Knight Tenebrae

by Julianne Lee

  Miss Pawlowski came from the thicket, pale, gawking at the faceless corpse, and Alex looked up to see the skirmish was over. The survivors of the first group had run off, and the new arrivals that had come from the forest were now dismounted and approaching Alex and his passenger. Mail and plate clanked and rattled as three men stepped toward him over the ruined underbrush, ferns, and deadfall of the forest. Younger men holding the horses stood back.

  Alex snatched his attacker’s sword from the ground and turned on the approaching group, as threatening as he could manage with these odds. He held the weapon in both hands in an approximation of en garde, and hoped he was more convincing than he’d been with the pistol. Defending himself with an edged weapon was an alien concept to him, but he was having what was arguably the crappiest day of his life, was fed to the teeth, and was determined to whack the hell out of anyone who gave him any more guff. His face darkened into as fierce a glower as he had at his command, trying to appear as pissed off as he felt.

  But the men wore calming smiles. All fairly large guys, one was about Alex’s age, one a bit older, and the third was only a tall, lanky teenager. They came at him with cheerful hail-fellow voices, but with wary eyes, acknowledging his sword by keeping clear of it.

  “What language is that?” Alex muttered.

  Miss Pawlowski came up behind him to speak in a murmur. “I think it’s French. Sort of. Its medieval equivalent, anyway.”

  “How many different languages do they speak in this place?”

  “Well, when a land has been invaded as many times as Britain, it gets complicated. Be glad they’re not Saxons.”

  Then the one who appeared thirtyish switched to what Alex now recognized as Middle English and addressed him. Though an irregularity of his lower teeth gave his speech a barely discernible sibilance, he sounded like he might be the one in charge. Miss Pawlowski said, “I’m fairly certain he’s thanking you.”

  Cautiously Alex straightened his stance and lowered his sword, nodded, and said, “Okay.” He heard gratitude in the man’s voice, and believed her.

  The other two men leaned over the corpse to examine the bloodied head blown to pieces. The three conferred with each other in soft, awed voices, and glanced frequently at Alex as if unsure what he might do next. The one who seemed in charge then turned and spoke to Alex again. The man had an aristocratic look about him, a square jaw and fine features quite different from the lumpen appearance of the half-naked family in the peat house. Also, he seemed extremely well dressed, even relative to the other men in his entourage who were also well turned-out in rich colors and smooth fabrics. The man’s bearing was of command, his tone demanded respect, and everything about him seemed to assume it would be given. The others deferred to him in obvious ways, and he was plainly their spokesman.

  Struggling to make himself understood by gestures, repetitions, and speaking slowly, his voice and demeanor remained patient as Miss Pawlowski continued to translate. “He’s wondering...very curious as to how you killed that man, using no sword.”

  Alex bent and picked up a rock about the size of his hand, and the man’s eyes went wide as he appeared to resist the urge to take a step back. Though it was impossible to have done what Alex did with just a thrown rock, in the absence of a more rational explanation they all seemed willing to accept an irrational one. Each, aside from the leader, stepped back a pace and Alex responded by dropping the rock. Their leader smiled and spoke again, still with wary eyes.

  Miss Pawlowski translated. “Apparently you’ve killed an English nobleman who held lands nearby, whose loyalties lay with King Edward. First or second Edward, I can’t recall and either they’re assuming I know or else I’m missing something. By his tone, I’m thinking this man here on the ground was well despised by these other fellows. He seems glad you killed him.”

  Alex glanced sideways at Lindsay and murmured, “Ding, dong, the witch is dead.”

  She pressed her lips together hard to contain a laugh, then continued. “The man had come to avenge the recent demise of someone named Comyn, and it would appear you’ve done this group a huge favor.”

  Alex nodded again.

  The leader pointed to Alex, then Miss Pawlowski said, “They want to know who you are.”

  He placed a hand over his chest and addressed the armored men before him. “My name is Alexander MacNeil.”

  That brought raised eyebrows and a flurry of inquiry, to which Miss Pawlowski nodded and replied. “Aye.”

  “What did he ask?”

  “He said something about MacNeils on Barra.”

  “And you told them yes? Why’d you do that?”

  Impatience tinged her voice. “I think he wanted to know who you’re related to. I said yes to Barra so we wouldn’t have to explain further. Columbus won’t stumble over the New World for another hundred and eighty-six years, so confessing you’re an American could make things quite dodgy and very quickly.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” The back of his brain was still insisting these guys were actors and this was all a put-on. It was going to take a while for anything to make sense.

  The men were querying further, and Miss Pawlowski fielded their questions with more gestures and repetitions. Alex asked, “What are they saying now?”

  She ignored him until there was a pause in the halting conversation, then turned to him and said softly and quickly with her head down where the others couldn’t listen in, “I’ve explained to them—I think I’ve explained to them—that you aren’t familiar with any of your MacNeil relatives because you’ve been fostered on the Continent from an early age and your father has never sent for you. You’ve lived your life far away in the eastern mountains, which is why you don’t speak English as well as they do, and you don’t speak Gaelic or French at all.”

