistakable look of a vet eran warrior.
Before Christopher could ask what the man wanted, the Saxon said in perfect Celt, “I don’t expect you remember me, Kimball. We met only briefly when we served together under Garrett. I’m Owen.”
“Owen,” Christopher repeated, letting the name submerge into his memory in the hope that it would release and float to the surface that part of his past that the man fitted into. Owen, Owen, Owen.
Yes, he had tried to rescue me when I fled the Saxons after Garrett had died. He had tried to get me back from Mallory, but his team of mounted archers had failed.
It had been very cold that day, and Christopher shuddered with the memory. But this was not the first time since that day Christopher had heard the name Owen. There had been a moment on the battle field moons ago, when he had left King Arthur’s side in pursuit of a Saxon. Instead of killing the man, he had had a brief but memorable conversation with him. He had told the invader that they were part of the future. One day Saxons and Celts would coexist on the land. The man had recognized Christopher and had said that he knew a man that had served with him-a man named Owen.
A man who now stood before Christopher.
“I know who you are,” Christopher said warily. “And surely you know my name is not Kimball.”
“I call you that in honor of our old master, Lord Garrett.”
“A great fighter, but a troubled man. Had he lived, we might not be standing here now. Why is it you are here? Are you the one to punish us?”
“He can’t be,” Neil said. “They wouldn’t be stupid enough to only send one guard down here!”
“Anything’s possible with Seaver as second-in command,” Owen said, uttering the name of his superior with a hatred as honed as the tip of a new anlace.
Christopher felt the muscles contracted in his shoulders begin to relax. There was obviously some dissension among the Saxon ranks; how far it went Christopher did not know. It was odd that a scout would rise so quickly to second-in-command-especially when Seaver did not offer the appearance of a great leader. He appeared like what he was trained to be-a spy, a ferret who retrieved information. Seaver a leader of men? Yes, that notion was odd. To Owen, it was apparently much more. It brought anger, and Christopher wanted to find out just how angry Owen was.
“He’s not exactly one of your friends, eh, Owen?” he asked the Saxon.
“I have removed most of it, but I’m sure you can still see the traces of dye that I have on my face. Seaver threw it on me.”
“Why?” Christopher asked.
“Well, he did have good reason,” Owen said with a new smile. “I was trying to kill him.”
That fact was good. No, that fact was excellent. Owen was an enemy of Seaver’s. Christopher and Neil were imprisoned by Seaver’s orders. Would Owen try to help them escape? But why would he do that?
Owen took a step closer to Christopher, who matched a step back. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you.”
“I don’t believe him, Christopher,” Neil said. “What does he have to gain?”
Owen regarded Neil with a scowl. “If I were you, I wouldn’t question my only way out of here.” Then he returned his gaze to Christopher. “When our second-in-command Manton died, we all assumed our next best fighter, Renfred, would become second. But Kenric shocked many of us by bestowing the title on Seaver, who is undeserving of it. I’m part of a group who intends to unhorse Seaver. And anything we can do to show Kenric what a fool that little man Seaver really is will be done. You two are under Seaver’s wing. You two will escape with my help. If Seaver is incompetent enough to let me still operate freely within this castle, then what kind of a leader is he? I’d rather pledge my allegiance to a boar; at least the animal supplies man with something. Seaver is a lia bility to our army-not an asset.”
Christopher looked up at the ceiling of the cell. Thank you, Lord. Thank you St. Michael and St. George and St. Christopher. “You may or may not know this, Owen, but Neil and I did not come to the castle for a visit.”
Owen idly jingled the cell keys, and the sound made Christopher’s gaze lock on them as the Saxon spoke: “Who do you think I am-Seaver? I know you came for that archer who threw himself to us. Why else would you be here? Surely you didn’t think just you and your friend would start the siege?”
“This is my home. And we will be rid of you. I care not if you live in Shores, so long as it’s not in this castle. Build one of your own.” Christopher had let his anger change the subject and do his talking, and he abruptly wanted to inhale his words.
“Don’t enrage him,” Neil said disgustedly. “He’s right. He’s our only way out of here.”
Christopher craned his head away from Owen, a tad ashamed. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Christopher looked up at the Saxon.
“Though I didn’t know you that well, Christopher, I had heard of your tremendous courage and will. You stood up to Garrett when some of our bravest fighters twice your age would not. Your mind controls the heart of a warrior. Granted, there is no love lost between us, as we fight now on opposing sides. But you want to leave here, and your doing so will help my cause.”
“We will not leave without our friend.”
