Peter Telep [Telep - Squire’s Blood

Christopher heard the unmistakable shouts of the Saxons mingle with the hammering of hooves. He wished he did not understand what they said, for their total confidence and sheer might was intimidat ing. And the group was smart. Tactical. They were not the arguing cavalry of Garretts army, but a smooth, lubricated team of mounted killers whose speed, flexibility, and split-second reactions were a gloomy surprise to every Celt who witnessed them. They were wolves. And their bellies were empty.

Arthur sringed! Excalibur from its sheath, raising the sword in one hand while holding his reins and escutcheon in the other. The king slammed down the visor on his helm, and Christopher did the same on his salet. Both were as ready as they would be for the onslaught .

Squires Blood was written with the help of:

Robert Drake-my agent, sidekick, shrink, and first reader.

Christopher Schelling-my editor, sympathetic ear, and faith keeper.

Joan Vander Putten-my friend, fellow brain stormer, and adviser.

David Hamilton-my sometimes partner, all times friend.

William Shakespeares Henry V, act 4, scene 3, provided the inspiration for parts one and two of this novel, and as such deserves to be acknowledged.

The Arthurian legend contains many anachronisms and contradictions that are maddening to writers who wish to be technically and historically accurate. While the military strategy, accoutrements, and politics were carefully researched, some were borrowed from other time periods for dramatic effect. Indeed, the description of King Arthur as a knight in shining armor is a misnomer. In the sixth century, the time Arthur supposedly lived, he would have worn leather plates. Yet if one settles a suit of fourteenth-century armor on the son of Pendragon, he is restored to his venerable image. That aside, lean back, quibble if you must, but most of all, I hope you enjoy this second volume in the Squire Trilogy.

Peter Telep

Christopher of Shores fell on his rump before the Saxon, his broadsword wrenched from his grip by a mighty horizontal swipe from the ax-wielding soldier. The young squire watched as the Saxon, his face streaked with blood, narrowed his eyes and hoisted his weapon over his shoulder.

For a second, Christopher saw the outline of the Saxon against the dull iron sky above the Mendip Hills, saw that the barbarian wasnt much older than his own fifteen years. He wished the Saxon were a lot older, his reflexes slower. But most of all, he longed at the moment to be back at the stable in Shores, to have a warm, sweet loaf of bread to his lips, and have his ears filled with the amusing tales of old Orvin.

Christopher cocked his head and reached futilely for his broadsword; the weapon lay just over an arms length away. Every sinew in his arm tensed, and in his minds eye Christopher saw his arm extend to the sword and his gloved fingers clench around the bejew eled hilt. With his other hand he urged his armored body toward the sword, but on the periphery he caught a flash of metal he knew was the Saxons battle-ax cleaving the air. Immediately, he abandoned the idea of his weapon and thrust his body forward with both hands. The armor weighed him down so much that he moved dooming inches instead of hopeful yards. He looked back at the Saxon with eyes owning deep terror.

Strangely, as the Saxons ax dropped, his body fol lowed it. He collapsed onto his stomach, and his head bounced once off the frozen winter ground. An arrow broke the flat wool landscape of the Saxons back; the shafts blue feather fletching marked it as Celt.

Some twenty yards away, on a hillock that put him six feet above Christopher, Doyle lowered his long bow. With casual grace, he reached down and unfastened a leather flagon from his belt, pulled out the hemp stoppering it, then chugged down half of the flagons contents. The clatter of hooves behind him caused Doyle to choke and expel some ale. He hustled down the slope while refastening his flagon.

At once Christopher was ashamed for needing help and thankful for the presence of his blood brother. But Doyle belonged with the rest of the archers in the Vaward Battle group led by Sir Lancelot. What was he doing here?

One of the kings squires alone? Why arent you at Arthurs side? Doyle asked, his eyes never leaving the slopes around them. The battle roared just over the eastern rise, and threatened to move closer.

Christopher pushed himself to a sitting position, tried to rock his body forward to stand, but found it impossible.

Get up, Doyle said curtly.

Christopher reached out a gauntleted hand. Help.

Doyles gaze lowered to Christophers. He frowned. The archers in my group still think youre mad to have turned down knighthood, but looking at you now, I can see why you wish to remain a squire. Doyle took Christophers hand and pulled him up.

Christophers armor rustled loudly and slid out of place. He adjusted the metal fauld digging into his waist, then the couters covering his elbows. Every squire has his misfortunes.

Misfortunes

-put you on your shield, I know, Christopher finished. Why arent you with the rest of the Vaward?

Answer my question first, Doyle said.

We were surrounded by a Saxon cavalry and was separated from Arthur. Someone dismounted me, and this man-Christopher pointed to the dead Saxon-pursued me here.

He chased you?

He would not engage anyone else.

Maybe he knew you, Doyle said. Then, much darker, You did spend a year with them.

Not them. I served a Celt who led Saxons. Besides, I dont think Garretts army still exists. At least not intact. Most of them probably went home across the narrow sea.

Maybe some stayed. Maybe he was one of them, Doyle argued. Maybe he holds some anger for you. Who knows?

Christopher moved to the dead Saxon, bent down, rolled the body onto its side, then stared into the enemy soldiers face. He shook his head. Tm sure Ive never seen this man before.

Look, Doyle said, pointing to a small leather change pouch which had detached itself from the dead Saxons belt. Doyle hunkered down, picked up the pouch, opened it, then dumped its contents into his hands: a half dozen shillings. This is a lot of money for a Saxon to be carrying around. Especially when he has no use for it. Doyle untied the mans leather gambeson and checked the shirt below. Then the silvery neck ring around the mans throat caught his eyes. Hes wearing a tore.

So hes carrying our money and wearing our jew elry. He stole it. He likes it, Christopher suggested.

Maybe, Doyle said, then stood. Or maybe hes not who we think. Perhaps he really is a Celt.

Christopher was about to snicker at Doyle, but the five mounted Saxons, who rose over the patchy brown hogback one hundred yards to the north, made him change his mind.

AT SWORDS POINT

Christopher picked up his broadsword, then darted for the dead Saxons battle-ax. He fetched the ax, then resumed a position next to Doyle. Was he ready? He made a split-second inspection of himself, noticed his throat was dry and tight, and his hands, though weighted down with the weapons, shook.

Time would never diminish these discomforts; they were as much a part of the battlefield as blood.

Doyle went reflexively into his quiver, withdrew an arrow, and nocked it deftly into his longbow. If he, too, was afraid, he concealed the emotion with the discipline of an abbot.

The two friends stood and faced the horsemen gal loping toward them. The Saxons probably thought they looked pathetic, an easy kill, Christopher thought.