  “Eastern mountains?”

  “Hungary, actually. You fostered with my father’s family, the Pawlowskis, which makes you my older foster brother. So perhaps you should stop calling me ma’am.”

  “Pawlowski sounds Polish.”

  Impatience grew in her voice, though she held her temper and gave him a tight smile for the benefit of onlookers. “It is. However, Hungary happens to be the only country I’m certain existed during this time that’s far enough away from here to make me comfortable we won’t be running into people with relatives there. I’d look it up, but I seem to have left my medieval atlas at home. So start calling me Lindsay in public, if you please.”

  Alex shifted his weight and looked around, puzzled. “Lindsay? I thought you wanted them to think you’re a guy.”

  “Yes, I’m your younger and smaller foster brother, Lindsay Pawlowski, and I’m fifteen years old. Quite beardless, you see, and perhaps a bit clumsy in my youth, but tall for my age.”

  The armored man who seemed to be in charge asked Alex a question. Lindsay turned to him and shook her head no, then the man drew his sword and said something else. Alex pulled in his chin, resisted the urge to take a step back, and looked to Lindsay for help. Her expression was one of surprise at the man.

  “What?” asked Alex. This didn’t look good.

  “Looks like he wants to knight you.”

  Alex’s jaw dropped and he stepped back from the sword as if it had suddenly sprouted fangs. “Huh?”

  The man kept talking, his tone firm, as if the issue were already settled and he was instructing Alex in what to do. There was an edge of command to his voice as he pointed at the ground before him. Alex wanted to laugh, but didn’t dare, for the guy sounded dead serious.

  Lindsay, still listening to the man with the sword, said, “He does want to knight you. He says they need fighters, and you...”

  She asked for a repetition, then said, “Oh.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “And you being the bastard of—”

  “What did you tell them?” Alex rounded on Lindsay, irritated and on his way to anger.

  She talked fast now. “I didn’t tell them that. But they’ve assumed you’re
the bastard of the MacNeil laird. And since that makes you of noble blood, he wants to knight you so you can join the fight.” The guy with the sword waited patiently for them to finish arguing, watching them both carefully.

  “What fight?”

  “Damned if I know. Just tell him yes.”

  “I want to know what fight I’m getting myself into.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Look at him—how he’s holding his sword so he can swing it if he needs to. This isn’t a request. It’s a test. If you don’t join him, he’ll kill you. And even if he didn’t kill you, do you have any better ideas of what to do at this juncture? I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. I think it would be nice to make friends with someone who might be inclined to give us something to eat.”

  She had a point. Alex looked at the dark-haired leader of this pack, his sword held lightly and slightly cocked, and sighed. Then he nodded and said, “Aye.”

  That brought smiles, as well as an air of relief, and Alex knew Lindsay had been right about the danger of not accepting knighthood. The men in armor seemed pleased they wouldn’t need to kill him now. Lindsay said, “Kneel.”

  Alex knelt, and the leader lifted his sword. The man intoned some quick words, whacked Alex on the back of the neck with the flat of the blade, then scabbarded it. Alex understood the command to rise, and realized he was starting to catch on to this Middle English thing. Then the guy asked a question, laid his hand on his own chest, and peered into Alex’s face. The voice was formal, and Alex could hear the tension in it.

  Lindsay said, “Nod.”

  “Why?”

  “He said allegiance and pointed to himself. He wants you to pledge yourself to him.”

  Without further hesitation, for he knew his credibility was on the line, Alex nodded. “Aye. I will.”

  His new companions slapped him on the back and welcomed him to their number, then turned to their horses to mount. Lindsay began to gather the fallen attacker’s weapons and armor.

  “I’ll get those.”

  “No. I must do it. You need a squire now. I might as well be it.”

  “But—”

  “No. You must let me do this.”

  Alex acquiesced reluctantly, then stood back, not knowing what to do. So he swung the sword in his hands to learn the feel of it. The thing was lighter than he’d expected, the blade thinner. It was a cross-hilt broadsword with a delicately carved hilt, and the knob at the end was of silver. Pretty fancy. The scabbard the guy wore was tooled leather.

  Lindsay continued with the work, stripping the thigh-length chain mail shirt from the corpse. She handed it to Alex, who removed his bulky survival vest then proceeded to don the mail over his flight suit. It was surprisingly smooth, for each tiny iron link was flat. The sleeves were long and covered his wrists well, and the round neck was tied by a leather thong run through the top links. The stuff was heavy but not unwieldy: it shifted oddly when he moved, but not impossibly. It shouldn’t take much to get used to this. He poked at the bloody hole in the tail of the shirt over his thigh, and decided it would be all right for now. He then accepted the dead man’s spurs, scabbard, belts, and dagger, then finally the helmet. He declined to try it on just yet, preferring to wait until he could wash out the blood and gray matter.

  The others were waiting for him to accompany them.