“He makes a fine bargain,” Neil said. “Don’t get greedy!”
Christopher stepped over to the barbarian and stared resolutely into the archer’s
dark eyes. “We’re talking about Doyle’s life, Neil. He’s coming with us-or we’re not going.” Fanned to a high heat, the fire in Christopher’s voice was irrepressible.
Neil’s retort came quickly and unsteadily: “But all we. have to do now is slip into the tunnel and we’re out of here. I’ll agree-if he can bring Doyle down to us.”
Christopher craned his neck to regard Owen. “Can you get our friend down here?”
“I’m letting you out of this cell. That is all. If you want to rescue your friend, you do that yourself. It would be nice if you make it out of the castle, but getting you out of this room is enough to suit my purpose. The hand of Woden will pass over and guard you. I’ll ask him to do that now.”
Owen spun on his heel and marched out of the room, then paused in the hall outside. “We’ll meet again, Christopher. It is … inevitable.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” Owen said. “Thank your old scouting partner Seaver for being such a foolish, undeserving leader.” Owen turned and left.
Neil bolted for the open door, but Christopher latched onto the back of the barbarian’s collar, driv ing the front of Neil’s tunic into his neck, choking him. “Forget it, Neil. We’re going to get Doyle.”
“Let go of me! Let go!”
Christopher complied, and the barbarian sucked down air in sudden relief. “How do you purpose to get through that locked chamber door?” Neil asked him between breaths.
“I thought you grew up around this castle like me,” Christopher replied.
“I did! What does that have to do with the door?” “Cell doors are one thing, my friend. Chamber doors are something else altogether.”
The confidence was back. The plan was already formulated in his mind and he saw himself carrying it out with complete success. All they needed now were weapons. When he was caught in the dungeon, Christopher had lost the sword Baines gave him. The blade was somewhere in the castle and it would, as it had in the past, turn up. He wished he would trip over it now, but was not going to count on serendipity. That was something for soothsayers, not squires. What about the jailer? He probably carried a blade and Owen had probably taken care of him already. That was a start.
“God, I pray for your tender mercy. I pray that you guide my friend and clear his mind of the lunacy that now possesses it. If it is your will that I join you at the moment, then take me quickly and painlessly. I do not wish to die alongside a madman!” Neil’s eyes were closed and his head was tipped up to the heavens.
“And God,” Christopher added. “If we are to die, then let it be during a noble cause to save our friend; not fleeing like cowards through a hole in the stone; not swimming like bloated rats escaping from a sink-ing vessel; but with swords and bows in our hands, and our hearts and minds right with you.”
“Oh, silence!” Neil said snapping his eyelids open. “Let’s go get Doyle.”
4
Christopher and Neil found the old Saxon jailer slumped over his small key desk, the rear base of his neck cherrying from a recent blow, his fore head cut open and bleeding from where it had hit the unforgiving wall in front of the key desk, or the equally merciless desk itself.
“Owen’s got quite a punch,” Neil said, observing the inert jailer.
“Don’t give him all the credit,” Christopher said. “See how circular the mark is? This man was struck with a weapon, perhaps the heel of a sword or dag ger.” Christopher checked under the lean, old man’s tunic for a dagger belt. The belt was there, but the dagger sheath fastened to it was empty. “Blast. Couldn’t he have left us a dagger?”
“Maybe he thought the man might rise and use his dagger on us,” Neil suggested.
“Maybe.”
Then Neil, the pinnacle of pessimism, began to shake his head negatively. “I don’t think we should move into the stairwell without weapons.”
“There you go thinking again,” Christopher said. “Weren’t you trained by Sloan and others like him? We act now. We want to be pursued.”
“We do?”
“Yes. That’s how we’re going to get our weapons.” Christopher turned and moved out of the small alcove toward the hall that led to the stairwell. It would be good to leave the dungeon, even if it was to engage the enemy head-on.
“All we need is one Saxon with a crossbow trained on us and we’re finished,” Neil argued, calling after him.
Christopher continued toward the stairwell, hear ing the sounds of Neil’s boots shuffling behind him. “One of us might be finished,” he called back, “but the other will be able to get away.”
“And seeing as how you have the luck of your saint, I’ll be the one to stay.”
Christopher mounted the stairs, taking them two at a time. He listened for Neil, but heard nothing. He stopped, craned his neck and saw Neil leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, staring off into nothing.
“What’s wrong?” Christopher asked. “Come on.
We have no time to rest.”