  While Lindsay captured the Englishman’s horse, Alex on a hunch leaned over to check the body again and found a lump in the top of what he could only think of as the guy’s long johns. There, held in place by a narrow belt, was a small, leather drawstring hag. Alex hefted it and it clinked, and inside he found what must have been a couple of pounds of silver coins, some cut in half. And among them were several fairly large jewel stones of blue and green, and a couple of extremely large pearls. “Dang,” he said under his breath. At least they wouldn’t starve.

  Lindsay had the horse by its bridle and brought it over. “Have you ever ridden one of these?”

  “Yeah. During my cowboy phase as a kid I wanted to ride horses more than I wanted to fly planes. Used to do rodeo stuff out in California. I can ride nearly anything on four legs.” A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “And a few on two.”

  She blinked a little and mild amusement flickered on her face, but otherwise she ignored the jest and pulled the riderless horse around for him. “Good. Here, get on this. I’ll help you up.”

  “Miss...I mean, Lindsay—”

  “Do it. I’m your squire. I’ll sit behind you.”

  Alex mounted the English steed, noting the horse was larger than the ones ridden by his new companions. Not a destrier like the enormous tournament horses in the movies, but large nevertheless. The saddle was a nightmarish torture device of high cantle and pommel, the stirrups straight down so his knees didn’t bend, and he almost couldn’t get his wide, thick-soled, blunt-toed leather boots into the stirrups. Lindsay had to help him shove them in. The high, narrow seat felt like perching on a rail fence. Built for ramming a lance down someone’s throat, not for riding comfort.

  For the past several minutes the guy in charge had been speaking to his men in a low voice. Alex reached down to help Lindsay up behind him, but she only stood there, staring at that man and listening to what was being said. Her face had gone slack, surprised. “Earl of Carrick?” She seemed to be saying it to herself.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, God,” she murmured, still staring at the cluster of knights.

  “What?” Alarm fluttered in his gut, and he sat up to look around.

  “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “What?”

  “That man over there is the king. Or he will be. Soon.”

  Alex looked. “What king?”

  “Of Scotland.” Her voice wavered with deep astonishment. “Alex, you’ve just been knighted by Robert the Bruce.”

  That stunned him speechless, and he stared at the man. He knew who Robert the Bruce was, from movies. And any king was a big deal to a guy like him who didn’t know much about royalty. As he stared at the square-faced Robert, a smile came. “How about that? This is going to make a great story when we get home.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Or not, if I want to stay out of the laughing academy.” Then he reached down to help Lindsay up behind him and kicked his mount to fall in behind the others of his fellow knights.

  Robert led the way, and they rode from the forest to the pasture. As they rode, Alex tried to think ahead. What had they gotten themselves into? How were they going to live? He half-turned in the saddle and said in a low voice, “Who are those other guys?”

  She shrugged. “All I know is what I’ve overheard and pieced together. The older one is named Roger, and the kid’s name is James.” The teenager had shaggy, black hair to his shoulders, ruddy cheeks, and a don’t-mess-with-me look about him. Angry youth. He rode in the lead with Bruce. The older guy, Roger, rode immediately behind. He was burly and strong, and had the thousand-yard stare of a combat veteran who’d been once too often in the thick of things. “I’ve no clue about the rest of them. I think those are all squires, and only these three are knights. Well, and you of course.”

  Alex said, “I don’t feel much like a knight.”

  “You don’t look much like one, either. Baggy jumpsuit—”

  “Flight suit.”

  “Baggy pants and leather work boots don’t exactly set off the ensemble.”

  He chuckled. “You know, I would think I’d feel all, you know, chivalrous. Or something. Like I should be charging off to slay dragons and rescue fair maidens.”

  “I think all they want you to slay is Englishmen.”

  “You mean, more Englishmen.”

  That gave her pause, and she coughed. “Yes. More.”

  “You figure we’ll run into William Wallace?”

  Lindsay thought for a moment, then said, “My memory is spotty, but I think if Bruce is killing Englishmen, then Wallace must be dead by now. If we encounter him at all it won’t be more
than a rotting piece of torso.”

  Alex grunted, mildly disappointed.

  There was a pause while he worked up the nerve to approach the question that had been bothering him since Lindsay had bound her breasts. “What’re you going to do when they notice you’ve got no...you know...package?”

  “Package?”

  “In your drawers.”

  “Ah. Excellent question, and I’ll have to cross that bridge when I get there. And, speaking of that, are you circumcised?”

  “Huh?”

  “Of course, you’re circumcised. All American men are.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He was, but that was beside the point.

  “Don’t ever let anyone here see your willie. Under any conditions. They’ll think you’re a Jew.”

  “And that would be bad because...”

  “A few years ago all Jews were expelled from Britain. Something about outlawing usury. Anyone gets a glimpse of your circumcised penis, you’ll be deported. That’s if they let you live, which they might not. Men of this century are horribly ignorant of other cultures, particularly cultures that have been kicked out of the country, and afraid of anything they don’t understand.”

  “Oh.” Wonderful. Yet another layer on this insanity.

  “Wait.” Lindsay slipped a hand into Alex’s pocket for his knife, threw her leg over the back and slid from the horse, then took off running toward the mound of nylon they’d left in the middle of this pasture. Alex continued to follow Robert and his retinue at a walk.