Without looking up, Neil answered. “I’m scared, Christopher, I’m really scared.”
He descended the stairs and stood before Neil, then rested a hand of reassurance on the barbarian’s shoulder. “The Saxons will think twice before shoot ing you. You look too much like them. They’ll think they’re killing one of their own. It’s a good thing you’re so hairy!”
“Stop jesting. I don’t want to laugh before I’m going to die.”
Neil had agonized over going up to save Doyle, and though he had already made the decision to go, he second-guessed himself now. Yes, Neil’s fear was warranted, if not damned inconvenient, and Christopher had to address it; humor was only a ban dage, not a cure.
“You can’t die,” Christopher said, his voice even and never more certain.
Neil snorted. “One arrow, one sword. They make your words meaningless.”
“You can’t die because you’re with me. Alone you will die. Alone I will die. Together we cannot be stopped. We have a power no Saxon can overcome. We have the power of love on our side, the love of our friend, the love of each other, the camaraderie we share as fighters, as Celts. No more jesting, no more thinking. Like falcons we will fly up these stairs, swoop into Doyle’s chamber, and whisk him out. Any Saxon who gets in our way will not be looked upon as an enemy, but as a bearer of gifts.”
Neil lifted one of his brows. “What do you mean?” “Ah, any Saxon who comes with his sword drawn or his bow raised should not be looked at as a killer, but as a man who is offering his weapon to us.”
Neil’s lips curled into a grin, and a low chuckle began to rumble within him. His laugh rose and was finally expelled with great energy from his lips. His cackle was so loud that Christopher had to shush him. ‘‘I’m sorry,” Neil said, wiping the knuckle of an index finger across one eye and then the other. “I thought you weren’t going to jest, but regarding the Saxons as bearers of gifts is so incredibly mad that it must be inspired!”
“And you didn’t want to laugh before you die.”
“It seems I don’t have a choice.” Neil reached up and removed Christopher’s hand from his shoulder. ‘‘I’m all right now. Let’s go. We have gifts to receive.”
Christopher winked, turned, then began his ascent. The staircase twisted up to the right as usual, the ascender offensively hampered by the center post. With only the narrow openings of loopholes cut into the walls, and the wall sconces long burned out from the night before, the well was laid deeply in shadows that rose a full head above Christopher. That was good. Their approach would not be seen on the wall by anyone descending.
They made it to the first floor and stood a moment in the long stone doorway, a bridge to the rooms beyond. They encountered a boisterous conglomeration of male voices and clanking armor that betrayed its size to Christopher. Roughly fivescore men, he guessed; without a look to be sure, that number could easily be wrong. Present was a peculiar smell, one which Christopher had always associated with th
e kitchens, the bakery to be exact. The smell of flour, or wheat, or some kind of grain. Oats perhaps? Both of these things struck Christopher as very odd. It sounded like a garrison quarters in there, but those quarters, he knew, were on the second floor. Had the Saxons moved them? Or were they using both floors? Did they have that many men in the castle? The first floor was primarily the storehouse, thus the dry tinge in Christopher’s nostrils from the grain. And considering the grain, never had the smell been as powerful. Christopher remembered the odor from the kitchen, and though he knew grain was also stored where they were, never before had he actually detected it. How much grain did the Saxons have?
King Arthur would want to know the answers to those questions. If he could sneak a peek into the room, the information he brought back to Arthur would be invaluable, and, after all, he did need something to soften his punishment. He’d come to the castle against the king’s wishes; by all rights
Arthur could have him hanged for treason, but Christopher gam bled on the affection he knew the king had for him. Vital information about the Saxons’ manpower and supplies might, in a small way, justify his actions to the king. No, they wouldn’t really, but at least he would be doing one other con structive thing besides saving Doyle.
“I need to go out there to have a look inside the rooms,” he told Neil in a stage whisper.
“Why?” Neil demanded in his own raspy voice. “Numbers of men. Supplies. Arthur needs to know those things.”
“Do you have to do it now?”
“When would you like me to do it, Neil?”
‘‘I’m waiting here,” Neil said. “They spot you, you’d better scream and let me know.”
“They spot me, you’ll hear them scream.” “Right.”
Christopher peered around the edge of the alcove, all but his head and shoulder still obscured by a right angle of shadow. As on the other levels, a wall divided the floor in half. The near side was the supply room, though he could only see a small part of it in the light of a sin gle torch mounted on the wall to his right. The back of the room remained a mystery. In the center of the dividing wall was an archway from which came a bit more light, and the thundering sounds of the garrison.
